#too long to be a drabble

[pyaargulzar]

guidance (pt. 2)

summary: khushi awaits arnav's arrival from the office desperately, craving his presence in one way more than others. arnav uses the opportunity to provide her with some guidance.

genres: romance, angst, smut, fluff-ish

disclaimer: part 2 does in fact contain smut (!) the guidance is in fact provided.

Khushi’s breath hitched, the sound soft but unmistakable—a moan, not a groan. Arnav froze for a moment, his grip tightening around her as the noise sent a spark of heat straight through him. Blood rushed to his manhood instantly, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his gaze sweeping over her flushed cheeks, the way her lashes fluttered as she avoided his eyes. She was blushing all over by now, her vulnerability laid bare, and it only made him want her more.

He brought his right hand up to caress her cheek, his touch gentle yet electrifying. The gesture finally prompted her to open her eyes, and the desperation in her gaze made Arnav want to lose all control.

He wanted to take her right here, right now. “Khushi…” he whispered, his breath hot, fanning her face as he moved closer, brushing his lips against hers.

He was feeling so much—too much. He wanted to savor this moment, to etch every detail into his memory. Khushi was opening up to him in a way she never had before, and the trust she was placing in him left him feeling honored and fiercely possessive all at once.

Before he could process it further, she pushed herself against him, kissing him with everything she had. The suddenness of her impatience surprised him, and a low moan escaped his throat as her tongue slipped into his mouth, working against his.

Arnav picked her up effortlessly, and she intrinsically wrapped her legs around him, their kiss unbroken. He carried her to the bed, gently laying her down before pulling back to look at her with hooded eyes, his desire for her burning brighter than ever.

She lay there, her mouth swollen from his kiss, her chest rising and falling as she panted. Her eyes grew dark with lust, mirroring his.

He wanted to tease her for being so needy, so utterly consumed by him, but the other part of him—the primal part—wanted to ravish her.

The former won, for now, as his hands found the waistband of her trousers. In one swift, practiced motion, he slid her pants and panties down, leaving her exposed to his hungry gaze.

Khushi moaned, the cool air hitting her heated folds. Her underwear clung to her for a moment, drawing a thin line of slick that connected to her core.

“Fuuuck,” Arnav groaned, precum beading at his tip at the sight. “How long have you been this wet, Khushi? Look at you—so ready for me.” His hands moved quickly, shrugging off his waistcoat and yanking his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, his breath deepening as he tossed the fabric aside.

Khushi hid her face behind her hands, overwhelmed by the way Arnav was looking at her, his gaze predatory and possessive. It was too all much. Her hole clenched around nothing under his scrutiny, and she brought her thighs together instinctively, trying to ease the ache.

The movement triggered something in Arnav. His hands reached for hers, pulling them away from her face, placing them on his defined torso. “Look at me, Khushi,” he commanded leaning down, his voice low and rough. “Were you like this for me?”

His left hand drifted to her core, spreading her slickness with his index and middle finger, earning another moan from her. “Tell me, Khushi. You don’t have to hold back. You’re my wife—you can ask for me whenever you want.” He paused, a sinister idea forming as he watched her nod innocently, her eyes pleading.

But before he could act on it, Khushi surprised him. Her hand reached for his, fingers curling around his wrist, urging him to continue.

It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. She had never done this before—never taken control, never asked for more than he gave. The realization hit him like a wave, and his heart swelled with pride and desire.

He hesitated for a moment, then pulled his hand away, teasing her. The absence of his touch was unbearable, and a frustrated groan escaped her lips. She squirmed, her body arching toward him, every movement screaming her need.

In a swift motion, Arnav removed his belt, letting his pants and boxers fall to his knees. He never broke eye contact with her, his gaze locked on hers as he stood between her legs.

“Khushi,” he said, his voice low and dripping with mischief, “let me teach you something important today.” He reached for her hand, guiding her fingers to her clit with a deliberate slowness. “Like this,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear as he showed her how to rub herself with just the right pressure.

“Arnav—ahh!” she gasped as pleasure shot through her. But before she could fully lose herself, his hands were gone, leaving her trembling and desperate. Her eyes flew to his, wide with frustration, only to find him smirking down at her, his hand now wrapped around his length, stroking himself slowly.

“You have no idea,” he said, his voice rough and strained, “how many times I’ve had to do this because of you, Khushi.”

She was too far gone to question his words, her mind clouded by lust. The sight of him touching himself was driving her wild, her arousal pooling beneath her.

“Take your kurta off for me, baby,” he coaxed, his free hand gently rubbing her thigh as he stayed hovering between her legs. “I want to see you.” His touch was tender, a contrast to the hunger in his eyes, and it spurred her into action.

She obeyed without hesitation, her movements automatic as she began to undress, her eyes never leaving his. She quickly discarded the last piece of restriction, throwing it to the side with her dupatta.

“Good girl” Arnav breathed out heavily, eyes on her swollen nubs, “fuck, no bra today? you're going to drive me crazy”. It was taking every fiber in his being to not grab her pretty tits, lick them, pinch them, squeeze them—his member twitched at the thought of the soft flesh in his mouth and he moaned.

“Lay down, I'm going to teach you to…mhm....to help yourself when I'm not here”

“What do you mean?” Khushi asked, confused  

“What you've been feeling today, it would be better if you do this, I'm going to teach you how to touch yourself when I'm not here to fuck you”

Khushi gasped at how vile his words sounded, he was still pumping himself, eyes on her as he said the most vulgar thing she's heard “A-Arnav-ji what do you mean?”

Oh, was he back to Arnav-ji now? He cocked one brow up but didn't push his desperate and confused wife. “Spread your legs and listen to me, mh…fuck, yeah just like that” he moaned at the sight of her soft folds back on display, all for him. 

Khushi was being so good, so unbearably perfect, that it took every ounce of his self-control not to lose himself in her completely. The urge to claim her, to fill her until she could think of nothing but him, burned through him like a wildfire. He wanted to erase every thought from her mind, to replace it with nothing but the sensation of him—her body full, her world reduced to the two of them. But he had to wait. He's going to be patient with her, this wasn't about him. 

His grip tightened on himself, his other hand sliding down to her sex. He gently inserted two fingers that were welcomed inside by her arousal, curling them just enough to make Khushi arch her back and throw her head back, a raw, incoherent noise escaping her lips. He pumped his fingers a few more times, drawing out the moans he loved hearing so much—before pulling away, leaving her trembling for more.

Her head snapped up again, now a mix of anger and need flashing in her eyes. “Shhh… I know,” he cooed, his voice low and soothing. “You’ll feel better soon. Just keep your eyes on me.”

He brought his fingers, glistening with her need, to his lips, sucking them slowly. A shared moan escaped them both, the taste of her driving him wild. God, he loved her taste. He loved his wife.

Switching hands, he coated himself fully with any remaining wetness left on his fingers, the slickness making his movements smoother, more urgent. His eyes locked onto hers, his mouth hanging open as he felt himself teetering on the edge.

“Mhm, fuck, Khushi,” he groaned, his voice ragged. With one final stroke, his head fell back, and he came undone. Thick ropes of release spilled from him as he kept pumping, milking every last drop, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

A low moan filled the room—and it wasn’t his. Still riding the waves of his climax, his head snapped toward Khushi. Her eyes were dark and hooded, chest rising and falling, her lips parted as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath. 

The sight of her—completely undone, her cheeks flushed, her body trembling just from watching him—sent a fresh surge of heat through him. She wasn’t just witnessing his pleasure; she was devouring it, her own desire mirroring his in a way that left him wanting more.

Arnav’s eyes darkened as he took in the sight, his seed on her skin, marking her as his. The visual alone was enough to make him hard again. “Your turn now,” he commanded, his voice low and dripping with dominance. “Touch yourself. Show me how much you need it.”

Khushi felt intoxicated, her body moving on its own as she obeyed. Her fingers found her clit, trembling slightly as she began to rub. Her eyes stayed locked on Arnav, watching as he gave himself one last, slow stroke.

“Good,” he growled, his voice heavy with approval. “Just like that Khushi. Don’t stop.”

She began circling her fingers, mimicking what Arnav always did, trying to replicate the rhythm he’d taught her. Her movements were tentative at first, but the memory of his touch guided her.

Arnav’s focus sharpened on her, his gaze heavy and unwavering as he watched her unfold. Her body trembled, her entrance clenching around nothing, a silent plea for the release she desperately needed.

Without a word, he took her other hand, guiding her fingers to where she ached, slipping two inside with a slow, deliberate precision that left her gasping.

Her fingers on her clit stilled for a moment as she gasped at the intrusion, her body trembling. “Keep touching yourself, Khushi,” he urged, his voice calm and steady. “It’ll feel better if you don’t stop.”

Khushi obeyed again, her fingers resuming their rhythm as Arnav helped her pump in and out, his hand steadying hers until she took over completely.

“Mmh—ah… Arnav,” she moaned, her hands moving with growing confidence, driving him wild with every sound that came out of her mouth and body.

“That’s it, good girl,” he soothed, his voice a mix of praise and desire. “Make yourself come for me, Khushi.” He bent down, pressing a gentle kiss to her hip, and she arched into the contact, her body responding instinctively.

“I-I’m clos—unhhh,” she whined, feeling herself reaching a high, her walls fluttering around her fingers. The sheer eroticism of Arnav watching her like this pushed her closer to her peak.

Arnav’s fingers joined hers, pressing down on her clit with deliberate pressure and speed, expertly amplifying her pleasure. “Arnaaaav—ahng,” Khushi cried out as she climaxed, her body trembling, mouth falling open in ecstasy, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

Arnav smirked, a flicker of pride lighting his eyes. Even as Khushi’s hands fell away from her sex, still dazed and breathless, Arnav kept his fingers steady on her clit, gently prolonging her orgasm with practiced precision.

Another strategic win, he thought, watching her head fall back, her body still quivering and arching under his touch.

“Good girl,” he purred, his voice low and approving. “You did so well.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Touch yourself like this whenever you miss me, Khushi.”

Khushi was still coming down from her high, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Am I sick, Arnav?” she asked, her voice shaky. “Why was I like this?”

Arnav waited patiently, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face as her breathing slowly steadied. He bent down, pressing a gentle kiss to her swollen mouth, his lips lingering for a moment as if to reassure her.

“When was your last period?” he asked, his tone calm and measured, his eyes soft but searching.

Khushi hesitated, her brows furrowing. “Why?” she asked, her voice tinged with confusion. But one look at his face made her give in. “around 2 weeks ago,” she replied coyly, looking away.

“No, baby, you’re not sick,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You’re ovulating.” His hand reached for her face as he spoke, bringing her eyes back to him. His touch was warm and reassuring, an attempt to comfort her after this overwhelming experience.

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice a mix of uncertainty and curiosity.

“Well, your body is asking me to give you babies,” he said, his tone playful but laced with tenderness. He wanted her to understand her body, to feel in control of it. Already, his mind raced ahead, planning to get her a tracker to help her learn her cycle better.

“What? How could you say something so…so…ugh,” Khushi stammered, her cheeks flushing an even deeper crimson, pulling Arnav back to the present moment.

He shifted closer, his lips brushing against hers in a tender kiss. Khushi melted into him, her defenses dissolving as she became raw and unguarded again.

“Why don’t I explain your cycle to you in detail after this?” he offered against her lips.

“After what?” Khushi asked, her puzzlement evident as she searched his eyes.

In one fluid motion, Arnav moved down her body, his face hovering just above her core, his hot breath fanning against her. “This,” he drawled, his voice thick with desire, before his mouth descended on her, drinking her in.

Fuck, he had been craving this—her taste, her arousal, the way she responded to him. As he lapped up her sweetness, he couldn’t wait to show her more about anything and everything her heart desired.

author's note: part 2 is heeeereee!! dedicating it to @featheredclover <3 you gave me the push i needed to edit this lol.

i really wanted to show khushi's growth and comfort levels expanding in their relationship, where she, over time, learns to be more honest, knowing that it's finally safe to do so. we could tell as the show progressed that khushi kept concerns to herself and wasn't able to voice them like she wanted to w arnav.

i also wanted to show arnav taking on the role of a provider for her in and out of their bedroom, especially given that she was younger and inexperienced (and i'm like 99.99999% sure he was not a virgin, like c'mon now, be fr). there is a fine line between controlling and guiding, and this was my attempt to explore the latter, as the title suggests.

+ TLDR; i wanted to show khushi learning to be honest and feeling secure in the marriage; arnav helping her navigate and express her needs

+ made a teeny tiny reference to the "it's okayyy, you're my wife, it's your right" dialogue here if you caught it!

[chicohungers24-7]

I am Writing

[nanamiskentos]

﹙ 五条 悟 : gojo satoru ﹚

"you’re too young to be groaning like that," you tease as gojo flops onto the bed face-down, exhaling sharply.

"shut up," he mutters, voice muffled against the pillow. "i think my back just gave out."

you roll your eyes, settling beside him. his body is warm beneath your hands, muscles tense from who knows how many fights he got into today. gently, you press your thumbs into his shoulders, working out the knots.

"damn," he exhales after a beat, his usual cocky edge replaced with something softer.

"that good?"

"i might actually marry you if you keep doing this."

you snort. classic satoru. but you keep going, pressing deeper into his back. his breathing slows, and his body finally unwinds beneath your touch.

after a moment, he sighs. "you know, if i’m this messed up now, imagine how we’ll be when we’re actually old."

"you’re acting like you’re eighty."

"feels like it." he turns his head to glance at you. there’s something easy, something fond in his gaze.

"guess i’ll just have to take care of you forever, then."

for once, he doesn’t have a comeback. just a small smile — one that lingers even as the white-haired man drifts off to sleep under your touch.

[cindol]

a woman’s back is the sexiest thing ever and nanami kento is a man who finds that attractive.

nanami loves date nights, nights where he’s away from his office job and he can finally be with his wife but god, he finds getting to the actual date when he walks into his shared bedroom you both share and see you fitting on a backless black dress.

your back was a pretty site. You frequented the local gym sometimes and took good care of your back, so it was nice smooth and oiled and had a nice contrast with the black backless sleeveless dress you were wearing.

nanami’s staring was put to a stop when you giggled, finally done putting the dress on to say, “what are you just staring off into space for kento? Cmon, let’s enjoy our date night.” walking over to him to join arms with him and a seduction in your alluring voice.

at the dinner date each time he can look at your back he takes a gander. Every time you get up when you accidentally dropped the restaurant’s menu and bended down to grab it he could see your back and even when you were on the way to the bathroom he was taking a look at your back as you walked off.

[moechies]

:¨ ·.· ¨: ୨୧ somno w toji

somno with toji never works :( he’s simply too big, and any part of him inside of you would wake you up in an instant, no matter how deep of a sleeper you are.

you proved this true the one time toji came home later than normal from a weighted job, scruffy and worn. yearning for some love from his dearest, cutest wife, jittery at the thought of your sweet lips against his own, and your soft skin pliant against his.

although worried, you had put yourself to sleep on the couch outside of your guy’s bedroom, a plated meal warmed and covered in a wrap for his hoped upon arrival. upon staggering upon the doorstep, fidgeting the key into the hole to get the lock open, he’s greeted by the soft, warm atmosphere of what hes able to call home.

his eyes set on your pliant body sprawled across the couch, body sunk into the soft pillows beneath you. your snoozy face on display due to you laid on your side, and a little knit blanket limps across your tummy. you’re wearing one of his over-sized shirts with a thin pair of panties, delicate lace and a strung bow that details the rim of it.

although originally admiring your soft body laying so peacefully, he can’t help the way his eyes divert to the sight of your chubby cunt, hugged so snugly by the crotch of your panties.

it’s adorable, honestly.

he makes his way towards you with ill intentions, dropping his belongings as he strides towards you.

soft snores reverberate through your body, paying no mind to the huge man mounting you from the side. he curses himself silently when all he can imagine is a sweet imagine of your is your fucked our face imprinted in his head, cute drooly mouth and crystalline tears painting your cute cheeks. his ears ring with your little mewls and cries of his name, little hand grappling at his much larger bicep trying your best to ask for a kiss.

he feels his cock ache and throb against your warm thigh as his mind surpasses all of these perfect moments, wasting no time before tugging at the silk embellishment of a belt, shimmying off his pants and discarding them on the ground. he hoists your soft leg onto his shoulder, shirt lifting along side it allowing him an open view to your perfect cunt, and your perfect slit. he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

although racked with guilt, head pulsing with anger at his poor self control, he can’t help but replay certain moments in his head; where you’d beg him to use you, conscious or not.

with honeydew tears rolling down your face, desperately holding the man impossibly close, mewling in his ear, ‘use me, use me, use me !” and all you ask in return is a sweet kiss on the lips. he chuckles at the thought, you, who others assume to be such a dear, gentle as a fawn, cute as a doe, the most innocent of all, compared to the version of you only toji knows. he’s utterly blessed.

his mind acts as a record, one that doesn’t stop playing, one which each and every film is of your sweet, sweet self. he’s not long into his fantasy before he finds himself mindlessly humping against your clad pussy, a thick layer of slick beginning to form from the simulation.

he lets out a mere laugh, tugging the crotch aside to be met with the prettiest sight of your worked up cunny. the sheen coat of arousal does nothing but highlight your pearly clit, and milky hole, all ready to take your favorite. your breath has labored, eyes squeezed tight, and cheeks flushed with a light rose, outcries for your dearest lover; ‘toji, toji, daddy— d . . daddy,’

his pride can’t help but swell at cute commentary unconsciously slipping from your lips; to know that even in you’re sleep, you were dreaming of him.

as his hand holds your panties aside, the other tugs his cock out from the confinements of his boxers, dragging the sloppy tip against your slit. he watches the two textures of arousal mix against eachother, his creamier pre blend into your clear slick. he can almost feel himself staring at the mess through heart-shaped lenses, obsessed with how your hole pulses around his mere cock head.

he feels your body twitch against his, leg shivering lightly, as you huff. much as if you had been awake, other than your usual whining and rushing, tugging at his much larger hips to hurry.

he finally lands above your hole, pressing lightly against the wet flesh, assuming he’s being diligent with his movements in order not to wake you. he watches as your soft cunt swallows his pudgy cock head as if it’s a right, fat lips hugging his cock head tight.

his technique doesn’t work too well.

his mere tip sits comfortably inside you when he hears you whimper loudly at his initial movement, eyelashes fluttering as you wake yourself with heavy pants. your leg attempts to retract, but he keeps a easy grip in order to keep you still. your cries grow louder, completely oblivious as to what’s happening around you in your woozy state. you flinch at the scarred hand that lays against the soft skin of your face,

“it’s jus’ me, honey. don’t fret.” toji comforts, smiling at the way your head turns to face his, brows furrowing in confusion.

“o . . owie—“ you react regarding his cock head protruding your cunny from below, “t-toji,” your hand grips at his fingers weakly, slowly adjusting to the ‘foreign’ feeling of his cock.

“mhm.. that’s right, darling girl. y’slept well?” you shake your head quickly, pouting up at the man above you. he tilts his head to the side, anticipating your explanation.

“ ‘s ‘cause you w-weren’t home. m-missed y’so much, toji.” you sniffle, tugging his arm in order to pull him closer.

“oh, poor baby.” he replies solemnly, reaching down to press a loving kiss onto your forehead. you feel him nudge himself deeper, squeaking at the unprepped stretch.

“heh.. missed you so much too, doll. y’know that?” he cups the side of your face, shallow and short thrusts of his cock. more than enough to get him off perfectly. you nod your head rapidly with shut eyes, fists clenched into little balls against your chest at the overwhelming simulation.

“y’r doin’ s’good. ‘s almost over doll, t-then i’ll put ya to sleep.”

“w-wait hnn— m gonna cum !”

he snickers at your meek whines, teasing you slightly,

“already? this pussy’s so sensitive, sweet doll.”

he knows it’s the mixture of you barely conscious, added onto the intense simulation of his cock pounding against your gummy walls over and over, but he loves the little helpless glare you shoot him, silently begging him to let you cum.

“please, please—“

“shh darlin,’ no need to beg. cum, cum f’me, doll.”

and with a couple deep strokes, his cock overwhelmed by the way your cunt pulses and squeezes around him, he cums a potent load into the depths of your womb.

he jets a milky and viscous stream of thick cum into you, seemingly never ending as he slowly rides out his high by lazily humping into your spent cunt.

his eyes can’t help but pace back and forth from your lewd expressions to the creamy mess below, watching his load spread across your chubby folds and dirty the inside of your thighs.

sweet whispers of ‘love you, love you,’ fall from the lips of the man, pressing wet kisses all over your face. you nuzzle against his face, kissing down his jaw, entertaining his needy behavior that you surely wouldn’t see for a while.

[huntingrays]

pjo prompt: percy and jason have to go on a quest together, so they both decide to bring their respective partners (annabeth and leo). during the quest, they get kidnapped by monsters and percy and jason wake up in an arena. the monsters explain that they have their partners and in order to save them, they have to fight to the death, with the winner getting to leave alive with their partner, while the other is killed. however, the monsters are very shocked when percy and jason sit down and start calmly playing cards with each other. they’re not worried about their partners. instead, they’re worried for the monsters. they trapped annabeth and leo together, two of the smartest demigods. the girl who redesigned olympus and the boy who built a warship in six months. they were toast.

[ruinix]

Thinking about Quinn losing his shit after you surprise him with a tattoo of his number on your hip

Hello, lovely… I tried, of course. Let me preface this, let’s imagine the tattoo healed for exactly 2 weeks (google says: the minimum healing time of the (surface) skin is about 2-4 weeks, deeper layers heal for approx. 3-4 months)...so yes. What i wanna say is: Be safe. Hope you enjoy 😌 [Disclaimer: I made Q drink tea here when he doesn't drink tea or coffee 😔]

Breakfast & Tattoos

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Unprotected sex (use protection, silly), Tattoo healing inaccuracy (let it heal pls), Quinn being a literal Horny one

Count: 3544 words | Masterlist

You have that grin. A silly and mischievous grin. Quinn cautiously takes a sip of tea you brewed for him—you might’ve put something in it—but it’s just tea.

He greets you, receiving an immediate response. The grin never wavers even as he cooks you two breakfast. You’re…suspicious. Pretty with your comfy pajama shorts and—his—hoodie but suspicious.

He tries to let you be. Maybe you’ll drop it. Maybe you’ll just outright tease him for his bedhead, because his waves are all over the place from sleeping like dead after a two-week road trip. Maybe you just want to tell him something silly. Maybe. You always tend to do those things. He likes that.

He wants to ask, but you move to the sofa with your iPad, humming a tune. You’re on your back with your legs up an arm rest, feet covered with fluffy socks with strawberries. Still, you throw glances at him, grinning whenever he meets your gaze. He hears the upbeat sound of a game. You definitely found another game. That must be it. You love your games especially on that specific iPad—that was his, now yours—with those stickers of him.

Stickers. They’re cute, but he can’t help the blush on his face whenever he sees them. You’ve never stopped buying stickers from Etsy or from artists on different social media. Of him. It doesn’t matter if it’s memes or little cute cartoons. It’s just him. He knows your little hoarding box where you put your spares which also got their own spares—spare of a spare, you describe them.

It’s adorable but the way he looks so haunted in some of them... He can’t help it. It’s his face.

It’s funny and a bit embarrassing—in a good way

But he never feels bad about it. Not when you cherish every sticker. Not when you are so giddy and filled with excitement every time you buy one. Not when he catches you just gazing at them before hugging it so tightly.

Quinn has to turn away. His cheeks are burning. You make him feel good even through cute little stickers.

Sighing, Quinn finishes up with breakfast. He takes the plates to the coffee table, jumping when you suddenly sit up. You give him a fat smooch on the cheek before you mutter about getting him more tea and your coffee. But, fuck, his cheek burns from your touch. The kiss is soft and quick, but it seeps down to his bones, down to his… It’s way too early to be horny.

Quinn shakes his head, trying his best to clear it. However, he catches your shorts glide up your thighs when you bend over to get something from the lower cabinets. Oh, he’s fucked. It’s not helping how he notices your lace panties imprinting through your shorts.

Somebody, help him.

He looks away, counting down from ten to one, up from one to ten. He’s hard. It’s fucking eight in the morning. What the fuck is wrong with him? He closes his eyes for a second, thinking about hockey, practice, and literally anything else. He fails. His mind keeps showing him the image your ass, grinding against him as he fucked you—

“I think I want some orange juice right now,” he forces out, planting one foot up to hide his erection. He needs something to cool him down.

“mm’kay!” Your sweet voice just made him painfully harder.

“Thanks,” he coughs out. “Maybe a couple of ice?”

“Anything for my Quinny,” you say in a singsong voice, then you start humming a tune, moving your hips with it.

Fuck.

Quinn might need to lock himself in the bathroom at this point. You’re not letting him catch a break. How can he not get turned on after not having his fill of you for two weeks? He can see the jiggle of your ass. He can see your pebbled nipples through your thin and cropped shirt, because you just got rid of your hoodie. Why did you get rid of it? The air conditioning is literally on.

Thank fuck he’s wearing his boxer and his black sweatpants. There would be a dark patch there, because he’s leaking pre-cum. He might even come right there if you don’t stop—

“You want the one with pulp?” you ask, weight in one leg, while holding two orange juice cartons.

“Any,” he barely says, catching a glimpse of something peeking out the waistband of your shorts—what exactly is it, he doesn’t know—but you quickly turn away, bending over again which distracts him. “You slept good when I wasn’t here?” Quin pathetically asks, trying to shake away his hard-on away by pure will—it’s not working.

“Yep,” you gleefully say, finally finishing your instant coffee.

Quinn makes a mental note to make your usual brewed coffee later. He can’t just let you with a cup of instant coffee throughout the day. That’s not okay. His sweet girl deserves the best after all.

Well, after he cools the fuck down.

He settles on the floor, snatching the fleece blanket from the couch to cover himself. He swallows a groan when you slide into the same blanket, leaning against him. Your heat only seeps down his cock more than his shoulder. You are killing him.

He stiffly drinks his juice, shuddering when you kiss his cheek again. He almost doesn’t kiss your cheek too, because he’s a hair away from losing control. But he still does. He gives your cheek a peck. He wishes to kiss you deeper, bend you over the coffee table and just fuck you. He knows you’ll agree if he asks. He knows you’ll let him have his way with you.

He knows.

But he hears your tummy rumble.

He can’t fuck you when you’re hungry. You’ll need energy. Besides, it’s fucking 8AM. He’s so close to punching himself as a reprimand. No one should be this horny this early. That sounds hypocritic, because he remembers several times where he waited for you to wake up so he could fuck you sideways, kissing you through your just-woken-up haze.

Someone needs to bash his head until he gets amnesia.

He’s digging himself a deeper grave. Seriously.

Quinn focuses on breakfast. He loves breakfast with you. He loves it when your weight is partially on him. When you take sips of your coffee, urging him to drink his own beverage. When you talk about what you’ll be doing for work or for your day offs.  When you snatch some of his eggs and replace with potatoes or the other way around, because wanting more of one depends on the day. Today, you are doing the latter. All while, you grin at him with so many things brewing in your eyes.

He finally says, when you two are almost done with breakfast, “Okay, you are acting suspicious.” He narrows his eyes just a tad. “What are you planning?”

You turn and hug him from his side.

Quinn expertly holds you without you getting on his cock. It’s so hard. Especially when you shimmy to get more comfortable over his thigh. He almost starts pleading for you to move and get off him, because you’re so near.

“I have a surprise for you.”

A surprise? He blinks, repeating the word over and over in his head. For him? You have a surprise for him? Excitement courses through his body, temporarily distracting him from his aching member. He likes your gifts. He feels special whenever you give him something. It doesn’t matter what it is. Cookies, shirts, chocolates, a piece of candy. Even if it’s a kiss. Especially if it is. Speaking of a kiss, he wants to kiss you right now.

And he’s back to being a horny fucker.

He can’t help it. Your lips look so delicious, so damn kissable. When you run your tongue over your lower lip, biting it after, he’s done. He kisses you. Languidly. Unhurried in any way. The best thing about kissing you is you kissing back with the same intensity. When he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding past your lips, you are ready for him. You taste like your coffee and it’s perfect.

He missed this while he was away. He doesn’t know how he survived last night with a simple kiss to your forehead. He’s a fucking idiot. He missed out. Not that kissing your forehead is less than your kiss. No. Never. Just kissing your skin makes his heart ache. Just feeling your warmth is enough.

However, kissing your lips while breathing in your exhales, your moans, and your groans, that’s one way to live. If only he can exist with your air. If he can only kiss you every second of his life. If only.

When he parts from you, he feels your chasing lips as his. You two want so much more than a kiss. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Still, he must know what your surprise is. He needs it.

“A surprise, huh?” he murmurs, getting distracted by the flush on your cheeks. Wow. Just…wow. “Surprise for what?”

“I don’t need a reason to surprise my boyfriend.” Your nose scrunches, clearly and teasingly dissatisfied with his stupid question.

He can’t help but grab your cheeks, chuckling when you pout for good measure. When he caresses his thumbs over your skin, it makes you relax further into him. Your lips are red from the kiss. So plump. So wet from each other’s saliva. If he kisses you again, right now, he might end up just coming in his pants. Later. In a bit.

He coaxes, “What is it?”

You’ve hypnotized him when you drag your nail over his jaw and kiss along it. He can only cling to your waist. A whine left his lips when you let go. Where the fuck are you going? You can’t just leave him—

“Close your eyes,” you say, putting a halt to his thoughts. There’s that devilish gleam again, yet you add, “Please?”

You don’t need to say please. Quinn closes his eyes, immediately hearing the clatter of dishes and mugs being taken away. His hands curl into fists, turning irritated. You don’t need to clean up for him. He can do it, but he keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to betray your wishes. You are surprising him. He’ll be an idiot if he tries to sour the mood. But he dislikes it. If you’re going to do the dishes, he’ll do it with you. He doesn’t like not doing things with you, especially when it’s the regular season. He’s always away. It’s exhausting but you make it better.

One moment he’s horny. The next he’s acting pathetic.

“You’re overthinking, Quinn.” Your gentle voice hums, easing his troubled soul.

He feels and hears you sit down in front of him. On the coffee table. He fucking shivers when your feet brush the outside of his thighs. No blanket can mask your warmth, your touch. He can feel your eyes running all over him. His face. His neck. His hair. His chest. His cock. He really, really, really might fucking come.

He can hear your shaky inhale. You finally notice. Your voice turns higher, “Come closer.”

He does it. It’s more of moving the low table rather than scooting closer. Oh, the tiny squeak that you let out is adorable. You always forget that he’s strong. You’ve admitted that to him, that he looks small on ice, that he’s cute. He couldn’t blame you. He is just 5-foot-10 around people who are 6-feet and taller. You told him he looked like he wouldn’t be able to lift you. So, Quinn learned to remind you that he can lift you and more.

Now, his mind pesters with image of you against the wall, legs around his waist while he fucks you hard. That’s his favorite way to prove it—Can he fucking stop? Seriously?

He feels your touch over his shoulders, thumb rubbing into his muscles, up his neck, up his jaw. Soon, you have your forehead against his. Quinn’s trying to feel the table any clues about your surprise. So far, he hasn’t found any. He’s so curious. Just what is it?

“Open your eyes for me, handsome.”

Quinn does. He instantly gets mesmerized by your eyes, the eyelashes delicately framing them, your blinks. You’re just beautiful. He won’t have any complaints if this is your surprise. A simple eye-to-eye contact minute with you. Now that’s an amazing gift. Because now, he sees the details of your eyes—the darker and lighter specks of your color and the impossibly wide pupils.

“I love it,” he says with satisfaction.

You laugh, blushing so hard. “You’re silly.” You kiss the tip of his nose, taking his hands to plant it around your waist. “Look down…”

Again, he does. He gazes at every inch of you like he hasn’t. He can’t help but feel your breasts, thumb swirling over your nipples that were begging to be seen and touched and freed from your shirt. After hearing you moan and making your back arch into his touch, he moves on, smirking when you grumble about your need. Later.

He teases your skin, your navel. He’s so lost seeing how you tremble, hips slightly moving and trying to create friction. He bet you’re soaking through your pretty panties—

Quinn stills the moment he catches something on your skin. On your hipbone. What the fuck. What the fuck is that?

His heart hammers against his chest as he hooks a thumb into your shorts and tugs down.

Holy shit.

No matter how much he blinks it doesn’t change.

A tattoo. A fucking tattoo on your left hip.

‘QH43’, it says.

Quinn is literally felt his stomach flutter with fucking butterflies, thumb subbing over it, trying to see if it’s temporary, but it doesn’t have a shine nor does it crack.

He should be worried. It must’ve fucking hurt. It’s over a bone. He should shake you and ask if you got caught up in a dare. He should be livid you kept this from him. Tattoos are big decisions. You always confide in him for big decisions. You didn’t have this when he left for the road trip. It looks healed. He should’ve been with you and helped you take care of it. Damn it.

Yet, the more he looks at it, the more desire courses through his veins. It melts his worries.

It’s just ink in your skin. Ink in your blood. His fucking initials and numbers on you. Permanently. Forever.

QH43. Just four characters in a normal script. So simple yet it’s enough to get him all shaken up.

“Why?” He asks, taking a hand into his cock. He looks up to your eyes, except you aren’t looking at him. You’re staring at what he’s doing with a blush on your face like you haven’t seen him jerk off, haven’t seen his dick in your pussy. You’re cute.

“Because I want it.”

“It’s bad to have your boyfriend’s name tattooed on your person.” Quinn wants to smack himself for saying that, because he likes it.

“Good thing it’s his number.” You crossed your arms, smirking and unfazed. “Besides, my boyfriend will never leave me. He promised me all the time.”

“Yes. I will never leave you.” He nods, moaning when you put a hand over his cheek. “’m so turned on.”

“I can see that.” Your nails scratch over his jaw again.

He’s losing it. “Did it hurt?”

“It stung but not too much. Want help?”

Quinn shakes his head. He needs an initial relief. His hand will do. For now. He can’t help but preen as you snatch away the blanket. Sweat starts to bead on his skin as he nudges his pants down, tightly gripping and working his cock. Fuck.

“Wanna cum on it?” You ask, your voice shaking as you pant. You lean back, planting your hands on the table, spreading your thighs wide, showing him the wet patch over your thin shorts. You’re evil for that.

Quinn doesn’t know he can get any harder, but he does. Especially when he can basically smell you, taste you through it. He missed this so much. An ache forms in his chest for missing out, for not being with you.

“Is that safe?” Quinn moans, swiping a thumb over his slit, shivering as his pre-cum dribbles down his length. Totally forgetting how he was rubbing it a minute ago, he gasps, “Don’t want it to hurt.”

“It’s healed,” you reassure. “Ugh, I hate my panties. They’re so wet.”

See, you’re really complaining. The annoyance is clear on your face, but it’s cute as fuck. You shimmy your shorts and panties down, shivering when your arousal creates a string from the lace to your pussy. You still sit at the table, waiting for him to come on you.

“You’re killing me, my Love.” Quinn crawls up to his knees. “All wet for me?”

“Yeah.” Then you slide one hand over your pussy, parting it for him, making him see you quivering hole. “You really like my tattoo?”

Quinn can only nod. There’s a lump in his throat. He’s panting as he chases his relief. The way your pussy drip is getting to his head. Fuck, why is he still jerking off when your pussy is right there? He scoots closer, sliding his cock along your pussy. Both of you groan. You feel so good and he’s not even inside.

“Quinn,” you gulp, hands coming up his shoulder. “Maybe. You can jerk off later? I’m right here. I need you, handsome.”

He feels your pain and he feels the same. He presses his dick in your entrance. He warns, “I’m going to come soon.”

“Yes, please.”

Something snaps.

It’s his control.

You really know how to make him lose it. Those two fucking words. It might as well be a prophecy. He will listen and make it happen rather than wait for it to come true.

One smooth movement, he’s inside. His eyes nearly roll up as your pussy squeezes around him, seemingly determined to milk his cum out. By some miracle, he doesn’t come right away. He doesn’t it matters he did. He fucks you with urgency.

You feel divine. Your pussy. Your heated skin. Your arms that slot over his shoulders, urging him to fuck you faster. Your long nails dragging red stripes down his nape and back. Pain and pleasure sears down his soul.

“Quinn,” you call, tugging at his hair.

He moans your name like a prayer just for you. For his Love eternal. Fuck, he deeply loves you so much that it. More than anything in this world. You are the light of his life. Light, not a flame that would burn him. A light makes everything clear and visible. He’ll never get lost with you by his side. Lost in you, now, that’s a different topic.

He catches sight of a sweat dripping down from your temple, your cheek, your jaw, your neck, to your collarbones. He’s there, licking it up from its destination and up your jaw. Fuck, your taste—the saltiness, your scent on his tongue—is alluring.

Your moans mix with his, drowning out the buzz of the air-conditioning, the slight creaking of the coffee table, the ringing of his fucking phone. Who the fuck is calling him this early in the morning? It doesn’t matter. Not important right now. No.

Your hands cling to his arms, nails digging deep crescents into his skin. When his thumb circles your clit, he feels your pussy walls contract and pulse, making him come deep inside you. One spurt. Two. Three. Then he pulls out, so he spills right over your tattoo. You both pant, watching his cum make a mess on your skin, watching the cum dripping down your used pussy.

Your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing him fucking dry, making sure every drop is on your skin, your hips, and your thighs. He can’t help but gasp, forehead resting against yours.

He can’t believe he got you to come before him when he was so close to the edge.

So happy that you did.

So fucking ecstatic that he starts rubbing his cum into your skin, swiping its thickness into your damn tattoo, making sure it’s thoroughly coated. This is what you wanted. He also fucking wants it. His other hand travels to your pussy to push his cum back in. Your thighs quiver, shaking. Your moans and whines are loud and clear in his ears.

Fuck, he’s still so hard.

And you know it. How can you not? You’re holding him. It’s so evident that he’s ready for more.

You meet his eyes as you pant. Your lips are so red from being bitten. Quinn reaches up, taking his pushing his thumb slicked with his cum in your lips. When you immediately lick and suck on it, he can’t stop himself from grinding on your pussy. You’re just as greedy as him.

He loves that and he needs to fuck you again.

“Another?” he pleads.

“Yes,” you murmur, kissing his thumb. “Please.”

You don’t need to say anything else.

[shoyoist]

thinking about hinata getting a tattoo of your name on his body somewhere while he's overseas for a game.

he even goes the extra mile and asks you, very innocently, to write your name out in cursive and send a picture of it to him — he said he'd put the picture on one of his lockscreens, and you'd bought the excuse!

so yeah, he gets a tattoo of your name in your cursive handwriting, on his body. maybe to one side at his waistline, or on his thigh where you'd usually sit, or on the back of his neck, or underneath his collarbone... or even on the left of his chest, right over his heart. ❤️

he thinks it's so romantic, thinks he's so smart to have gotten the idea to have it done in your own handwriting. he shows it off proudly to his team, and he's so excited to go back home to you. to show you your named inked out on his skin, with your own beautiful cursive in deep black.

except... he forgets.

it's a small tattoo that heals within a couple of weeks — and silly him, he gets distracted by the games, distracted by the electric glory of his wins, distracted by the after parties — so by the time he's on that flight back home to you, it's entirely slipped his mind.

you meet hinata at the airport, so glad to be reunited with your husband, and he sweeps you off your feet and kisses you soft and sweet and warm all over your face and neck. he tells you, "i missed you, sunshine." and squeezes you tight to his warm, heavy body— drawing in your smell and the feel of you like he's starved. like he was gone for years and not just two months. "i missed you, too, shoyo." you sigh, kissing him back.

and, well, it's only days later — two entire night of sharing the same bed again, two lazy mornings of cuddles and two dinner dates later — that you find out about the tattoo, and it's also only when you see it for yourself.

you're both getting undressed for a shower — and after being away from one another for so long and another day together without any sex, you're starting to feel a little hazy from the lack of him. unable to simply sit back and stare while he reveals his tanned, muscled body to you, you head over to him, and he immediately turns around to take you by the waist, large hands on your soft skin— when you put your hand to the nape of his neck and run your fingers into his curls, he almost purrs. he's just as needy for you.

and then !! just as your lips are about to meet in an open-mouthed kiss, you catch sight of the cursive on his skin. "shoyo?"

"hm?" he blinks, unaware of your discovery, wondering why you'd suddenly drawn your face away from him. "what is it?"

you reach out to press your thumb against the tattoo, almost feeling the red, raised skin that would've been there when it was still fresh.

you're a little stunned, but your heart fills with the remembrance of how adored you are by him, and it makes you almost giddy.

it's beautiful. you realize it's in your own handwriting, and you remember when he asked you to write your name and send a photo. tracing the letters with your index finger, you ask him, "is this... when did you get my name tattooed on you, baby?"

and that's when hinata finally remembers. "oh! oh, oh i — shit, i forgot about that." his eyes widen, mouth splitting into a sheepish grin. he leans back so you can see it a little better, and laughs nervously. "um, yeah, i got it about three weeks back. i was just... missing you so much more than usual this time, so i wanted to do something special. i was going to surprise you with it when i got back, but then..."

he trails off, face flushed so hard with embarrassment that his complexion is nearly brighter than his fiery hair. he's so fucking cute, you could eat him alive. "you forgot." you laugh. "shoyo, you got a tattoo of my name on you, and forgot about it only weeks after?"

"it's not like that." he pouts, grabbing your hips and pulling you back into him. "i thought you'd like it." you finally look away from the tattoo and look back at your husband, sliding your hands up the muscled panes of his chest, still laughing softly. you cup his face, stroking his cheeks gently with your thumbs, and you kiss him. "i do like it, shoyo. i love it. i just think you're so silly, too."

"'m not silly." he whines, letting you kiss him, closing his eyes and relaxing into your touch.

"yes you are," you giggle. "and you're a smart cookie for sneaking this on me. oh, and you're such a romantic. missed me so much you had to let everyone know i own you, mm?"

"yeah, something like that." he huffs, biting at your earlobe, sending a shiver up your spine.

"silly." you breathe, as he runs his hands up and down your bare back and your waist, pressing his fingertips in just how and where you like it. and there's the moment where the air becomes charged between you both.

you really might lose your mind. you can't wait for him to cum into you with your name inked out on his body. and when you lock eyes with him, he knows what you want.

"we'll see who's really silly," hinata grins, teeth glinting almost as bright as his eyes, turning you towards your bathroom. "when i'm done letting you know just how much i missed you."

"try me." you tease, and when he laughs, tightening his hold on you and tugging you in for another kiss, it knocks the breath out of you this time. the intensity of it is already enough of a giveaway for you. shoyo may be silly — but he also knows how to ruin you <3.

[maxlarens]

cl and 26 pleaseee🫶🏼

26) kissing the top of their head

“Your father hasn’t liked any of your boyfriends nearly as much as him,” your mum tells you, nudging you with her elbow as the two of you stand together in the doorway.

Your coffee mug is warm and steaming in your hand as you look out onto the balcony, where Charles and your dad are playing a game of Uno. They’re engrossed in a conversation about some painter you’ve never heard of. Your dad is putting down two cards at once without Charles noticing, finally able to pull the trick your family had grown wise to years ago.

You let out a breathy laugh, “He’s cheating.”

Your mum lets out an angry noise, prompted by thirty odd years of your dad playing it fast and loose with the rules of various board games.

“Charles,” she says, sounding stern enough that he whips his head around, eyes-wide, your mum waves him off then points sternly at your father, “You keep your eyes on him. He does not respect rules.”

You snicker at the endearing way that Charles’ eyebrows pull together in confusion. Puzzling through your mother’s words, probably wondering how your father could have found a way to cheat at Uno. (If there’s a will there’s a way, your dad always says). Charles turns back to the game with his arms out in outrage, baulking at your father’s audacity.

“Oh my god,” he mutters in that mumbling, run-on way he says things sometimes, “How could you?”

Your father shakes his head and waves the issue off with a few bumbling words about how your mother has a vendetta against him because he always wins. You laugh into your drink. He’s gone too far, pretending to insult your mother— you clatter past the screen door, stepping out onto the balcony.

Charles gives you a backward glance as you approach the back of his chair. You put a hand on his shoulder, pressing your thumb into the muscles on his neck, massaging them absently.

“He is cheating,” you confirm, leaning over him to put your coffee down and spread out the last two cards your father had put down, “Different colours.”

Charles splutters, throwing his hand onto the table and looking expectantly at your father who has started snickering like a teenage boy. The screen door clatters open behind you, your mother comes out with a tray of cookies and a few choice words for her husband about trying to swindle your new boyfriend.

You smile, pulling back to say into his ear, “He only does it because he likes you… And because he can get away with it.”

Charles makes a noise of discontentment while reaching up to cover your hand with his, “Wha— that means he likes me?”

“Yes,” you and your mother say at the same time.

Because your dad doesn’t know how to admit he likes anyone, he shrugs instead and says, “Eh, it’s Uno. There are no real rules.”

You roll your eyes while your mum is set off on a tangent about not throwing out rule books and setting a good example for your children.

“Well,” you sigh, pressing a kiss to his temple then up into his hair, “This is what you’ve got yourself into, Sharl.”

You feel him shake his head, then he tips back to look into your eyes, “It’s perfect, really. I love it.”

[tsunodaradio]

come find me ⛐ 𝐂𝐒𝟓𝟓

♫ forgive me, peter carlos, please know that i tried to hold on to the days when you were mine.

ꔮ starring: carlos sainz x childhood best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort. mentions of food. childhood best friends, right person/wrong time, canon compliant -ish, minor spanish. heavily inspired by taylor swift's peter. ꔮ commentary box: ho is u okay,, @binisainz planted this idea in my head and i had to go full throttle with it. one day we will write happy things (today will not be that day). 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ waiting room, phoebe bridgers. ceilings, lizzy mcalpine. cool about it, boygenius. boy who has everything, annika bennett. car's outside, james arthur.

▸ THE GODDESS OF TIMING ONCE FOUND US BEGUILING. SHE SAID SHE WAS TRYING; CARLOS, WAS SHE LYING? MY RIBS GET THE FEELING SHE DID.

The cake is lopsided.

It doesn’t matter, though. Carlos grins like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. His mother places it on the kitchen counter with a laugh, brushing flour off her apron. The candles wobble precariously as she adjusts them, and you and Carlos press your palms to the table, watching like the fate of the world hinges on whether or not they’ll topple over.

They don’t.

Carlos cheers as if it’s a victory in its own right. He tugs at your wrist until you’re at his side. The kitchen smells of sugar and vanilla, and the late afternoon sun spills through the window, turning the terracotta tiles into a checkerboard of red and black.

His father ruffles his hair, chuckling under his breath. “Blow out the candles, campeón.”

Carlos turns to you, eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint that always means trouble.

“You do it with me,” he insists.

“It’s your birthday,” you argue, but he’s already inching closer, shoulder bumping against yours.

“Please?” he says, and you know then— even at this age— that you’ll never be able to say no to him.

So you do it together, squeezing your eyes shut as you make your wishes. When you open them, the candles are snuffed out, a faint curl of smoke rising toward the ceiling.

His mother claps, and his father nods. They share a knowing look. The kind of knowledge adults carry like a secret; the certainty that some people are just meant to orbit each other. 

The goddess of timing must be watching, amused and benevolent, because even the universe can’t help but indulge in this small, perfect moment.

There are murmurs about your friendship. Of course there are. Sainz Jr. had a friend, a next-door neighbor who indulged his every whimsy. 

And you had Carlos. 

Carlos, who chases your bullies away with sticks from his backyard. Carlos, who hurtles down the street on his bicycle so he can get the two of you the freshest bocadillos. Carlos, who will halve the chances of his birthday wish being fulfilled if it means you get to have a quarter of a wish, too. 

Later, after too much cake and games in the garden, you sit beneath the lemon tree. Dirt streaks your legs; frosting sticks to Carlos’ fingers. Your best friend leans his head against your shoulder.

His hair is damp with sweat, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of someone perfectly content. He’s only 10— que horror, the dreaded double digit!— but he acts like he already has all the answers in the world. 

“I’m going to be a race car driver,” he tells you. As if it’s a prophecy. His God-given right. 

You hum, picking at the grass beside you. “I know.”

“You’ll come to all my races?”

“Of course.”

Carlos sighs with satisfaction. “We’ll always be friends,” he promises, prophesies.

You’re too young to know that people change, that you can’t possibly predict the years to come. Right now, with the sun dipping below the rooftops and the sky blushing pink, it feels like forever could be this simple. 

After a beat, Carlos pipes up, “What did you wish for?”

“I can’t tell you,” you snort, “or else it won’t come true.” 

“Not fair!” he whines. “It’s my birthday!” 

You bicker and roughhouse until Carlos’ mother has to intervene. The question is forgotten when you two are called in for dinner of polbo a feira and tapas.

It’s one of those memories you wish you could keep in a snow globe, forever immortalized. The dining table, the conversation, the company. 

The wish you made, buried in your mind like the spare house key under a mat. 

I hope Carlos gets everything he wants. 

▸ AND SOMETIMES IT GETS ME, WHEN CROSSING YOUR JET STREAM— WE BOTH DID THE BEST WE COULD DO UNDERNEATH THE SAME MOON.

The trophy is heavier than Carlos expected.

His hands ache from gripping the wheel, knuckles still buzzing from the adrenaline of the last lap. All the same, he refuses to put the prize down. He clutches it like proof that the last three years weren’t just a dream; inwardly, he’s scared that letting go might somehow undo the third place finish.

The victory party spills across the hotel’s rooftop, lanterns swaying in the humid breeze. His father shakes hands with team managers. His mother beams at anyone who glances her way. 

And Carlos— Carlos searches for you.

You find him first, dodging through the crowd with practiced ease. There’s a scrape on your knee from tripping over a curb in your rush to get to the podium, and your hair is a mess from running down the track, but Carlos doesn’t care. 

You look at him like he’s conquered the world, and he feels like maybe he has.

He casts aside the trophy. Suddenly, it’s not as important as what he’s about to hold. 

“You did it,” you’re breathing, and he’s reaching out to pull you into a hug. “Cariño, you did it.” 

“We did it,” he amends. You laugh like it’s a joke, like Carlos isn’t being a hundred percent sincere. 

Nobody bats an eye at the show of affection. You’ve been around since Torneo Industrie. You were there for the podium finishes and the falls from grace. 

Carlos Sainz’s best friend. The one who was keeping a promise. The one he sought out after every race, win or lose.

Not just any girl in the crowd, but the girl. 

Carlos sways the two of you back and forth, feet shuffling in a clumsy imitation of a slow dance. There’s a live band playing the ballads his parents like, so his effort to keep you close is rather awkward and off-putting. 

He’s not about to be called out on it, though. Not when this is his moment, and he’s keen on sharing it with you. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he mumbles into the crown of your head. 

“You could have,” you respond firmly, the words spoken into his clothed shoulder. “You would have.” 

I don’t want to, he almost says, but he bites the words back. Carlos doesn’t want to need you too much. Doesn’t want to put his career in the palm of your hands.

He pulls back, still gripping your arms like he needs the anchor. The party swirls around you both. A snow globe celebrating him while he reveres you. 

“We’ll do this forever,” he says. A shadow of that childhood promise. “You’ll come to all my races.”

You’re older, now. A little wiser. Not so immune to the whispers. 

Carlos, who is built for bigger things. And you— the amalgamation, the imposition. El destino.

His destiny, if he were to want it badly enough. 

You smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The moon hangs low in the sky, watching over you both like it knows something you don’t.

“Of course,” you say, pretending it’s still that simple.

▸ YOU SAID YOU WERE GONNA GROW UP, THEN YOU WERE GONNA COME FIND ME... YOU SAID YOU'D COME AND GET ME, BUT YOU WERE TWENTY-FIVE.

You remember what it looked like— the night Carlos made his choice. 

The car, idling by the curb, its headlights spilling across the pavement. Carlos, leaning against the gate of your house. His fingers tapped restless patterns on the metal; his sneakers scuffed against the ground. 

He looked young. He was young.

Stripped of the helmet and the race suit, he was just a 16-year-old boy with too much of the world ahead of him and not enough words to say what he meant. 

“I’ll call you,” he assured, voice breaking the silence. The third time he had said it that night.

You nodded and crossed your arms over your chest like you could hold yourself together that way. “I know.”

Carlos let out a breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. His hair was longer, curls falling over his forehead. It didn’t hide the way his eyes flickered with uncertainty.

He was always so sure of himself on the track— confident in every turn, every overtake— but he looked lost now, standing in front of you like he couldn’t figure out how to leave.

“You can still watch the races,” he had tried, the joke falling flat between you. “On TV. It’s almost the same.”

“It’s not the same,” you said, and you inhaled sharply when it came out sounding sharp. You shook your head and tried again. “It’s fine, Carlos. You should go.”

Instead of taking your advice, Carlos had taken a step closer. 

His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but he shoved it into his pocket instead. “I don’t want you to think I’m leaving because I want to,” he said, words tumbling out too fast. “I have to do this. I just... I need to try. But I’ll come back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He swayed on his feet, desperate to make you believe him. “I’ll get it out of my system, and then I’ll come back.”

The way he said it— like racing was a fever that needed to break, like the only cure was time and distance— made your chest ache. You’d never seen him without racing, couldn’t imagine a version of Carlos that wasn’t chasing speed like he was scared of what might catch him if he slowed down.

“How long?” you whispered.

Carlos opened his mouth. Closed it again. 

The truth is, he didn’t know. It could be years. It could be forever.

But he had looked at you like he wanted it to be tomorrow.

“Just wait for me,” he begged, voice barely above a whisper, “please.”

As a teenager, you had not thought it to be cruel. It was simply a parting remark, a best friend’s desperate plea. When you nodded and let Carlos plant a kiss to your forehead— as if sealing the deal— you didn’t expect it to feel a lot like a death sentence. 

It’s been nine years since. 

Carlos slips in and out of your life like Spanish summers. He’ll spend a week or two of off-season in Madrid, soaking up as much of you as he can. Every year, there is something new to report. 

A co-driver he dislikes. A team trying to poach him. An entire life where you are a footnote— a ‘best friend’ back home. 

This time around, he is 25 and gearing up to join McLaren. He had texted you about it when he first got the news. 

The papaya team, you said good-naturedly, and he responded with a selfie with his curly-haired co-driver. 

I told him all about you, Carlos said. You were not sure whether to feel grateful or heartbroken. 

Tonight, the dinner plates have been pushed to the side, remnants of your meal forgotten in favor of stretching the night out just a little longer. Your best friend sits across from you, elbow on the table, chin propped in his hand. 

The kitchen of his family home is quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock. His parents have given you some privacy. Even now, they are still rooting for what they think is the soft epilogue you both deserve. 

Carlos’ eyes soften as you top his glass. The same warm brown as when he was fourteen and winning his first championship, as when he was sixteen and making promises he couldn’t follow up on.

You tilt your glass of wine, watching the way the liquid catches the light. “So,” you start, voice steady, “have you gotten it out of your system yet?”

You can see the guilt settle over him, the way his shoulders tense and his gaze drops to the table. He scratches at the wood grain with his thumb, jaw tight. 

“I’m close,” he says, and you hate how desperate he sounds to convince you. “Just a few more years.”

“A few more years,” you repeat, like you can make the words sound like less than what they are. You nod, pretending not to notice the tremor in his voice. 

You lift your gaze, studying him. The sharper angles of his face, the subtle lines that years of racing and travel have carved into his skin.

The way he looks at you— that hasn’t changed.

“I will come back,” he promises, leaning in, eyes wide and earnest. “I swear, I just—”

“Carlos.” You reach across the table, fingers curling around his hand. 

You squeeze his hand, trying to memorize the shape of him, the feel of his skin against yours. And then, slowly, you stand, tugging him to his feet with you as you move around the table. 

He follows you instinctively, like he always has.

You’re the one who finally, finally does it. In the dim light of this kitchen that has witnessed everything, you kiss him. 

It’s soft and lingering, a slow unraveling of years of almosts and maybes. Carlos doesn’t hesitate; he melts into it, hands coming up to cradle your face.

He kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every goodbye, every missed birthday, every time he said he’d come back and didn’t.

He tastes like the wine you’d been drinking, like everything you want but can’t have. 

You pull away and briefly rest your forehead against his, fingers brushing through his hair. Carlos chases your lips, but you step back. 

“You don’t have to come back for me,” you exhale, voice breaking on the words. “Just come back when you’re ready.”

Carlos stares at you, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling like he’s about to argue.

He doesn’t. He’s never raised his voice at you. He was not about to start tonight. 

You slip away, the same way that summer might end on an unassuming September afternoon. 

And so this must be what winter feels like, Carlos thinks as he watches you go. 

▸ ARE YOU STILL A MIND-READER, A NATURAL SCENE STEALER? I'VE HEARD GREAT THINGS, CARLOS, BUT LIFE WAS ALWAYS EASIER ON YOU THAN IT WAS ON ME.

You find out the way everyone else does.

The announcement is plastered across every sports site you frequent, and someone in the office even mentions it in passing like it's a casual thing. For them, it is.

For you, it's something else entirely.

Carlos Sainz signs with Ferrari, replacing Sebastian Vettel. 

The sting isn't sharp, but it lingers. A dull ache of realization. 

You used to be the first to know these things. You used to get the late-night texts, the excited voice messages, the hastily snapped photos of team gear before anything was official. Now, you're like everybody else, learning about Carlos’ life through headlines and curated press releases.

You wonder, briefly, if it's the kiss that ruined things. You haven’t exactly stopped talking, but the texts are infrequent now. The check-ins, more obligatory than organic. 

Still, you swallow the feeling and shoot him a message. Not because you have to, but because there isn’t a world where you wouldn’t give Carlos Sainz the flowers he deserves. 

Congratulations, mi campeón, you text him. Ferrari red suits you. 

Your phone rings in the next five minutes, your screen lighting up with a childhood photo of you and Carlos. 

“I was waiting for you to text,” he says, voice laced with relief. “I wanted to tell you myself, I swear. I just... Things happened so fast.” 

You close your eyes, resting your forehead against your hand. You realize that you don’t know where he is. Maranello? Monaco? 

In the house right next doors to yours— back home, where you once thought he belonged? 

You want to let him explain, want to listen to every single word, but your boss shouts your name from across the room. You’re reminded of your place. These white walls and linoleum floors; cubicles and desk set-ups that Carlos never would have settled for. 

“Lo siento, cariño,” you say hurriedly. “I’m at work. I have to go, but— I mean it. Congratulations. I am happy for you.” 

It’s small, almost negligible. The emphasis you choose to put on the word ‘am’. I am happy for you, you’re saying, as if you’re still trying to convince yourself of the fact. 

Carlos, on the other end of the line, exhales heavily. 

He doesn’t say he will call later tonight when you’re free. The two of you are no longer in the business of getting each other’s hopes up. 

“Thank you,” he says, the platitude sounding heavier than it should. 

You end the call and shove the phone into your desk drawer, hopeful that it will keep you from doing something stupid like reading up on Ferrari or texting Carlos a dozen apologies. 

The ache lingers. 

It always does. 

▸ I WON'T CONFESS THAT I WAITED, BUT I LET THE LAMP BURN. AS THE MEN MASQUERADED, I HOPED YOU'D RETURN.

Carlos shows up at your doorstep like he doesn’t know where else to go.

You don’t have to check your phone to know why he’s here. You step aside wordlessly, letting him into the familiar warmth of your home. He exhales, as if stepping over the threshold takes something out of him. 

Maybe it does. Maybe this is the last place he can let himself be like this— untethered from the world that has just tossed him aside.

For a long time, neither of you speak. He lingers in your living room, shoulders hunched as he stares at the floor. Carlos doesn’t have to know, but the laptop in your bedroom bears dozens of articles, like you were a crime scene detective trying to make sense of all the details. 

Lewis Hamilton to replace Carlos Sainz at Ferrari for the 2025 season. 

It had felt like a punch to the gut just reading it. You can’t even imagine what it must’ve felt like to be him.

“Carlos,” you begin, but he’s already shaking his head, a wry smile playing at his lips.

All these years between the two of you— despite most of it being spent apart— makes you a language that Carlos is fluent in. He knows. Knows that you were about to offer some comfort, some reassurance, some platitude. 

He shifts on your couch. Your knees bump against each other. 

“Maybe this is it,” he murmurs. “Maybe this is the end of the road for me.” 

Then, softer, like he’s telling himself as much as he’s telling you, “Maybe after this season, I’ll finally fulfill what I’ve always promised you.”

You hate that your heart leaps. Hate that for a second— one fragile, selfish second— you wonder if this is the universe finally setting things right.

This is the universe course-correcting, is it not? The years, and the distance, and the missed calls were all just detours leading him back here.

But that’s not how it works. 

Not for him. Not for you.

This is not fate. It’s heartbreak. 

And you would never let Carlos Sainz’s heart break, if you could do anything about it. 

“Carlos,” you say again, firmer this time. 

He looks up at you. You recognize the glint in his eyes. The part of him that’s already bracing for the fight. Ready to convince you, to convince himself, that this— this is the checkered flag, the final lap. 

You don’t let him. 

“This— racing— it’s who you are. You can’t give that up,” you say earnestly, the words for me hanging in the air between you. 

Carlos laughs. It sounds more like a sob. “I’ve already given up so much for it,” he says wretchedly. “And still, it’s never enough.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and shift closer, reaching out to rest your hand over his. He doesn’t pull away.

“If this is the end of the road,” you say softly, “then walk it all the way to the finish. Don’t let them decide when it’s over.”

Carlos fixes you with his gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable. After all this time, he still looks to you like you have all the answers. 

Like you are the answer. 

After an eternity, he sighs and nods once.

For the rest of the night, you don’t talk about racing. You let him linger in the safety of your home, the two of you orbiting around each other like you always have. Two people bound by a history neither of you can seem to let go of.

You exchange stories. You watch reruns of some old telenovela. 

You keep your hands off each other, because you don’t want this moment to be a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. You respect each other too much to settle for that. 

When Carlos falls asleep on your couch, you quietly drape a blanket over him and let the lamp burn through the night.

Just in case he wakes up and needs to find his way back to you.

▸ WITH YOUR FEET ON THE GROUND, TELL ME ALL THAT YOU'D LEARNED 'CAUSE LOVE'S NEVER LOST WHEN PERSPECTIVE IS EARNED.

Carlos turns thirty with a new team, a new beginning, and a birthday party that feels like it was always meant to end here.

The Sainz family home buzzes with celebration— laughter spilling through the rooms, wine glasses clinking, plates scraping against each other as people help themselves to seconds. The scent of his mother’s cooking lingers, grounding everything in a familiarity Carlos hadn’t realized he missed this much.

And then there’s you.

Carlos stands by the cake, the glow of the candles flickering across his face, and he’s not looking at anyone else.

“Come blow the candle with me,” he says, holding out his hand.

You blink, caught off guard. A couple of snickers ripple through the room. Not everybody is privy to the lore, but they don’t really have to be. They all know how much you mean to Carlos. 

“It’s your birthday,” you say. The same thing you’d said two decades ago. 

His grin is boyish, teasing. “I’m thirty. I need the help.”

His mother hides her smile behind her mug. His father shakes his head, mumbles something like estos dos as déjà vu hits like a truck.

The room is full of people certain the two of you belonged to each other long before you ever understood what that meant.

You step beside him. Carlos counts down under his breath, his hand resting over the small of your back. 

The flame is extinguished. Another bottle of champagne is popped. You have some vague memory of the wish you made the first time this happened, but you can’t say for sure if it has come true. 

The party stretches into the night, but Carlos stays close, his shoulder brushing against yours every time he moves. He doesn’t say much— doesn’t have to. It’s enough to just be here for once. 

When the crowd thins out, he grabs his jacket without question, ready to walk you home like he always used to.

The streets of Madrid are quieter than they should be, as if the city is holding space for the two of you. The stars are bright, scattered across the sky like promises.

Carlos shoves his hands into his coat pockets, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. “What did you wish for?”

You exhale a soft laugh. “You can’t ask that.”

“I can.” He glances at you, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m thirty now. I’ve earned the right to know.”

You don’t answer immediately. You watch him instead— the way he looks at peace, even with the weight of starting over. His new Williams contract is a fresh start, a lease on life he almost lost.

He’s not done racing. Not yet. But he’s here, he’s here, and you want so badly for that be enough. 

You stop walking. Carlos notices a beat later, turning to face you. His eyes are careful, searching.

“Racing is never going to be out of your system,” you say, as if it’s a fact of life. The sky is blue, the sun is warm, and Carlos Sainz will chase the thrill of a podium until his final breath. 

Carlos winces, looking almost guilty as he responds, “I didn’t mean to—” 

“I know.” You cut him off gently. You’re both now, and you understand that it is not simple. It never was. But that does not mean it is worth anything less. 

“I’m glad you didn’t quit,” you add, just to make things clear. 

Carlos steps closer. “I would’ve come back for you,” he says, voice rough with sincerity. “I think— I think I will always come back to you.”

You smile up at him. It’s bittersweet and small, but it’s all his. All for him. 

He lifts a hand to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin. “You never told me what you wished for,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ll tell you mine,” you say as you lean into him, chest aching with something that feels like forgiveness— for him, for yourself, for all the years you lost trying to outrun what was always inevitable, “if you tell me yours.” 

Carlos doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he leans in to kiss you like he’s been holding the promise of it for years. A quiet, patient kind of love finally breaking the surface.

It tastes like every birthday cake you ever shared, every race you ever watched, every almost that never quite unraveled into more.

This, he saying as he kisses away all the versions of love that didn’t quite fit before, is what I wished for. 

Somewhere in the universe, the goddess of timing breathes a sigh of relief. She had never lied. 

Te tomó bastante tiempo, she whispers through the breeze in your hair, through the constellation in the sky, through the flower that takes root over the spot you shared a kiss. 

It took you long enough. ⛐

[daisynik7]

Nanami is so used to treasuring you, treating you delicately like the sweet, precious gem that you are. It catches him completely off guard when one night, after he vents about work, you ask for him to be very rough with you. “Take it out on me, honey. Be as rough as you like. I can take it.”

He’s speechless at first, taken aback by the unusual request in the middle of him undressing from his office attire. He doesn’t notice that his signature tie is coiled tightly around his fist, button-up undone, revealing his brawny figure beneath his fitted undershirt. He has no clue how sexy he is right now, veins bulging from his beefy fingers, brows furrowed in a scowl, still frustrated from today’s nuisance at work. It’s a different side of him you usually don’t see, and maybe that’s why you’re so intrigued by it. You want to test him, see how hard he can give it you. 

It takes a while for him to agree to it; he can’t imagine being even the slightest bit mean to his darling angel. But the further and further you badger him about it, tugging on his cuff, begging please, please, please, the more convinced he is to just do it. So, per your request, he pins your wrists together against your back, knotting his tie around them, locking you in a compromising position. You nestle your head into the pillow, knees digging into the mattress, ass sticking up, completely vulnerable. The anticipation already has your pussy fluttering. 

He lies beneath you, eating you out first, slurping and sucking on your clit until your cunt is wet with your first orgasm, sleek enough for him to enter you smoothly. He kneels behind you, teasing your entrance with his fingers, feeling how juicy you are for him. He hums, satisfied, guiding his cock slowly inside you until he bottoms outs, groin pressed firmly to your ass. His thrusts are slow at first, easing into it to allow you to adjust to his size. But when you provoke him with a Is that the best you got? I know you can do better than that, he doesn’t hold back any longer. He grabs your wrists, pinning your shoulders back while he pumps himself deep inside you, bullying your sweet spot until you’re flooded with his cum. “You like it rough, don’t you, sweetheart? You like having this sloppy cunt filled with my seed. I’m gonna keep giving it to you until I’m milked dry and there’s nothing left. Understand?”

You can only nod, gasping when he starts fucking you again, still just as hard inside you, drilling into you until he gives you a second and third creamy load, relishing your unabashed moans echoing off the bedroom walls. When he finally pulls out of you, he watches his cum leak out of you, dripping onto the sheets. You collapse onto the bed, arms sore from being stretched out, wrists raw from the grip of his tie, pussy ragged by his intense pummeling. And the biggest fucking smile on your face, already looking forward to the next time he has a bad day at work. 

[yearninflowers]

Imagine...

Sunday loving you so much.

Rumours will always surround every renowned person in the world, whether that someone is the nicest person ever or even the opposite of that. But somehow, for your friend, Sunday, whom almost everyone in Penacony City knows, the rumours surrounding him didn't always make a lot of sense. Shouldn't one or two be true, or at least close to a truth, though?

You eventually began to ask him frequently if something stirred in his community.

It was mostly just for fun, however.

“Sunny, is this true?”

And as always, he would smile, reassuring you that none of the rumours surrounding him were true.

Sunday would first laugh at the absurdity of the rumours before patting your head and telling you to always confirm where the rumours even started. If not most, then all of them were always coming from some unknown source and were just following to create even more nonsense, said him. That would shut you up real quick, not that you would start to distrust him if a rumour popped up.

However, one particular rumour shook you off quite a bit.

A rumour about him having relations with a cult. An anonymous sender had thrown out a couple of blurred pictures as ‘evidence’ and uploaded them to a fairly well-known account used to share anonymous messages.

It was absurd, but you still asked.

“Sunny,” you called out his name, your phone hovering open to the account that shared the rumour. Once your friend notices your call, you let him take a look at your phone. “There's a rumour saying you have relations with a cult; is it… uh, true?”

This time, Sunday didn't immediately smile. He didn't reassure you right away. His face looked unlike what you knew of him.

He... he looks scary—

It took at least a few seconds before he did his usual smile and reassured you that none of the rumours surrounding him were true. He began to laugh like always, patting your head like always, telling you to check the source like always.

And like always too, you believed him. After all, it's the usual absurd rumour, right?

Before you eventually swallow the whole rumour as wrong information, Sunday had a hard time keeping up his facade. His smile twitched unusually more, and his hands trembled unknowingly. It felt weird, the feelings inside his heart, but he wasn't too bothered by it. In fact, he even welcomed it.

Truth be told, it wasn't fear that was holding him restricted.

It was excitement.

Sunday is dying to let you know that you are his sole Providence, the only being in the whole world he would pray to. He could go days without stopping—not even a short rest—to bask in his devotion for you. He will gladly do anything to make you happy.

Unfortunately for him, you've yet to know of his faith; you're still so clueless about his blatant favouritism. It's alright, though; Sunday is quite keen on teaching his deity how to receive his love one day.

“It's quite a slander to accuse me of being in a cult," He let out a small laugh. "But I assure you, (Y/n), I would never be a part of something as eerie as that.”

After all, the only being he would ever worship is you.

But for now, he'll play the part of being your very perfect friend, slowly wrapping you into the warm embrace of divinity. You'll know soon enough that you are worth more than just being his 'friend'. You, yourself, are already surrounded by the evidence of his devotion in its truest form:

His love.

[thezeninclan]

suddenly telling them you’re in the mood ft. the hashira

TENGEN turned to look at you the moment you entered the room, sliding the paper door shut behind you. it was as though the sound hashira could sense what you were going to say, for by the time you came to sit beside him, neatly folding your legs beneath you, your head turned away from him so that he couldn't see the flush on your cheeks, there was already a smug little smile upon his face.

he turned to face you, leaning his hand against his hand, appearing almost bored as he peered at you through his uncovered eye. you sat so close to him that you could feel the heat rolling off his body, practically able to feel the smugness exuded from him in waves. his full attention was on you, though he refused to speak first, and you knew he could hear the hammering of your heartbeat, the way your stomach tightened, the way you bit at your bottom lip. "tengen-sama-" you breathed, steeling yourself for what you wanted to say next. "I want you."

in a flash you were on your back on the tatami, his thickly muscled arms bracketing your head, his lips and nose nuzzling at your jaw. he grinned at you, rakish and carnal. "why didn't you say that earlier."

MITSURI goes pink as the hair that frames her pretty face as she turns to look at you, her green eyes wide and startled as a deer. she always flustered easily, but nobody could make her do so like you could. "d-did you say-" she started, waving her hands in front of her face. you could practically see the steam rising from the top of her head. "I don't- I-I mean I do, but did you say that you-"

you decided to put her out of her misery, slipping your hand into hers and whisking her to you. you press a kiss to her soft cheek, feeling the warmth of her blush burnish against your lips. "kanroji-" you whisper softly, feeling the way she gasps softly at the utterance of her name, just as she did every time you spoke it. "I want you." you whisper softly, pressing another kiss to the center of her brow, your arms winding around her back to pull her flush against you.

she takes a deep breath, steeling herself, before she takes your hand and pulls you to her, her body soft and pliant against yours. "I want you too."

IGURO is almost inscrutable, turning to look at you as though you had just asked him some outlandish question, and you almost feel embarrassed, making to turn back around and pretend you had never said anything, when there's a flash of black and in a lightning quick movement he's at his feet. he pulls you against him with enough force to knock you off your center of gravity, so that your body sinks against his.

he's warm, hot, his skin practically steaming against yours as he holds you against him, your soft form against the pillar of firm muscle and lithe sinew that is the serpent hashira. he peppers your skin with fervent kisses, hands wandering to tease at your hips, your thighs, your waist. "p-please." you whimper, fingertips skimming over the bandages he usually wore around his mouth. "I want to feel you." Iguro smirks then, pulling down the bandages so that he could slot his warm mouth against yours, making you melt.

he grins down at you, looking at you with those mismatched eyes you so long fell in love with. "how could I resist, when you ask me so sweetly?"

SANEMI gave you a hard, impenetrable look, and for a moment he looked so stern that you feared you had made a mistake. but as the seconds slipped away you could see the pink coloring his face, the way his wild eyes had widened and darkened, and before you could even prepare yourself for an attack you were on your back, caged in by a massive body above you. his arms bracketed your head, all rippling muscle and scarred skin, the roughness of his body juxtaposed by the gentleness of the calloused hand that rose to brush the hair back from your brow.

sanemi didn't say anything- he didn't need to, for the hardness he pressed against you as he parted your legs told you everything that you needed to know.

SHINOBU is inscrutable as she turns in her chair to face you, the potions and medicines she had been tinkering with suddenly abandoned. "what did you say?" she asks, and your face colors with a blush. a polite smile is etched across her face, but her eyes are alight with a bright, mischievous evil that has you squirming in your seat as you imagine all the ways she could tease and torture you.

"come." she beckons with a hand. "sit with me." you sit at her side, feeling the way she leans into you softly, as small and light as the butterfly from which she gets her name, and when a moment passes and her lips are on yours, you too can feel butterflies.

you had been working up the nerve to tell RENGOKU how you felt for the past hour, twisting your fingers, biting at the inside of your cheek with nervousness. the two of you had been sitting together in quiet companionship for the past few hours, rengoku polishing the grip and handle of his sword and you working at finishing the charcoal painting you had started the previous day. the sun had set with a golden kiss, sleep niggling at your mind, and without further delay or further stifled yawns, you excused yourself to change into your sleeping robes. changing into your yogi had been easy, the soft fabric sliding onto your fatigued body easily, and when you had padded back to the bedroom you shared, you had stopped short, pausing at the door to the chamber your husband still sat in.

you had changed into your yogi boldly, knowing that he knew that the garment was large enough for the both of you— and that you were wearing nothing beneath it. he turned to look at you as you slid open the tatami door, his eyes full of love and tenderness as you entered, his hand coming to a stop on the hilt of his sword as he took in the rest of your appearance. the lapels of your yogi had parted as you walked, and you hadn't bothered to close them again, leaving the front of your body bare and glowing in the candlelight.

"you look beautiful." kyōjurō said, staring up at you in awe, turning his body so he could kneel at your feet. a callused finger rose to trace over the skin of your bare ankle, watching in rapture as you shivered. "I can't believe you're mine." he breathed.

In a flash of orange and red you were in his arms, feeling the way his muscled body pinned you to the ground. "I am." you breathed, feeling his lips trace the column of your throat. "I'm yours."

GIYU was stoic, calm, silent— so silent that for a moment you were unsure if he had even heard you. you felt silly, cheeks flushing a darker red than they had been when you had first approached the tatami door to his study, having built up your courage to call out to your husband. your hand faltered as you made to slide the door shut once more, hoping to pretend that nothing had ever happened.

"stop." he said, his voice making you startle, the hand you pressed to the door halting. he had been so silent that you hadn't even noticed he had risen from his seat and had come to kneel in front of you until his hand pressed to your cheek, his thumb gently tracing your bottom lip. he knocked you off balance easily, pulling you into his arms with the smooth firmness of a breaking wave. his body was so firm against yours, and as you sank into him it was as though two pieces of a puzzle were meeting, the match of muscle and firm sinew meeting soft curves.

"I want you too." he said, his voice as soft as an exhaled breath, and when you looked at him you could see there was a small smile playing over his lips. "I always want you."

you know GYOMEI can feel you as you approach, sensing the way your feet fall against the earth, the way your breath fans out into the cool wind, the way the air parts as you move through the space, so he has no need to jump when you lay your hand upon his shoulder. "himejima." you breathe softly, kneeling at his side and pressing yourself to him. he has been out training for hours, from dawn to dusk, and the night has brought with it a cold chill that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

"come inside." you bid, sliding your fingers between his. he's removed his shirt, likely from the icy soak of the waterfall, and you can see the beads of sweat dancing across his muscular chest. "it's cold tonight." you coo. he turns his head to accept the kiss you place upon his cheek, a big hand sliding down your hip. "gyo-" you whisper, feeling his palms cupping at your ass. "I need some warming up."

[starrystevie]

eddie’s going on a tinder date with a cute guy named steve.

he likes his freckles, brown eyes and cheeky grin. they don’t have much in common but the conversations they have in the app messages flows suspiciously easily. he’s a bit in love and antsy at the table as he watches the door anxiously for his date.

he sees person after person walk into the bar and his beer is dripping condensation onto his hand as he grips it, nerves shooting through the roof. eddie glances at the table and then back up to the door when a guy walks in and if eddie wasn’t waiting for his date, he’d want to go talk to him.

he’s cute, hot even, floppy brown hair and a charming grin, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as he looks around the bar. his shirt clings to him in just the right way and his jeans fit him a bit too perfectly. eddie can’t help but stare and then the guy is staring back while he waves, ducking his head as he walks over.

“hey, eddie,” the man breathes out, his cheeks tinged pink from the wind. “sorry i'm late. parking was a bitch.”

and eddie’s confused. because this guy has brown eyes but not the ones he expected. freckles that are more spread out and distinct, trailing down to his neck instead of blanketing his face. his smile is perfect and he’s looking at eddie like he knows him. eddie’s a bit stunned, gaping at the guy with a slack jaw, because he’d remember someone as handsome as him if they’d met before.

“…hi?” he says like it's a question, taking a sip of his beer to do something with his hands.

he watches as the man’s eyebrows crease in confusion and the way his shirt stretches over his chest as he takes off his jacket. “it’s- i’m steve? you are eddie, right?”

eddie can feel his own eyebrows raising, wiping off his damp hand to fish his phone out of his pocket. he quickly finds steve’s profile, ignoring the messages they've sent each other over the past weeks that leave his stomach filled with butterflies, and pulls up the profile picture steve uploaded.

looking at it closely, he glances at who he thinks is steve, at the freckles dusting over his face and the toothy grin he's flashing at the camera. he's not exactly they type eddie usually goes for, but he's witty and sweet and knows about dnd, apparently, so what's not to love?

but then he looks at the other person in the picture that's slightly out of focused next to ‘steve’. looks at the two moles stark on the side of his neck, his pink tinted cheeks. the floopy brown hair and the pretty brown eyes and-

“steve?!” eddie exclaims, looking between the man in front of him and the picture on his phone. “you’re steve?”

the guy- steve- grins sheepishly, leaning on his elbows over the table to look at eddie’s eyes phone. he’s close, too close, close enough that eddie wants to-

“ohh,” he says and scratches at the back oh his head, eyes downturned with a blush trailing up his neck. “yeah, maybe i shouldn’t have used a group photo for a dating app.”

“so who did i think you were?”

their eyes meet and even in the dim bar light, eddie finds himself falling into the specks of green he sees. steve looks at the phone quickly then back up with a smirk. “my best friend, tommy. he’s kind of an asshole, though. you’re better off with me.”

“is that so?” eddie leans back, taking a sip of his beer, and really takes in his date that he now knows is steve. his toned arms, his broad shoulders, his pretty pink cheeks and pretty pink lips.

“what, are you disappointed?”

steve smiles gently and it lights up his face in a way eddie isn’t expecting. between the way he looks in a dingy bar and the way talking with steve is easier than any date he’s had before, he can’t imagine what disappointment he could ever possibly feel knowing that his date is who he is.

suddenly there’s a foot hooking around his ankle and it sends goosebumps tingling up his spine. steve’s smile softens just a bit and eddie can feel himself mirroring it back, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“i don’t think disappointed’s the right word.”

crossposted on twitter!

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

cookie, cookie !!

baking cookies with suki :3

katsuki’s been hovering around you for about 6 minutes now.

you had decides on a whim you wanted to bake some cookies, and since the holidays were coming up, now was the perfect excuse to. you were soon joined in the dorm kitchen by your grouchy boyfriend, who had just come back from his morning run.

you explained you were in the mood for cookies and he responds with a grunt. but then he proceeds to stay in the kitchen, awkwardly standing around looking at the cupboards and utensils like this is the first time he stepped foot in a kitchen before.

he then proceeds to just hover around behind you, staring over your shoulder like a child waiting to see if the cookies were done yet. you found it cute at first, but that constant scowl and scrutinizing look on his face makes you feel like you’re doing something wrong, and frankly it’s making you a little nervous and baking cookies should not be nerve racking !

“would you stop doing that ? i know what i’m doing” you snap your head to squint at him and he stiffens like he’s been caught, like he was being even remotely close to sneaky to begin with, which he wasn’t.

“m’not doin’ anything” he mutters defensively, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his sweats. “just lookin’ atcha. m’i not allowed to ?” he leans in so his nose is almost touching yours, that stupid little handsome smirk on his lips as his eyes fixate themselves on your lips before looking back up. you gulp, then you place your hand on his face and push him away lightly “you’re distracting me” you mutter, feeling your face grow hotter. he chuckles to himself before turning on his heels and leaning again the countertop.

it’s quiet for a second before you feel like calling him out as payback for teasing you “ is there a reason you’re still here ? you wanna lick the batter or something?” you quip teasingly and you snort when his face morphs into one of disgust “hell no.” he scoffs, looking at you before looking down at the batter you’re currently mixing the shit out of, screw whoever broke the mixer. “how long are ya gonna keep mixing that ?” his eyebrow raises in question

“until it’s good” you huff, taking a break from mixing to keep your fingers from cramping up. then you suddenly get an idea

“oh, suki~” you sing turning to look at him. he eyes you suspiciously, crossing his bulky arms across his chest and grunting out a suspicious “what do you want ?”

“well~” you start walking towards him, proceeding to wrap your arms around his middle and give him your best puppy eyes. his doesn’t budge but he squints at you even harder and you can basically feel him cave already “what?” he urged again.

“since you’re oh, so strong and handsome, could you please do me a favor and mix the batter for me, my handsome boyfriend?” you give him your sweetest smile and he scoffs, “what the fuck does being handsome even have to do with it ?”he mumbles. pink dusts his cheeks and he looks away from you, already feeling his resolve crumbling at your shallow praise. he hates how easily he gives in to you sometimes. you squeeze at his waist, he grunts “thought you said i was distracting you.”

you’re pouting at him, he sees it from the corner of his eye and he’s this close to blowing up. “that was before. you’d be helping me out lots now if you did this for me” you’re relentless, standing on your tippy toes to lean in close to his face cus he won’t stop leaning further away from you.

he could very easily just shove you off if he wanted to, but you have a feeling he doesn’t want to. you know he doesn’t want to when he closes his eyes shut and his eyebrows furrow and then he groans, letting his hands fall at his sides limply before glaring at you. “gimme the damn bowl.” he growls. you squeal, pressing kisses all over his face and a finisher one right on the tip of his red scrunched up nose, he grunts at you but gives you a light pat to the back, rubbing his warm hands up and down your spine. then he pinches you, you giggle. “thank you ‘suki.” he responds with a “yeah, yeah whatever.”

he grabs the bowl from your hands starts mixing..hard. letting off his aggression on the bowl like it was at fault for his weak will to deny you. you smile to yourself and turn to the cupboard so you could grab the decorations and of course, the chocolate chips.

you watch for a bit as your boyfriend mixes away, you’re watching how his toned arms flex and how the muscle of his arms tightens and tenses up, more specifically. one thing’s for sure, you’ll never get tired of his arms. you quickly turn away before he can catch you staring and teases you again.

you jump when he calls for you not even a second later “s’this good?” he asks gruffly, leaning forwards to show you his work. you feel your face warm as you squeak out a curt “yeah, looks good !” before taking the bowl back from him and turning right back around to reach for the baking sheet you had prepped. he’s none the wiser for a moment before a knowing grin crosses his face, he shakes his head.

you place everything down on the counter and sigh happily to yourself, feeling accomplished. you walk over to your grumpy boyfriend and place a sweet kiss to his cheek “you’re the best.” he clicks his tongue, muttering out a “tell me something i don’t know.” while the pink on his cheeks grows darker, you let out a giggle.

“you done with this ?” he asks lifting the spatula in the air for you to see, you offer him a simple “mhm” and a smile before turning back to the task at hand and watch from the corner of your eye as he places the spatula in the sink.

not before taking a lick of the excess batter still on it.

your head shoots up and you stare, he stares back. then you let out a loud belly laugh and clutch your stomach “so you were just here to lick the batter !” katsuki only grunts. there’s a light smirk on his face as he licks away a speck of cookie dough batter off his lips. he shrugs, walks up to you and places his head on your shoulder.

“figured i deserve a little somethin’ for my hard work.” you roll your eyes. his hold on you tightens and he huffs, trying to get as comfortable as he can while still standing up as he simply watches work.

“hmm..” you decided to humor him “ you did help a lot, i think i can give you a little more" you look at him from your shoulder just in time to catch his eyebrow raise as he registers what you said, a smirk playing on his lips when he does. he readjusts his head to look you in the eyes.

“yeah ?”

“mhm..” you hum. his grip tightens, his hands feel warmer.

“whaddya have in mind then, huh ?” he whispers. he’s so close and you can smell your body wash, probably because he keeps stealing it but you keep quiet about that for now.

“i dunno..” you trail off shyly, your confidence melting away under his smoldering gaze. “would…a smooch suffice ?” you giggle. he chuckles to himself at your choice of words. he grabs the back of your head softly, pulling you in closer until your noses brush against each other and he gives you a half hearted little nose kiss, you giggle and he smiles a little wider.

“s’a good start” he concludes before pressing his lips to yours.

[foxika]

I wonder if you'd mind taking a brief survey?

so i finally started severance. sleepy fox on his own below