#visit the artist's page

[zer0-thehero]

Which ship do you guys prefer and why?

Comment down below! :)

[birb-tangleblog]

I don't think I ever posted this? A washi tape commission of Adira from @/ten-shika ! 🍂✨

[janwixler]

there are only three types of aftg fanart

straight from cartoon network or a meme template

characters looking ready to be hired by a top modeling agency

Andrew and Neil

[crypticpuffin]

I hate browsing wikipedia. why am I just reading about some random english urban legend and it's the funniest shit ever

you'll never guess. who this fucking guide actually is. you'll never get this one

(and here's a completely different story. but also guest starring the guy himself)

is this canon for christians I need to know. is the devil canonically out there mowing random people's fields for the bit

[akkivee]

ichikuu haul 🤭

[marciaillust]

the way tumblr is trying to distance itself from being a blogging platform is fucking. infuriating!!

like do you not know this is your strength!!! I want to be able to visit other people’s pages that have been CUSTOM MADE for their purpose!!! ARTISTS HAVE LINKS AND TAGS FOR THEIR ART!!!  COMMUNITIES AND HELP/TUTORIAL BLOGS HAVE TAGS FOR SPECIFIC QUIERIES!!! WRITERS CAN LINK ME TO THEIR STORIES!!! IT HELPS BOTH THE POSTERS AND THE CONSUMERS TO MODERATE THE EXPERIENCE TO THEIR LIKING!!!!

SENDING PEOPLE TO THAT UNSLIGHTLY “BOARD” OF A “BLOG” THAT APPEARS NOW WHEN YOU CLICK THE NAME OF THE BLOG INSTEAD OF SENDING YOU TO THE ACTUAL BLOG IS SUCH A DUMBASS MOVE? IT DOESNT EVEN ALLOW LINKS!!! I CANT DO SHIT ON THERE!!! I CANT FIND WHAT IM THERE FOR!!!! IT MAKES ME NOT WANT TO USE IT!!!!

TUMBLR IS/USED TO BE THE MOST FLEXIBLE AND THAT WAS ITS BIGGEST MERIT!!! YOU HAVE ONE OF THE BEST TAGGING SYSTEMS AND YOU WONT LET ME USE IT TO ITS FULL POTENTIAL!!! 

YOU CAN FOSTER COMMUNITIES, YOU LET PEOPLE KEEP MULTIPLE SIDE BLOGS WITHOUT HAVING TO SIGN IN WITH A DIFFERENT EMAIL, YOU ALLOW VIDEOS AND AUDIO AND +4 PHOTOS PER POST!!!! TWITTER CANT HAVE THAT!! TIKTOK CANT HAVE THAT!! REDDIT CANT HAVE THAT!!! FACEBOOK CANT HAVE THAT!!!

IM SO SICK OF THIS TWITTERIFICATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[ferociouslycreativemystery]

En såndär bockjävel eller vad fan det heter

↳ sytråd och virknål 0,6 mm + bonus: biblically accurate julbock

Note: I moved this under a read more since donations can no longer be made here. Feel free to make some to a charity of your choice though!

Did you know it used to be the Christmas goat that brought you your presents in Sweden?

To keep the spirit alive, you can officially make a donation in the name of this little crochet goat to support everyone's right to survive their pregnancy! Just go to this link and follow these steps:

Please note that this collection only remains active until 15 Dec 2024! More information about the organisers can be found at the bottom of this post.

On the right hand side/top of the linked page, you can see the current sum of donations. Below that are some options we need to fill out to make a donation of our own.

First we need to disclose whether the donation is being made by a private individual (Privatperson) or a business (Företag). I'm assuming you're a private individual, so leave the first option selected (on the left).

Next we choose the method of payment. "Swish" is a Swedish payment service that won't work for foreigners, and if you're Swedish I'm assuming you already know how it works. Foreigners, please choose the second option to pay by card (Kort).

Now for the fun bit! How much do you want to donate? The standard options are presented in Swedish krona (kr). I have put the rough exchange rates to US dollars for each option below:

50 kr ≈ $4.56 | 100 kr ≈ $9.13 | 300 kr ≈ $27.38

You can convert from your currency to Swedish krona using this tool. Just choose your own currency in the first drop-down menu ("from").

In the final field you have the option to instead enter your own amount, if you want to give less or more or in between any of the previous options. Note that the amount you enter is in Swedish krona, so look up the exchange rates so that you know how much you are giving if you choose this option!!

The final two check boxes are options that relate to the public display of your donation (see the bottom of the page). If you don't check either option, your donation amount will be visible but your name will not be.

Check the first box if you want your name to show up in the public list of donations, leave it unchecked to remain anonymous. Check the second box if you want to hide the amount you've donated, leave it unchecked to show the world your donation amount.

Finally, hit the red button to be taken to the payment page. Fulfil the payment, and be sure to double check the amount you're donating. Note that we use commas instead of dots to separate decimals in Swedish, so 50,00 kr means simply 50 kr.

And that's it! Thank you so much for your donation!! 🥳🐐

Please reblog this post so that more people will hopefully donate, or at least get to enjoy a tiny Gävlebock!

What is this charity thing?

Musikhjälpen is an annual charity event organised by the Swedish public broadcasters. Every year in December, 3 hosts are locked in a glass cage for a week and they broadcast in shifts, nonstop for 144 hours (6 days, 24 hours per day) to create an occasion for charity donations. They are visited by various music artist, celebrities, and talk to people who have special knowledge about the donation theme of the year or who organise initiatives for donations. You can watch clips of previous performances on their youtube channel here.

The event's official donations website also allows the public to set up their own "initiatives", to which donations can be made. This is what I have done! The money goes directly to the event organisers (the public broadcasters' aid agency, Radiohjälpen), who then pool all the money that is collected during the week. After the week is done they will begin portioning it out to trusted charities that are relevant to this year's theme. This year's theme is Alla har rätt att överleva sin graviditet, or in English: Everyone Has a Right to Survive Their Pregnancy.

Learn more about musikhjälpen on English Wikipedia or on Sveriges radio's website (in Swedish).

Or

If you prefer, the goat will be just as happy if you make a donation to a charity of your choice. You'll have to find links to other causes on your own though! 😊

I should probably also mention that I am in no way officially affiliated with Gävlebocken, I just crocheted a little guy and thought it would be nice to spread some constructive spirit among all the calls for arson. 😇

[twitterdotcom]

There's an Izzy fanartist on twitter that goes by iynix, if I could make artwork half as beautiful as that person does ...

[techconnect2027]

Best tip for Midjourney_ChatGpt🤖🤖🤖 visit my page now and discover the best tips to use the full potential of A.I!!

linktr.ee/midjourneytricks

#art#digitalart#viral images#artist#woman#artificialintelligence#PromptBase#AIPrompting#MidJourney#Stickers#AIEngineer#ArtificialIntelligence#dalle#dalle2#ai#openai#generativeart#machinelearning#aiartcommunity#abstractart#aiartist#neuralart#contemporaryart#deepdream#artoftheday#nightcafestudio#modernart#neuralnetworkart#abstract#styletransfer

[skzdarlings]

the rescue ; skz; aotm!hyunjin x reader

original ask: requested by @tattywood: ❛ i'm simply enjoying the view. it's not every day i get to fuck someone so pretty. ❜ would 100000% fit Hyunjin 🩶 + requested by anonymous: ❛ you're mine, and i take care of what belongs to me. ❜ with hyunjin? thank you

pairing: hwang hyunjin/reader content info: artist of the month!hyunjin was inspo here. gangster stuff, reader has been kidnapped and is in a see through nightdress, most violence off page though, bad guy hyunjin who is actually a good guy, arranged marriage, multiple smut scenes, not great communication but gets better lol. smut includes fingering, blow jobs, pussy eating, piv, spanking, light choking, husband/wife kink. word count: 6300 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy! <3

-

“I’ve already explained,” you say, equal parts frustrated and exhausted.  “My husband isn’t coming for me.” 

The gangster cronies still don’t seem to understand.  You are tied to a chair in their basement (because they are preposterously corny goons, tying you up like a comically silly damsel in a ridiculous film) while they berate you for your husband’s tardiness.    

You have tried explaining, over and over, that Hyunjin is not coming, but they won’t accept that answer.  The fools try in vain to reach him again, but his line leads straight to a dial tone. 

He went radio silent after the initial video contact, when your captors demanded a price for your healthy return. 

Hyunjin was quiet on the call.  Your husband is a quiet man in general, though he knows how to use his charms and work a room, and he has certainly perfected the art of severe intimidation.  When your marriage was arranged, one mob family to the other, you mistakenly assumed you were marrying a monster. 

Hyunjin is very reserved when not conducting business.  He doesn’t engage in any of the more debauched sides of the business, unlike the men in your family.  Evenings at home are silent and still, the penthouse view of the glittering cityscape the only real bustle. 

Maybe that shouldn’t have surprised you.  When he took over his family’s business, Hyunjin altered a lot of their practices, cutting the crueler sectors, opting for illicit crimes of more practical varieties. 

The country is in a political chokehold, government affairs conducted none too differently from the criminal underworld.  The cops are all dirty, the politicians corrupt, the wealthy depraved.  Hyunjin has taken it upon himself to alleviate the pressure suffered by the regular people, the civilians who truly pay the price of a broken system.

In a world with no good guys, sometimes only villains can be heroes.    

You think of his face now, how he certainly looked the part of a villain on the video call.  Hyunjin has a very austere demeanour, exacerbated by his severe appearance: sharp marble features and dark, vicious eyes often further darkened with heavy lining, sleek black hair, scattered scars and tattoos, and the sort of regard that judges at a glance.  He is young, but he has the air of a man who has already traversed the universe and found it wanting.       

You think of his face now, the silent perusal he gave your bound body on that video call.  You are dressed in your favourite nightgown, your underthings partially visible through the light material, but it was not willingly donned.   At the time of your kidnapping, you were attired appropriately for the wealthy wife of a famous gangster.  You were returning from a family visit when your captors intercepted you in transit from the airport. 

Either to intimidate or threaten or just because they could, they made you remove all your jewelry and fine clothes.  They rifled through your luggage and demanded you change into the nightgown. 

Hyunjin recognized the nightdress, realized you must have been stripped, and likely inferred the very worst. 

“Address,” was the only word Hyunjin said.   He ended the call seconds later.    

“Oh, he’ll come,” your captor says.  He points at you with a hand that feels more threatening than a knife.  It makes your terrified heart leap into your throat.  “Or else.” 

“He won’t, though!” you exclaim.  “You’re wasting your time!”

They are not listening.  They leave the basement, slamming the door behind them.

You huff and settle back in your bonds. 

It is only a matter of time before they realize you are telling the truth.  Hyunjin will not waste the money or resources to rescue you.  He has always been respectful of the marriage arrangement, but your husband is not sentimental.  There is a professional distance between you.  His decision will be based in the logic of all his strategies: nothing personal, just a matter of business. 

You sometimes see a different side of him, something buried under that quiet intensity.  He collects fine art and spends hours poring over his favourite pieces, listening to music, losing himself to artistic fantasies.  He always comes back, but you know there are other worlds in his mind. 

Every attempt to bridge the gap has been gently rebuffed, but there have been moments when your husband seems curious about you.  You often catch him staring.  He gets a wistful look that softens his face, even with that shield of make-up.  His eyes are gentle when you talk about your passions.  You never let his quietude deter your friendly penchant for chatter.   He seems more than content to listen.  He remembers everything too. 

You know he finds you attractive, if nothing else.  He has caved on that front several times over, though not right away.  He didn’t touch you on the wedding night, nor the honeymoon.  He left your beach holiday early to return to business, leaving you in a villa with security and his credit card.  It was the first time you realized the material world was no replacement for true companionship.  You missed his dark eyes.

Your family also had expectations.  There would be consequences if the marriage fell through.  You would be blamed, not him.  Worried he would renege on the nuptials, you did everything to try and seduce him. 

He politely rejected you at every turn. 

Just when you were resigned, he arrived home after a job.  It was almost three in the morning when he entered the penthouse.  You have separate bedrooms but they share a connecting bathroom.  You could hear him cursing above the running water. 

You only meant to peek.  The sliding door on your side was partially ajar so you tip-toed over. 

Hyunjin was standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, pressing a rag to his wounded shoulder.  There was a mess of blood streaked down his back, making you gasp at the terrible mosaic of pain, his body littered with violent scars. 

That gasp contained multitudes, for the horror, for his beauty.  His dark eyes were as severely lined as ever, expression intense as he breathed hard through the pain.  Smooth black hair fell across his face when he tipped his head. 

He froze at the sound of your gasp.  His turn was very slow, eyes peeking through the curtain of his short hair.  They captured yours.   

You held your breath. 

Eventually, he straightened, flicking his hair out of his face.  He looked in the mirror and sighed.    

“You can come in,” he said.   “This is your home too.” 

You slid the door open, just enough to squeeze through.  Your attention was utterly transfixed on his bleeding shoulder.  You could see the wound was a thin stripe.  It was not deep so stitches were not necessary, but it was slightly out of his reach as it sloped towards his back.

“Oh, Hyunjin,” you said, thoughtlessly taking the rag right out of his hands.    

In spite of the violence that raised you, or maybe because of it, you can’t stand to see suffering.   You and Hyunjin have had that in common from the start.  You were quick to help him clean the wound, wordlessly wiping all the blood then applying cream across the clotted cut. 

He flinched when the stinging cream made contact.  You went to apologize but your words evaporated when your eyes met through the mirror.  You were surprised to find him already looking at you, that expressive gaze as thoughtful as ever. 

“How did this happen?” you couldn’t help but ask, eyes rivetted to his reflection.   “You – you have people to protect you.”  You managed to rip your gaze away, looking at your task, feeling hot in the face. 

“I do,” he said.  “But I’d never ask someone to do something I’m not willing to do myself.” 

This did not surprise you to hear.   It is obvious that Hyunjin cares very deeply about the wellbeing of other people.  It is a fact known to few.  It aggravates you at times, but his reputation does not seem to bother him.  He would rather people think him a monster while he secretly does good rather than be praised in public while cruel in private. 

You have never known another man like him.  Looking at that scar that night, the realization truly struck you. 

Your fingers began to tremble where they brushed his bare skin, your eyes widening as you looked at the scar and many others.  If something happened to him, what would become of you?  Certainly, as his widow, you would be financially sound, but what did that matter?  This world would lose something irreplaceable if it lost Hwang Hyunjin.  This penthouse could be brimming with silver and gold and it would be empty, worthless. 

Tears in your eyes, you succumbed to desire, kissing him very gently on his hurt shoulder. 

“Hyunjin,” you said, your eyes closed, lips grazing his skin as you spoke.  “Please make sure you always come home, okay?” 

He did not answer at first.  When you lifted your eyes and looked in the mirror, those dark eyes were so enflamed that you were surprised nothing caught fire. 

“Hyunjin?” you said softly.   

“You mean that,” he said, not quite a question, more like a realization. 

“Of course,” you replied. You looked at his scarred back again, let your fingertips brush down the length of his spine.  It made him stand a little straighter.  “Have you ever known me to lie?” you asked. 

He finally turned around, looking at you with an long-engrained wariness, but also a hunger.  He was a starving man presented with a banquet, but one who did not easily trust when sitting at someone else’s table. 

“You’re a smart woman,” he said.  “I know that.  And I know that you’re – good.” 

Good was an exhale, like the word was too heavy for his tongue.  You realized that his wariness was less suspicion for you than hesitation regarding himself.  He was only starving because he though himself undeserving of the meal he wanted. 

“You’ve seen – and done – many bad things tonight, haven’t you?” you asked. 

Having the full force of his gaze was overwhelmingly heady.  You remember how it made your heart race like you were being chased, your breath catching over and over until you were almost panting. 

Arousal struck quickly, a sensation like you never experienced before.  You thought you understood attraction, but not until that moment when he released a breath, so close to your face, and you became truly aware of his proximity.   Of him, of all that he was, all that he did.  His character, his hidden depths.

Your husband. 

It made your racing heart thunder something fierce, your blood pumping hotly, throbbing places you did not know were so sensitive. 

You desperately wondered what was on his mind.  The gears in his head were spinning and whirring, delaying his response.  Was he feeling the same tension?  Were his thoughts the same realization?

 My wife.  

“Yes,” he finally said. 

“Is there something I can do to help?” you asked.

His tattooed hand cupped your head, tilting it just so.  It made your lips part with a gasp, eyelids heavy with anticipation for a kiss. 

He took his time looking at you, like he was scrubbing all those bad memories away, replacing them with the flustered look on his aroused wife’s face. 

“Yes,” he said again, and kissed you for the first time. 

You were so glad he rebuffed your previous half-hearted advances, clumsy seductions made out of obligation rather than desire.  It was so different to that kiss.  You would not have known how to even ask for a kiss like that.  You never knew what you were missing. 

Your quiet husband and his multitudes.  All that simmering intensity, hot just below the surface of his icy demeanour, burned right through his skin.  His kiss was ravishing, entirely possessive, like he wished to take your whole essence into him and hold it forever. 

He walked you backwards.  With a snap of his wrist, he slid the door open the rest of the way, so sharp that it tried to bounce back.  He continued onward, kissing you until you were dizzy with it.   

He picked you up just to put you on the bed himself.  Your kiss separated only then as you landed with a bounce and a breath. 

He loomed over the edge of the bed, this man who was both stranger and husband, hero and villain.   He looked at you like he already loved you.  He looked at you and saw the reciprocation.  You had fallen for him without realizing you had ever even stumbled. 

He ran his hands through his hair, the sleek black locks fluttering back into place.  His eyes were still rivetted to your face, to your body.  You were wearing the nightdress you are wearing now.  It is why it became your favourite. 

He looked down at you, the material translucent enough to see the details of your body.   It broke through that last layer of ice.  He surrendered with a choked breath. 

He unclasped a holster on his thigh, dropped a knife that was hidden in a pocket.   Once unarmed, his hands went to his belt.  You watched those nimble, efficient fingers, swallowing hard.   You were aching to an embarrassing degree, undoubtedly obvious in your desires.  No one ever warned you it would feel like this, just being looked at, never mind touched.

Then his belt was on the floor and he touchedyou for real.   His calloused hands moved up your thighs, pushing the nightdress up and out of his way.  He climbed on top of you, swift as a feline, mouth descending onto yours with that same desperate hunger as before. 

Recollection makes you crave another kiss.   You think you will always be starving for more. 

“Hyunjin,” you whispered, hands on his face, his shoulders, down to his chest. 

He took your hands and laced your fingers with his, pinning those hands to the bed.   He kissed you again, long and slow.  It was all more sensual than desperate.

His voice, however, was desperate when he begged, “Let me make you feel good, please.”  He kissed down your face, your jaw, your throat.  “Please, my wife.”  He kissed further down still, through your nightdress, tracing the curve of your breast with his tongue, wetting the material and awakening every nerve beneath it.   “My wife,” he repeated. 

“My husband.”  The words left your lips in a dizzy, delirious whisper.   

It was all the confirmation he needed.  Those deft and skilled hands, so quick to assemble weapons and pull triggers, applied themselves with a startling gentleness.  He took you apart and put you together with the same efficient ease.   

He hooked his fingers in the only material between him and his desire, tugged it out of his way.  His fingers went to you, slipping through all that wetness.  Those intense eyes rolled back even though it was just his fingers inside you, then he closed his eyes like it was too much, and it seemed he had to temper himself, murmuring nonsense as he let his fingers sink into you. 

He kissed you again, drinking down every sigh and gasp and moan while he fucked you with his long fingers.  It was like he could taste your pleasure, like he was trying to get drunk on it, every noise you made filling his mouth.  He gave them back and brought you over a peak, first with his hands, then with his mouth.  He laid between your legs and put your thighs around his head, losing himself entirely in you. 

He did not remove a single article of your clothing nor his pants, not that first time.  He simply held the material to the side as he unzipped and finally got inside you.  It made your whole body keen, coming to life like it never had before.  You forgot all your sensibilities and let every wanton sound and action loose.

He responded in kind.  His kiss tasted like your pleasure, his heart pounding as fast as yours where your chests pressed together.  You were careful near his injured shoulder, fingertips dodging scars.  Your soft touch made him whimper, this powerful man entirely undone by a few caresses. 

His skin was hot and he worked up a sweat, but his stamina seemed endless.  He always wanted more. 

You fell asleep tucked in his arms, content to believe the walls had crumbled.   However, they revealed themselves in the morning light, as concrete as ever.  He slipped away and left a note to excuse his absence as he was called away to business.   You thought about phoning or messaging him, but those lines were not always secure, not for such intimate conversations. 

When he returned a few days later, he hid behind those concrete walls, but too much had changed.  There was now an awareness of your proximity and your distance.  The lack of intimacy was not called into question before, the absence of something being a nothing.  But now that nothing was something, or had been something for a moment, and it made you both very aware of how it was now missing – and anticipating always when it might again appear.

He tried very hard to keep away, to stay cordial at best, his habitual quietude even heavier than before.  But while his silence was significant, so was his glance.  Every time you turned around, he was already looking at you, a longing in his eyes and a thought on his lips that he never dared to speak aloud. 

You granted him some distance for a time.  When it became abundantly obvious he was holding himself in check, you realized that your own vulnerability was required to bridge the gap. 

One night you crossed through the bathroom, slid open the door on his side.  You found him at his desk, dressed down in a white dress shirt and pants.  His blazer was discarded on the floor, his face still made up. 

He stood quickly when you entered, though he didn’t say anything. 

It was strange to imagine this man would need any reassurance, but you felt that was the case.   His fingers fidgeted at his sides, his roving eyes studious.

You said nothing.  You approached him, laid your hands on his chest, and gently guided him back into his chair.  He sat slowly, his eyes on your face the entire time, even when he had to tip his head back to peer up at you. 

You ran your fingers through his hair.  When you entered the room, his face was tightly screwed in an expression of aggravation, but all those harsh lines softened as you traced a thumb down the sharp slope of his cheek. 

There were some wipes on his desk.  You took one and began to carefully remove that shield of dark make-up.  His hand lifted but not to stop you, simply to rest his palm on your waist.  He began to really touch you, feeling the shape of your body through your robe as you helped him come back to himself. 

“Hello,” you finally said, looking at his bare face.  Still impossibly beautiful.

“Hello,” he replied. 

His fingertips dipped towards the hem of the robe.  Before he could distract you with your own pleasure, you sunk to your knees in front of him.  This startled him, his hand frozen in the air as you fit yourself between his open knees. 

He caught your hand, his reflexes fast, before it could reach his fly.   You could see he was already affected, a heavy bulge in the black material making your mouth water and core tighten. 

He squeezed your hand and you looked up at his face.   He tipped his head, blinked rapidly, an expression of mild confusion.

You took your hand back and unknotted your robe.  The silk fell from your shoulders and down, sliding like water right off your body.  You were completedly naked underneath. 

It clarified everything, his confusion gone, replaced with surprise.

“You—” he began.  It was interrupted when you put your head in his lap, resting on his thigh.  You led his hand to the back of your neck and kissed him through his pants.  It made his fingers clasp tighter around you.  

“Please,” you said. 

He would never deny you anything.  Not the smallest gift nor grandest gesture.  When you started a new charity to further your combined philanthropic efforts, he spared no expense in aiding the endeavour.  You shared passions, and now you shared this.

He was stiff at the start, but gradually let himself go lax in his seat.  His hand kept a steady grip on the back of your neck, not guiding but holding, like he thought you might disappear otherwise.  He murmured your name, letting his head fall back as you worked him in your mouth. 

You intended to make him finish like that, seeking nothing for yourself at that precise moment.  He had other ideas, needing more of your shared pleasure to take him over that brink. 

He lifted your face, adjusted his pants, and was on his feet in a matter of seconds.  That hand on your neck dragged you up, up, up until your naked body was pressed against his clothed one.  He clung to you needily, claiming your mouth in a wanting kiss. 

His hands moved over you, every new inch of skin making him moan as he walked you towards the bed.  The kiss only broke when you both sat down, his lips against yours as he breathed, almost smiling, “My pretty wife.”

“Hyunjin,” you said, shaking your head, feeling suddenly shy just because of a simple compliment. 

He did not allow you to curl into yourself with any shame.  When you tried, he seized you, pulling you onto his lap so you straddled it.   His eyes moved up and down your body, hands following, from your thighs to hips to waist and up. 

 “What are you doing?” you said, laughing helplessly when he kissed somewhere ticklish on your throat.  The sound made him smile, even softer than before, though it turned a little wicked as his mouth went lower. 

“I’m simply enjoying the view,” he said, then wrapped his lips around the stiff peak of your breast, ran his tongue up and over.  He licked and kissed back up to your mouth.   “It’s not everyday I get to fuck someone so pretty.” 

As he said this, he opened his pants again, eyes on yours as he grabbed your thighs and moved you so he could thrust up into you.  His hips moved with a slow roll, letting you adjust to him.  It had been a little while, and this angle was different.

And Hyunjin is not small.  Your husband is built in perfect proportion, his body a long, hard, slender build – everything inside you at that moment was no exception.   This angle made you whimper, clinging to him like  he was a life preserver in a storm.  The roll of his hips kept coming like waves and you were sure you would drown otherwise. 

Your arms were around his neck, his graceful but strong hands digging into the meat of your thighs as he fucked you.  He felt impossibly deep, every upward stroke feeling like it was bursting past something, pushing everything inside your body up to your throat. 

You swallowed again and again, the taste of him still on your lips, the feel of him inside every inch of you.  You clenched and tightened involuntarily, just pure animal reaction, and it made him moan and find all those sweet spots to make it happen again.    

“Help,” was your somewhat nonsensical request, blurted in the midst of some moaning babbling.

Fortunately, he was and is a smart man.  He understood.  He clasped you tight to his body and fell back on the bed, thrusting up into you with sharper, more focussed determination, faster until you were weeping on his chest, delirious with pleasure.  His shirt was unbuttoned and you accidentally ripped a few buttons right off, trying to press your face to bare skin. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you said as you tumbled over a height you never reached before.  You never knew you could come just from that, stimulated somewhere so deep inside you, but it made you come undone in his arms. 

He watched you unravel and it made him follow, clinging to you as he just barely pulled out before coming between your dripping thighs.  It was all so messy and wet, your legs trembling, but it felt so good that it hardly mattered. 

He caught his breath, then looked at your face just lose that breath again.  He moaned and dragged you in for another kiss.

Then you were on your back, the night far from over. 

That second night is the one that truly opened the door to more.  Though your husband can be reticent in other regards, he is not quiet when he is inside you.  You have come together again and again, a conversation with your bodies as you look for pleasure in a dangerous world.   You always find it, tucked in the protective circle of his arms, wrapped around every inch of him. 

You have been out of his arms for too long.  Your visit to your family grew tedious before long.  Your home is with Hyunjin now and you were eager to return. 

Now it seems you may never see it again.  You may never see him again. 

No.

Just like the night when you took control for yourself, you must take control now.  You realize if anything is to happen, then you must take the reins of your own rescue.  You would not want Hyunjin to compromise himself or his important business.  You know if something bad happened to you, it would weigh on his conscious, even if it was the better business decision.  You must eliminate the need for choice. 

It turns out, comical rope bindings are truly best suited for silly movies.  When the men come to check on you again, you have slipped free of your bindings.  There was an array of weapons in the room, so carelessly disposed because the assailants never assumed you would get free – or, if you did get free, that you would not know how to use them. 

It is true, you do not like violence. 

That does not mean you do not understand it. 

You leave the two men unconscious in their basement.  Unfortunately, you cannot find your suitcase and you do not want to hang around, so you venture outside in your nightgown.  You are debating your next move when a car pulls into the driveway. 

You back away quickly, raising the gun you stole as more men get out of the vehicle.  You only stay your hand because you recognize one of them, though it takes a second to place him as one of Hyunjin’s lieutenants. 

Then Hyunjin emerges.   You have seen your husband before and after a confrontation, but never during it.  If you thought he was an intimidating figure in the aftermath, he is all danger and darkness as he storms up the driveway now.   There is such an energy radiating from him, it makes you stumble and forget yourself entirely. 

Then he stumbles, recognizing you.  You are both startled, staring at each other with the gun raised between you. 

He looks nowhere but your eyes. 

“Hyunjin?” you finally say. 

“I—”  He looks at you, the gun, the nightdress.  He shakes his head.  Some of that bravado returns when he says, “I’m here to save you.”

“Ah,” you say.  You slowly lower the gun, at a loss how to reply.  You were so resigned to the idea this was all still business.  The reality of your husband risking himself to rescue you from unknown hostiles is making your heart pound.  

In the end, all you can think to say is, “Sorry.  You’re late.” 

That wicked smile crosses his face, his tongue pushing at the corner of his mouth.  He is suddenly nothing but amused, looking at you, then at the house.

“I can see that,” he says. 

He whistles sharply and gestures to the house with a gloved hand.  His lieutenants run past you and charge the door, no doubt heading inside to finish the job you started.        

You turn to watch them go.  In your distraction, Hyunjin grabs your arm.  He is fast, effectively disarming you.  He catches the gun with a twirl before tossing it aside.

It is not the gun he wants; it’s you.

Still holding your wrist, he tugs you into him.  You throw your arms around him.  The hug is surprisingly chaste, his face in your neck as he squeezes you like it is the only thing keeping him alive and standing.

“Are you hurt?” he asks. 

When in his arms, it seems impossible to consider you could ever feel any pain. 

You shake your head, daring to kiss his cheek.  He turns his face to yours, your lips close enough to brush in a swipe. 

“I’m all right now,” you say.  “Sorry I beat you to the punch.  I – I wasn’t sure if—”

His brow crinkles.  That gloved hand goes from your wrist to your chin, seizing it between thumb and forefinger.  He tips your head so he can look at your face.  He always regards you like he does one of his masterpieces, like he can never get his fill, like there is always something new to find.  He is enchanted every time. 

“You’re mine,” he says.  “And I take care of what belongs to me.” 

You gasp when those fingers go from your chin to your throat, just enough to pull you in that last breath of a space.  He kisses you there in the sunlight, utterly shameless. 

“Do not ever doubt that,” he says.  His eyes are soft with his affection, but his voice is hard, skirting the edge of a threat he would issue an adversary.  It makes you tingle from head to toe.  “Do I need to remind you?” 

You never actually answer.  You are not sure if your answer would have made a difference, as Hyunjin is determined to show you the very second you are home. 

You reach the penthouse. There is no time to shower or decompress once you cross the threshhold.  He sweeps you off your feet, your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist.  You are wearing his blazer over your nightdress to preserve your modesty – not that it will last long.

He carries you to the bedroom where so many slow and subtle exchanges took place.  Now, he is not slow or subtle.  He is a force of nature.   He tells you that he held no greater fear than losing you and he tried to keep his distance, but he regretted it the moment he saw you on that video call. 

“You’re my wife,” he says, peeling his blazer off your body.  “I’m your husband.  There is nothing I should be holding back.” 

“Yes,” you say, running your fingers through that smooth black hair.  You shiver as he bunches the fabric of your nightdress, the material spilling over his fingers.   “Don’t hold back,” you say, mouth open against his, stealing his every breath.   “Do whatever you want.” 

He tells you exactly what he wants, using his words for a change, finally letting those walls come down.  He whispers every filthy thought into your ear, between kisses, between bites.   You shiver at every suggestion. 

And so, moments later, he is sitting on your bed.  He arranges you to lay across his lap, facedown in the pillows while he runs his hands down your spine and over the curve of your ass. 

“You’re my wife,” he says.  The first tap of his open palm is through the thin material of your nightdress.  It is truly just a warning tap, just enough to make you bounce.  “Don’t ever doubt me again,” he says, swinging that strong hand a little harder.  

This time a yelp escapes your lips.  You wriggle until he pins you down, a hand on the back of your neck and the other lifting your dress.   He already stripped your underthings, his open palm smoothing down all that bare skin.  

You tingle with anticipation, braced yet still unprepared for the sharp smack he next delivers.  You feel it tingle all the way up to your head, as well as the next one, and the next.   You squirm under his firm grip, groaning his name as your thighs get tense and press together. 

“Don’t say my name,” he says, and smacks you again.  “Who am I?”

“M-my husband,” you say, practically mewling like a kitten when he next brings his hand down.  “My husband,” you say again. 

“And you are—”

“Your wife,” you say, though it comes out almost like a sob, a desperate gasp as he slips his fingers between your thighs and finds a new way to torture you.   With your backside hot and stinging, the pleasure of his hand in that sensitive place feels amplified by a tenfold. 

“Husband,” you say, hips bucking.  His free hand goes from the back of your neck to your lower spine, holding you in his lap as he slowly finger-fucks you.

“Yes?” he says.

You do not even remember what you were going to say, or beg, or plead.  You are overcome with sensation, tingling all over, intensifying the press of his fingers as he curls his fingers into that soft, soft place.  Then you are really squirming, helplessly, instinctively, whining into the pillows. 

“I make you feel good,” he says.  “I take care of you.  You, who are so good, and so smart, but so—”

You cry out when he angles his hand just a little differently.  Your vision swims with stars as he speeds up. 

“So soft,” he says, his own voice going soft, just a whisper as he makes you come all over his hand in a throbbing, aching, desperate wet mess.  “Just for me,” he says in that whisper.  “Just for your husband.” 

“Mmmf,” is all the response you have left in you. 

Your thighs are trembling and your pussy throbbing with aftershocks when he picks you up.  He stands and turns, laying you on your side in the bed.  You are grateful, as your backside still stings, though you suspect he is not done yet.

He strips out of his clothes, tearing through his shirt, leaving the pants in a heap.  He forgets to remove his necklace.  All that silver is cold against your hot skin as he lays down behind you.   You do not have time to linger on it, as he gathers up the hem of your dress and adjusts himself behind you. 

He has taken you many times, in many ways, many positions.   When you are on your hands and knees, he is overtaken by a primal urge, your hips as leverage in his hands as he pounds into you like it is a chase.   When you are on your back, he sinks into you slowly and deeply, rocking his hips into yours like he intends to fuck you forever.  When you are in his lap, he rolls his hips in steady, needy waves, captivated by the sight of you in his arms. 

He lays behind you now and wraps his arms around you, coaxes your thighs apart.  Your nightdress is bunched every which way, leaving nothing to the imagination, and you feel especially exposed and vulnerable in this position somehow.  Perhaps it is the fact he is the one holding you open, keeping you in position so he can take you.

You let yourself fall into it, fall into him.  You let him tell you, with words and actions, exactly how he feels. 

Before it ends, you change position.  He lays back and you straddle his hips while stripping off your dress entirely.  He keeps rolling up into you, only stopping when you plant your hands on his chest to slow him down.  Then he practically sinks in the mattress, murmuring your name.  His make-up is smudged, his calloused hands rough on your body.  Whatever pains you experienced have been overtaken by his hands, by the smarting on your backside, still tender as you bring your body down onto his again and again.  He has completely claimed you for himself and you take the same in turn. 

“Hyunjin,” you say.  “My husband, oh—”

He kisses your hand, long and hard, like he needs his mouth on some part of you desperately.  Your fingers are curled into his pretty mouth when he comes, his hands on your hips and his cock buried inside you. 

“Oh,” is your final sound before you slump on top of him, skin to skin. 

He rolls you onto your side, though he keeps you wrapped around him, his arms around you in turn.  His hair is already a sweaty mess and you rub your thumb through some of his shadowy make-up, but those familiar dark eyes are gazing at you with so much warmth.   There is no more ice, no more cold concrete. 

“I should let you rescue me more often,” you say with a laugh. 

He doesn’t laugh back, but he does smile softly.  It should be incongruous with his severe appearance, but it somehow comes together, layers of him exposed all at once as he strokes your cheek.

He looks at you like his favourite work of art. 

“You were the one who rescued you,” he says.   “Just like you rescued me.” 

You cannot find the words to reply, so you kiss him.  It speaks volumes, and he replies, kissing back. 

You lose yourself to the sweetness, to the heat, to the passion, to all those things more, knowing there are many more to come with this man as your husband. 

[obsessive-valentine]

Yandere Artist x GN!Maid-Reader

Julian (or Jules as you nickname him), an esteemed artist in Victorian society, becomes captivated by a forgotten maid who moves through life unnoticed by others. Obsessed with finding ways to capture the adoration he has for you on canvas.

You’d been a maid at the gallery Julian visited, and the reason he returned over and over. He, a man of great status, an esteemed artist too, became drawn to you beyond his own understanding.

On one of Julian’s many visits, he found the courage to speak to you. "You work so hard, yet make it look as graceful as a dance", he murmured, his voice soft but sincere. You were startled—maids weren't meant to be noticed by men of his status. But Julian wasn’t like the others.

It was only after weeks of shared glances, whispered conversation and quiet sketches that Julian dared to ask you for more.

Losing sleep over the way you made him feel, emotions so deep and unexplainable he began going mad over trying to express it. His current models and pieces of art just weren't good enough compared to you and the way you make him feel.

A type of suffocating love he never thought could exist.

“Forgive me for being so forward,” he said, his voice gentle and earnest. “I understand this may come as a shock, but if you’d allow me, I would be honoured if you would be my muse."

Though you were hesitant to overstep and cause a scandal, he promised you everything you could want if you were to only be his muse, he’d give you a place to stay and all you could ask for, you wouldn’t have to be a maid anymore. But then being his muse, turned into friendship, then lovers.

He fell in love with how you so effortlessly inspired his work -but fell harder for how you grounded him as a person. Smitten by the little things- your soft laughter, the gentle way you spoke. He loved the small gestures you made without thinking, the way you’d hum as you worked. He'd notice it all.

While initially hesitant from the intensity of not being spared a glance to having a man tripping over himself at the sight of you -you grew to enjoy his presence. The idea of being someone who inspires him, someone who is at the centre of his world. After living your whole life in the shadows.

...

Many hours a week are sat in his study as he paints you, his work taking on a new life, new meaning that only makes it so much more beautiful.

Julian loves to draw you absentmindedly—it’s almost like an instinct, something that he can't stop even when he's lost in thought. He has many books filled with fast sketches that are almost abstract that he scribbles without even looking at the page, to incredibly detailed sketches that almost look like photos.

Parts of your day are recorded in those books like his own form of videoing you. Some are so attentive they could be made into a seamless stop motion.

Sometimes he even finds himself sitting on the bathroom floor as you bathe, talking to you as he once again absent-mindedly draws. finding inspiration for his next piece.

He’s obsessed with the little details. He gets lost in those details, and every sketch is a desperate attempt to capture your essence. But not necessarily just when he’s drawing either.

When he’s not drawing, Julian traces his fingers over your skin studying every part of you.

His love language is physical touch, though it’s always gentle and respectful. Gently running his fingers through your hair or resting a hand possessively on your waist.

But that doesn't mean he lacks in the other 4 departments. Like how he loves to whisper to you just how much you mean to him.

His feelings for you are intense, to the point of worship, though he doesn’t fully realise how deep his obsession runs, he doesn't do anything to correct it either.

Sometimes that can be overwhelming for you, especially going from such an ignored life to one in a lovely house, a handsome gentleman of a husband and the title of being a muse.

But you can't bring yourself to make him stop, he’s Prince Charming in your eyes.

You don’t see the way he glares or scowls at men who dare talk to you when you accompany him to town or an event. Or how he makes borderline cruel verbal jabs to women who try to take his attention from you even for a moment.

[myfriendgoo94]

Am i sexy yet? :3

Visit my OF page if you think so 😜

[itaipava]

— charles leclerc being a simp for you.

he quietly learns your routine and tastes: your coffee orders, your favorite comfort food, and even the little things that brighten your day. when you’re too busy or stressed, he’s there with your favorite things, making your day easier without needing to be asked.

he follows the release dates of your favorite authors or artists, always surprising you with a new book, song, or art. sometimes he leaves it on your doorstep with a little note, so it feels magical when you find it.

he makes a physical or digital “map” of places you’ve mentioned you’d like to visit or things you want to do, like hike a specific trail, try a new restaurant, or visit a certain country. little by little, he plans little trips to check off items on your list and make your dreams come true, surprising you with spontaneous and memorable adventures.

whenever you say something funny, inspiring, or deeply personal, he writes it down. over time, he creates a little book of “quotes of you” that he can look back on, remembering all the unique things that made him fall in love even more with you.

every week, he sends you flowers or with a handwritten note. he never signs his name, leaving it as a “secret admirer” gesture, which adds mystery. even though you know he’s the one sending them, he never admits it. sometimes even joking around like, “what beautiful flowers! who gave them to you? a secret admirer?”

he creates different spotify playlists based on your mood — one for when you’re happy, one for when you’re sad, one for when you’re feeling nostalgic. each playlist is filled with songs that resonate with your emotions, showing that he really pays attention to you and uses music to demonstrate his love and care for you.

whether it’s a specific recipe you love or a new hobby you’re interested in, he dives into learning to surprise you. one day, he’ll show up with a homemade version of your favorite dish or casually mention that he tried that new hobby you’re obsessed with. he loves to participate in your hobbies and share the same emotions and ideas with you.

he has a scrapbook of all your best memories together, including date night tickets, photos, and little memories. it’s a visual journey of your relationship that he updates with new pages as you continue to make memories.

one night, he’ll take you stargazing, showing you a custom star map he commissioned that shows the exact sky from the night you met, your first kiss, or another significant event. it’s a physical reminder of your history together and how the stars have witnessed your love.

he notices what makes you feel better when you’re feeling down or stressed, whether it’s a specific movie, hot chocolate, or a fluffy blanket. when you need a pick-me-up, he’ll quietly set up your favorite “comfort zone” with everything you love to help you relax.

[sashayed]

My best friend who died for no reason would have been 40 today. I think when people die it's tempting to make them into saints, which he certainly wasn't, but without exaggerating his qualities he was and is one of my favorite people, and if you met him i think he would've been one of yours. He was my favorite for a lot of reasons I can't imitate or match -- his intelligence, his kindness, his patience, his artistic daring. But he was also my favorite because he was interested in and curious about so many things, particularly other people, and that is something I or anyone can emulate, which is why Sept. 20 is my personal Curious About Someone Else's Area of Interest Day! In honor of my dead friend I would love for you to tell me something you are learning or doing that's taking up space in your brain. Are you learning a new language, did you write six pages of a novel, did you try linocut (!), are you studying gene expression, do you have a new pet lizard, did you visit an arboretum? I would love to hear about it. and so would your friends probably even if you think they wouldn't. before my friend died i loved hearing him talk about dramaturgy and would've loved to listen to him do it for 24 straight hours, even though i always made fun of him for having a pretentious job. i wish i had 10000 more conversations to remember about this thing he loved.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hi! :) mayhaps can i request your HC's for viktor x an artist reader. 👉👈 ur angst drabbles have been sustaining my life since season 2

There’s a saying that if an artist loves you or falls in love with you, you can never die.

A saying that Viktor didn’t give much thought until it was very clear that he was your forever muse, your reason to keeping your passion alive through experimenting art styles to maximise the effect you wanted your art to have; almost in the exact same way a scientist would conduct experiments in order to understand how something works and how to properly utilise it.

However each and every one of your art works came out looking like masterpieces that should and probably would be studied by future artists themselves one day, given how beautiful they were.

But also because they all included a man with amber eyes and soft chocolate hair hard at work with his own projects as blue sparks are captured liked shooting stars flying past his beautiful face. He truly was a once in a lifetime experience that you wanted to eternally capture within the pages of your sketchbook.

It literally didn’t matter what he did, whether it was tinkering, experimenting with the hexcore or just simply existing, you wanted to capture as much of Viktor as you possibly can whenever you can.

Viktor, in your eyes, was the kind of man people would kill to create sculptures of and artworks that would be seen in grand museums, within a beautifully intricate frame that only added emphasise to his importance to the artist in question. The artist being you of course.

So needless to say whenever you were with Viktor you made sure to have your sketchbook and pencils in hand as you knew that you’d end up wanting to sketch him for the millionth time that day.

However your favourite sketch of him came when you made him smile, genuinely smile.

The image of his bright and handsome smile was all you could see for hours on end as you found yourself absentmindedly sketching his face, his smile, the wrinkles near his eyes and his wind ruffled hair to perfection.

You then found yourself staring at it as though reliving the moment where you heard his laugh reach your ears like a harmonious melody, swept upon the wind that ruffled his hair and into your ears and your ears only.

To be loved by an artist was to be seen and you saw Viktor in a way that nobody else could, not even himself, and it showed in your work as you made him look like an angel disguised as a human given how frequently you used the colour gold whenever you drew him. From his eyes, to his clothes, everything with Viktor had hints of gold to it.

So much so that you had to get more colouring pencils of the exact same shade of gold so frequently that the manger of the art shop knew your name and the muse of your latest works at this point.

‘Drawing Viktor again I see?’ They’d teasingly ask as you’d shrug your shoulders.

‘Guilty as charged.’ You would reply before taking your things and leaving.

Viktor didn’t pry into your sketchbook, it was your belonging and he didn’t feel it was necessary for him to pry into it, but his curiosity didn’t help him one day as he found himself drawn to the sketchbook that you seemed to had left in his lab.

The first few pages were merely parts of the academy that you frequently visited, from the gardens, to the library, to even the lab he was stood in. Each one was increasingly more impressive than the last with how lifelike you made each one as though he could fall into the scene you had created; a true testament to your talent, creativity and insane attention to detail.

However the further the sketchbook went, he could easily see a decline in inspiration in your art. only for it to pick back up again when you had started drawing him doing the most mundane of things -at least in his mind he thought so- as simple sketches to portraits solely done by oil pastels or only colouring pencils. All just to emphasise his features and the concentrated furrows of his brows, a large variation of colours you’ve used so effortlessly to make up his face in a way that he could never imagine.

And yet Viktor found that there was more artworks of yours regarding him, artworks that seemingly continued endlessly and were just as hyper detailed and colourful as the more of himself that he saw, each one touching his heart in a way that made him realise that this was how you genuinely saw him; an angel in human skin as the way you depicted him was either simply human or an ethereal being coated in various shades of gold.

Through the eyes of an artist, through the eyes of you, Viktor knew that you only conveyed what you believed to be true and the fact that you saw him in such a way was enough to have him struggling to breath, but in the best way possible.

You way you saw him transcended beyond the person he saw each and every day in the mirror. You saw him as a man of infinite beauty, wisdom and strength in a multitude of ways while never shying away when it came to his leg nor disease.

If anything you made those parts of him stand out the most in a way that told him that you found these parts of him a strength and perfection in your eyes. Telling him that you didn’t wish him to be anything other then himself, for he was perfect and so much much that only your art could help describe.

Viktor; a man on borrowed time became a man immortalised within the pages of his artist lover.

He even seen the sketches of him fast asleep against his workbench you’ve done and even then you took your time making it look like he was staring into a mirror of himself.

You’d catch him flicking through your sketchbook but you couldn’t say anything against it as the way his eyes light up and soft smiles upon looking at your latest works, looks that only made you want to draw Viktor even more if it meant this sight becoming more common with the passage of time.

‘You like them?’ You’d ask from the doorway.

‘I love them my dear.’ He replies softly as he presses his forehead against your own, making you smile fondly. ‘But was the drawing of me sleeping necessary?’ He adds playfully as you chuckled.

‘Oh it was very necessary my muse.’ You replied with equal playfulness as you kissed his nose. ‘I saw an opportunity and couldn’t let it pass me by without at least drawing it first,’ Viktor scoffs but the smile upon his lips remained, ‘and besides you looked really peaceful and relaxed that I wanted it to be something I remember. Hoping I get to experience more moments like that to be my muse for my future drawings.’ You finished.

‘I’m glad the to could do that for you my dear.’ Viktor closed his eyes and rested his head further against yours, wanting nothing then to capture this moment within his mind forever, secretly hoping to continue to be the muse of your art projects as your artistic range grew.

‘You’ve always been my muse,’ you said, closing your eyes, ‘you will always will be my muse.’

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Suburban Sparks

Pairing: Javier Peña x Steve's Little Sister Female Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: What you think is another lame party hosted by your lame brother turns into an unforgettable night with the man you've had a crush on for the past eight years. Warnings: getting to fuck your teenage crush, smut, unprotected p in v sex (reader is on the pill and both are tested), oral f receiving, age gap (Javi's around 40, reader's in her twenties), almost getting caught by your big brother because Javier Peña is too good at oral, alcohol, green shirt muzzle, spot the "juno" by sabrina reference. Words: 6,150 Thank you to @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

Masterlist

 “Honey!” your mom happily exclaims from the kitchen table. “Stevey sent us mail!”

Stevey. Your brother’s currently hunting down one of the world’s most dangerous drug dealers and yet she still calls your older brother his childhood nickname. 

“Oh?” you feign interest as you take a seat and pour yourself a bowl of cereal. 

“Look how handsome he is here,” your mom says, holding up the photo. Yeah, okay, there’s your brother, he looks the same. But then, your eyes move to who’s standing next to him, and you almost spill the milk.

Standing next to him is the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. Wow. He looks like a vintage model of a car, out of place in his tight jeans and yellow aviators, but cool in a classic way. You’ve never liked mustaches, and yet, it works on him. Tall and fit, with wide shoulders and a broad chest. Your fingers tingle at the thought of running them through his hair.

“Is that… Javier?” you ask, trying to sound nonchalant. 

“I’m sure it is,” your mom muses. "He's handsome isn’t he?”

“I guess,” you shrug, all of those acting classes you took in middle school sure have paid off now as you pretend to not be totally enamored with the man in the photo. 

Your mom chatters on about Steve's latest exploits, but you're only half-listening, you’re too busy thinking about Javier. You wonder what his voice sounds like, if his hands are as strong as they look, how his mustache would feel against your skin. 

You visit the photo album with the picture of Javier often. And on a day when you’re feeling particularly brave, you take the photo from the page. And then—rip. Stevey is gone, leaving Javier alone. You tuck the photo into your pocket before sliding it into your bedside drawer. 

Years pass, the photo of Javier still sits in the bottom of your bedside drawer, as if it’s almost a token of your girlhood, of your innocence, of your teenage dreams. It moves with you from crappy apartment to crappy apartment. Sure, it feels a little pathetic to hold on to the secret connection with a man you’ve never met, but a girl never forgets her first crush on an older man. 

Steve sometimes mentions him, bringing snippets of information about Javier. “Javi’s still chasing cartels,” he might casually say over dinner, making your heart skip a beat. Or, “Peña’s thinking about transferring back to the States,” and suddenly you think about actually meeting him.

You go to college, date a few people along the way—an artist named Adam, a burlesque dancer named Rachel, a fellow actor named Trevor. You even spend three solid years with Lincoln, the sensible guy your parents just loved… but none of them ever quite measured up to the mysterious DEA agent who exists only in sporadic mentions and that faded photo. 

Some nights, after a couple glasses of wine, you still pull out the photo and think about him. What is he like now? Does he still dress like his closet is from the decade prior? What makes him laugh? Does he laugh often? Does he hold anyone in his arms at night? What would it feel like to be in those strong arms? Scenarios dance through your head—maybe he visits Steve, or you randomly meet him at a coffee shop. In your mind, he always notices you, and always feels the exact pull you feel. A girl can dream, even when she’s an adult with a job and an apartment. 

Steve and you have always lived very different lives. While he was the star athlete in school, you avoided sports, choosing the stage instead. While he was hunting down Pablo Escobar and saving the world from the cocaine king, you were secretly learning how to grow marijuana plants in your closet hidden from your parents. While he’s happily married, settled down, and raising your niece, you’ve just broken up with Lincoln, because he wanted kids and a future you weren’t ready for. 

You climb into your beat-up car that you really only rely on to get to Steve’s house for his and Connie’s annual harvest bonfire. The world turns from narrow streets lined with brick buildings to wide roads with large homes and playgrounds. Buses and pedestrians are traded for SUV’s and minivans.  

Steve only lives twenty minutes away from your tiny apartment in the Adams Morgan section of DC. Your kitchen is the size of his closet. Whenever you take the drive to his perfect suburban home, you feel like you’re traveling to a different world, especially once you pull up to his house. His pristine suburban castle with a driveway bigger than your whole apartment, feels like a whole world away, not less than a half hour.

The wooden gate creaks as you push it open, the sound immediately catching Olivia’s attention.

“Auntie!” she shouts, running toward you with her arms flailing in excitement.

“Hey, Liv!” You hug her tight and kiss the top of her head as she giggles. 

“Hey kid!” Connie calls from the patio, making her way down the steps carrying two bottles of beer. 

“Evening. One of those for me?” you ask. 

“Nope, we had some help setting up,” she tilts her head towards the gazebo. Steve sits next to… Javier Peña. Crap. 

Suddenly, you're hyper-aware of your outfit: an oversized flannel thrown over a plain white tee, faded jeans, and your scuffed Doc Martens. You dressed for a lame party hosted by your brother, never thinking the man that used to star in all of your teenage fantasies would be here. 

Your heart races as you approach the gazebo and try to keep your cool. Javier's eyes meet yours, and for a moment you forget how to breathe. He's even more handsome in real life, his mustache is perfectly groomed with sideburns that frame his chiseled jaw. Fuck, he’s so much better than that ripped picture that lives in your bedside table drawer. 

"Hey sis," Steve calls out, breaking the spell. "This is Javier Peña, my old workmate in Colombia."

Yeah Steve—you know all about him. 

Javier offers a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes… you feel so intimidated. "Nice to meet you," he says, his voice low and gravelly.

You manage a nod, suddenly at a loss for words… something nobody would ever say about you. "Yeah, hi, nice to meet you too,” you respond darting your eyes every which way to avoid looking at him. 

His eyes stay locked on you, you notice a slight movement in his jaw as he looks you up and down. Your body heats at his assessment. 

Steve breaks the tension with his voice.” Javi had a job interview at the office today. We couldn't let him stay at some boring hotel, now could we?"

“Mighty kind of you,” Javi says, his eyes still on you. You nervously shuffle on your feet, at a loss of words, trying to not show your inner panic. 

Steve clears his throat, catching Javier’s attention. “Where’s Lincoln?” 

“Oh, yeah, we broke up,” you shrug, taking a seat across from Javier, trying to loosen your shoulders.

“What?!” Steve exclaims. “I liked him!”

You roll your eyes. "Well, I can give him your number if you’re that upset. He’s single now."

A small chuckle leaves Javier’s lips. 

BEEP. BEEP. Steve’s watch goes off and he checks it with a frown. "I gotta go take care of the chili. You two going to be alright?”

“Well manage,” Javier answers, leaning back into the chair.

Fuck, this is… this is something you used to dream about. Sitting across from Javier Peña, just the two of you. Except in those dreams you were a hell of a lot cooler, now you can barely look over at him, your focus remaining on the frayed edge of your plaid shirt.

The silence stretches between the two of you.

“So,” he says, breaking the tenseness, “you broke up with your boyfriend recently?”

You meet his gaze. “Yeah. He wanted kids, the whole future thing. I wasn’t into it.”

Javier nods, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "And what are you into?"

You swallow hard, feeling your cheeks burn hot under Javier's intense gaze. What the hell are you into? God, if he only knew the fantasies you've had about him over the years. That’s what you’re really into. You use your improv lessons to good use. 

“Surviving this lame suburban party hosted by my lame brother and his patient wife who’s way out of his league.”

Javier laughs. “Connie said I’d like you.”

You raise an eyebrow, feeling a bit bolder now that you’ve made him laugh twice. “And was she right?”

“According to Steve, she’s never wro—”

“Auntie!” Olivia’s excited voice interrupts as she barrels toward you. “Come see my new dollhouse! It’s soooo big!” She grabs at your hand, tugging with all her might.

“Sorry, Javier, I have important aunt things to take care of,” you say standing up and letting Olivia pull you toward the house.

The party is in full swing. Steve’s friends are all here, standing in little circles with their polished wives.

They regale each other with tales of their kids—who’s excelling at school, who got the karate trophy. Someone is getting new hardwood floors, someone’s leaving for Bermuda on Tuesday. It’s a far cry from your parties with your friends, watching cartoons, discussing war crimes, and smoking joints on the tiny fire escape.

You glance over at Javier who lingers near the edge of the firepit. He looks as out of place as you, standing quietly, arms folded, watching the crowd. He’s listening, but not engaging—you know he’s just as uninterested in these tales of suburban bliss as you are.

You catch his eye for a moment, he tugs the edge of mouth up in a knowing smirk, as if you’re both in on the same joke. Two outsiders in this picture perfect world.

Connie breezes by with a tray of appetizers, smiling warmly at everyone as she plays the perfect hostess. She’s good at this, making it all look easy. You do admire her for it, but it all feels so stifling to you. You take a long sip from your hot apple cider and bourbon, hoping the alcohol will help soothe all the thoughts of how you’re not part of this world. 

You lean against the patio railing, watching as one of Steve’s friends launches into yet another story about their perfect child and their achievements. Javier comes and stands beside you, his presence making you feel almost lightheaded. You take another drink.

“Not exactly our crowd, huh?” you ask under your breath, loud enough for only him to hear.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You could say that.”

You take another sip, glancing up at him. “Kind of feels like we’re in a brochure for suburbia, doesn’t it?”

Javier looks over at you, your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of him glowing in the flicker of the orange flames. “Definitely.” 

“Think there’s a section on how to survive these kinds of things?”

He nods.

Another stretch of silence is shared between the two of you. Yours and his eyes observing all of the exploits of the perfect couples from afar.

Steve’s laughter echoes across the yard. “Hey! Peña, come on over here! This guy used to live near Laredo!”

Javier looks over at you and with an apologetic nod and walks towards Steve’s group with measured movements, like he’s already preparing to blend into the conversation.

The party begins to die down. You’ve been in a circle of conversation with Connie and a few of her friends. Connie’s warmth helps you fit in better, along with the warm apple cider and bourbon. You feel good and happy from all the spiked cider, like you can fit in a little more with Connie and her fellow perfect moms and wives. 

Your watch reads 11:45 when the last of Steve and Connie’s friends say goodbye. Javier helps Steve stack the chairs, you allow yourself to stare and watch the way his muscles flex beneath his shirt.  Taking drink after drink of your cider to try to quiet the want for him coursing through you.

"Hey, sis," Steve calls out, wandering over to where you're sitting on the edge of the deck. "You good to drive?" His blue eyes are red rimmed, he’s definitely had a good time tonight.

“Uh, no, not the best idea,” you shrug, suddenly feeling just how many drinks you had.

Connie appears at Steve's side, her arm wraps around his waist. She’s just as tipsy as your brother. "No worries, hun. You can stay in the guest room tonight. Though, Javier’s in your usual.”

Your heart skips a beat at the thought of staying under the same roof as him. You forgot he was staying here tonight. You nod, trying to not show the panic that’s inside you. "Thanks."

Steve yawns. "Well, I think it's time for bed. Long day, good party. You two gonna be okay out here?"

"We'll be fine," Javier says, his voice low.

Connie gives you a knowing look, a slight smirk playing on her lips. "Don't stay up too laaaaate," she sings. Steve’s oblivious, thankfully.

You watch as Steve and Connie make their way inside, arms wrapped around each other, giggling like teenagers. The sliding glass door closes behind them with a soft click, leaving you and Javier alone.

“You want to hang out?” He asks, nodding his head toward the low fire. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out. Is this a dream? 

You take a seat in a low adirondack chair, Javi chooses the one right next to you, not across, but next.

The fire crackles, casting a soft glow across Javier's face. You remind yourself to not turn your head and stare. 

"So," he says, turning to face you, his eyes roaming your face. "Tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know?"

“Whatever you want to tell me.”

"Well, much to my parent’s chagrin,” you take a deep breath. “I don’t live the suburban dream like my brother," you say, gesturing towards the large house. "I've got a tiny apartment in DC. My neighbors are a bunch of college kids and starving artists like me.”

"Sounds more interesting than this," he nods.

“Never a dull moment,” you shrug, finishing the cup of cider. 

"And what do you do?"

"I do graphic design, mainly freelancing for nonprofits and small businesses in between what few acting jobs I can book. Struggling artist and actor is not nearly as important as a DEA agent,” you shrug. “But it pays the rent and keeps me creative… though mom and dad are still confused why I’d want to do something so pointless with my life."

“Still sounds like you’re making a difference.” He offers you his glass of straight whiskey he’s been slowly sipping all night. His dark eyes watch you take a drink, your body melting at the thought of your lips touching his. 

“I guess,” you shrug, handing the glass back to him. “It’s not like I’m changing the world or anything. Just helping make things look nice, you know?”

His eyes don’t leave you.

“Doesn’t sound so small to me,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, well, it’s definitely not as thrilling as what you and Steve used to do in Colombia. I can’t imagine going from hunting down drug lords to… whatever this is,” you say, gesturing to the pristine yard.

“When the job ends, you either pack up and leave or you’re left with the mess.” He turns to face the fire, his eyes are distant, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You hum in agreement, wondering what type of memories he carries with him.

“But I can see why your brother’s settled into this. It’s simple. Predictable.”

“Boring,” you add with a smirk.

“Yeah,” he agrees, with a half smile. “Boring.”

“So, all of this doesn’t appeal to you? The beautiful lawn, the beautiful wife, the picket fence? Seems like something every man wants.”

“Not everyone does,” he says after a pause.

"Yeah?” You tilt your head, curious.

“I used to think about it. But it never worked out that way. My job… didn’t leave much room for anything else.”

You give him a soft smile and nod. The silence floats through the air as the fire dies down.

“Maybe if the right person shows up…” he softly murmurs, finishing his glass of whiskey. 

You stifle a yawn.

"Getting late," Javier observes. "We should probably head inside."

You nod, suddenly aware of how tired you are. The fire has died down to glowing embers, the late night air turns chillier. You stand, swaying slightly as the effects of the apple cider and bourbon hit you.

"Whoa there," Javier says, his hand reaching out to steady you. His touch sends a jolt through your body.

"I'm fine," you insist, even as you lean into his warmth. "Just need some water."

He closely follows you into the house. The kitchen is dark, illuminated only by a night light plugged into the wall. 

"Glasses?" Javier asks.

"Um, top cabinet, I think.”

He grabs two glasses and fills them with water from the tap, handing one to you.

"Thanks," you murmur, taking a long sip. You lean against the counter, Javi stands in front of you. Somehow, Steve’s large kitchen now feels entirely too small, being in the presence of Javier’s wide shoulders and handsome face makes it hard to breathe.

“So,” you say, licking the water off your lips. “Your interview go well today?”

He nods, his eyes stay on your mouth. "Yeah. Don’t know what to think of it."

"Having second thoughts?"

He shrugs, his broad shoulders moving under his shirt. "Maybe. It's a desk job. Feels... strange after everything."

You nod, understanding. "Must be hard to go from all that excitement to pushing papers."

"It's... I don't know if I’ll be able to fit in that world."

"I know. Sometimes I look at Steve's life and wonder how we came from the same parents. Like we came from the same place, but I took a left turn while he took a right." His eyes meet yours, a spark of recognition passing between you. "So, if not a desk job, what do you want?"

He takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm not sure," he admits. "But I know it's not this." You understand exactly what he’s saying… the house, the neighborhood, the whole suburban lifestyle.

You swallow hard, your heart racing. "And what about right now? What do you want right now?"

You feel like you might burn up in flames under the heat of his eyes. Slowly and deliberately, he sets his glass down on the counter and moves to stand in front of you, his broad body casting you in complete darkness, blocking the dim glow of the night light. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb traces your lips.

"You," Javier murmurs, his eyes planted on your lips. "Right now, I want you."

You blink, unbelieving at the words you just heard. For years, you’ve dreamed of this. Imagined what it’d feel like to be touched by him, the sound of his voice. And now, it’s real. You expect to wake. 

"Javier," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. "I—"

He doesn’t allow you to finish your thought, his lips seal over yours with a soft, hesitant kiss… like he knows he’s in his friend’s kitchen kissing his little sister. But when you wrap your arms around his neck, pull him closer and open your mouth, he softly groans as his tongue licks against yours.

His hands move to your hips, gripping them firmly as he pushes you back against the counter. The cool tile edge digs into your lower back.

He trails his lips along your jawline, down to your neck. A soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it.

“Shh,” he soothes against your skin, his hot breath and mustache sends shivers down your spine.

You nod, biting your lip to keep quiet as his hands roam your body..

His fingers trace patterns on your bare skin when he slides his hands under your flannel and up your shirt. You shiver at his touch, desire pooling low in your belly. His lips find yours again, the kiss deeper and more urgent now.

A sudden creek from upstairs alerts the two of you. You both freeze, lips still barely touching, breath mingling between you.

He pulls back slightly, eyes dark and conflicted. Your chests rise and fall rapidly.

"We can't," he whispers, voice rough with regret. "You’re–you’re Steve’s little sister."

You nod, understanding and disappointed.

He takes a step back, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, his eyes rounded in guilt. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," you interrupt, shaking your head. "Don't apologize. I wanted it too." 

You’ve wanted it for years.

A tense silence falls between you. You can feel the ghost of his lips on yours and his hands on you.

"I should go to bed," you say finally, breaking the silence. "It's late."

Javier nods, his jaw clenching slightly. "Yeah, me too."

You make your way to the stairs, Javier following close behind.

“Well,” you lean against the threshold of your temporary room, with your hand on the doorknob. “Goodnight Javi.”

He runs his tongue across his teeth, sending you a lascivious wink. “Sweet dreams, bonita.” He glances down the hall, towards Steve and Connie’s room. 

Your fingers tighten around the doorknob, knowing once you turn it and open the door, the night will end. All you have to do is just take one step toward him and live out your teenage dream. With one last look at him, standing broad and tall in front of you, his lips agape, with his handsome jaw tense, you turn the knob and step into the room, shutting the door on your wildest fantasy coming true.

You toss and turn in bed, overheated by the kiss, feeling the touch of Javier imprinted on your skin. You stop yourself from getting out of bed and tip toeing to Javier’s door multiple times. You’re driving yourself cra—

A soft succession of knocks tap against your door.

God, it better be him. 

You delicately tip toe over to the door and open it. 

The door creaks open just enough, a blur of green sweeps in. His lips crash into yours, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth as he gently nudges the door closed. 

He pulls back, his eyes heavy, roaming your panting, frenzied face. 

“You gotta be quiet, I can only do this if you promise to be quiet.” 

You nod, your eyes blinking wide. 

“Yeah?” he asks, eyebrow tilting up. 

“Y-yes,” you whimper, his big arm wrapped around you tight, your hands clasping the soft olive green cotton of his shirt. 

He nods, sealing his mouth over yours. Your tongue responds to his, tasting the mint of his toothpaste, feeling the bristle of his thick mustache against your skin. He leads you to the bed, his lips not leaving yours as he lays you down against the dark blue sheets and climbs over you. He lays atop you, his broad body encompassing you underneath all of his silent strength. His knee parts your legs, a large hand running up the smooth skin of your thigh, pushing up the fabric of your night shirt.

Your back arch/es, chest pressing against his when he kisses his way down to your neck, gently nipping at it as his thumb traces the seam of your panties. 

“Javi,” you whisper, your fingers weaving through the soft strands of his hair. 

He glances up, his dark brown eyes staring into yours. Your mouth is agape, panting for air, already too overwhelmed by his attention. 

“Please,” is all you can muster. Your teenage dream is here in this bed with you, bunching your shirt up against your neck and tilting his head down to suck a nipple into his mouth. He nibbles and slides his tongue across your chest, flicking it against the sensitive peaks, winding you tight. 

Your hands loosen their hold of his hair the farther he kisses down your body. He kneels between your legs, lifting his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. His skin looks golden in this light, he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

His hand sweeps down your body, your hips instinctively lifting for him to peel your panties off, leaving you naked and ready for him in whatever way he’ll take you. 

He watches you with a cocky smirk tremble underneath his watch, too blissed out to stay still. He’s barely touched you and you’re already totally disheveled, you can tell he likes it. 

He breathes in your scent when he settles between your widespread legs, straining to fit his large shoulders between them. 

He spreads you wide, tongue darting out, swiping across his plush top lip as he watches his fingers explore your dripping cunt. 

His nose taps against your slick before his mouth engulfs you, his tongue painting you like a masterpiece.

A gasp and a moan escape your throat at the sweetness of his lips where you need him the most. His hand grips your thigh tight as a stern shush. 

“S-sorry,” you whisper, placing your palm against your mouth. 

Your DEA agent brother is just a room down the hall away. His good friend and ex work buddy’s lips are currently kissing and sucking your clit.

His tongue swirls around the wetness you’ve gushed out for him. Your head thuds against the pillow, teeth biting into your lips to keep you from moaning. It doesn’t work, a long “fuuuck” leaves your mouth. Javi unseals his mouth from you, wide brown eyes under furrowed, thick eyebrows give you a stern look, his mustache and mouth glistening with your wet. “My shirt,” he nods towards the crumpled up ball of green laying next to your head. “Use it,” he instructs, before dipping back into between your legs. 

You grasp the shirt, stuffing the fabric in your mouth, breathing a sigh of relief at the extra layer of protection protecting you and Javier’s secret escapade. He’s now all over you, the taste of the beer left on his tongue still in your mouth, the feel of his tongue against your aching core, the sight of his dark hair between your thighs, the sound of his throat letting a low moan out against your cunt, the smell of him leftover on the shirt that now acts as a muzzle. 

The bed squeaks as you begin canting your hips against him. A firm hand pushes down on your stomach, holding you in place, Javier’s mouth digging deeper in between your legs. 

His shirt muffles your whimpers and cries, and when he sticks a finger into your entrance, you bite down on the soft cotton, tears springing in your eyes at the maddening frustration of staying quiet. 

The shirt does little to muffle the sob you choke out when he adds a second finger, curling them inside you with expert precision. Your thighs tremble as you teeter on the edge. Javi's tongue flicks relentlessly against your clit, his fingers pumping in and out at a merciless pace. 

You knew it, he’d be so fucking good at this.

You're so close, teetering on the precipice of an earth shattering orgasm. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as your back arches off the bed. The shirt in your mouth barely muffles your desperate whimpers.

Suddenly, a loud creak echoes from the hallway. Footsteps. Steve.

Javi freezes, his eyes darting up to meet yours. You both hold your breath, your hearts pounding. Javier’s mouth stays planted against your cunt, his fingers lay still inside you. The footsteps pause outside your door for what feels like forever.

You can feel Javi’s breaths against your overheated core as he stays perfectly still. 

A gentle knock on the door makes your heart leap into your throat. 

“Hey, you awake?” Steve’s quiet voice comes through the door.

Javi’s eyes widen in panic. The bed creaks as gently extracts his fingers from inside you and pulls away, rubbing the slick of you off his chin onto your thigh. The bed creaks again, when he slowly lifts up.

You have to respond now. Shit.

You pull down the shirt. Mocking a loud yawn. “Yeah… I’m fine,” you manage. “Just–-uh–had a weird dream I think.’”

Your heart pounds against your chest while you wait for a response. Javi stays perfectly still, his eyes locked on the door. 

“Alright,” he says finally. “Sleep well. G’night.”

“Good night,” you mumble. 

His footsteps retreat down the hall, your head thuds against the bed with relief. Javi remains frozen, barely breathing until you hear the creak of Steve’s door opening and closing. 

Javi’s eyes meet yours, he smirks at you mischievously with a raised eyebrow, his silent question asking if you want to continue. 

You nod, spreading your legs wider for him. A lascivious smile spreads across his face before he dips his head back down, his tongue finding your clit.

His fingers slide back into you as his tongue swirls around your sensitive nub. You grab his shirt and stick it back in your mouth, biting hard and muffling the whimpers. He works you back up with perfect precision. 

And when he curls his fingers inside you, hitting that perfect spot, you’re gone. 

Your orgasm crashes over you, back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as you writhe against his mouth. You can’t be loud, you must stay quiet.

His mouth doesn’t let up, licking and drawing out your climax, drinking down all that you offer him. Your nose huffs loudly, breathing in and out rapidly trying to catch your breath as the aftershocks subside. 

He kisses your thigh, the bristle of his mustache tickles your sensitive flesh. He slowly licks and kisses his way up your body before he gently tugs his shirt from your mouth, replacing it with his lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue. Your hands roam all over his smooth, broad shoulders feeling the firm muscles that lie underneath his soft skin. 

“Javi?” you moan against his lips. 

“Yeah?” he asks, pulling away. 

You can feel the hardness of him pressed against your thigh, still covered by the soft fabric of his grey sweatpants.

You’ve wanted him for years, and now’s your chance, here in the guest bedroom of your brother’s white picket fence surrounded home. 

“Will you fuck me?” you ask, before licking a line across his top lip. 

He groans, dropping his forehead against yours. “Yes, but, you gotta be real fuckin’ quiet, okay?”

“Promise,” you whisper. "I'm... clean and on the pill. Javi... can I feel you?"

He rises up to hover over you. "Fuck... yes baby,” he growls.

You watch with your mouth agape, your legs spread wide and waiting, as he quickly shimmies out of his sweatpants.

He's thick and hard, the tip glistening with precum. His smooth body lays atop you, smothering you with his firm weight. 

He positions himself between your legs, the tip of his cock teases your entrance before he slowly enters you. Oh, his wide cock stretches you divinely. 

Your lip begins to hurt from biting down on it so hard, trying to keep quiet. He seals his mouth over yours, swallowing down your cries and moans as his hips roll against yours. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him into you deeper. 

The bed creaks with the controlled power of each of his thrusts. You pray your brother can’t hear. 

Javi steadies his thrusts, trying to keep quiet, the tension radiating off of him. He buries his face into your neck, his sharp nose pressing against your skin there. You can tell he wants to pound into your cunt, rattle the bed against the wall, take everything he can from your accepting pussy.

Your hands run down his back, feeling the flex of his muscles slick with sweat.

A moan escapes your mouth when he slowly pulls out before thrusting all of his length into you. 

“Shh pretty girl, shhh,” he whispers. Balling up the edge of his shirt and sticking it into your mouth. 

His eyes darken when you stare up at him, wide eyed with the bundle of green fabric muzzling your mouth. 

He licks his way up your neck to your ear. He whispers “Fuck, you feel so good,” into your ear, his hot breath hitting against your skin. You whimper around his shirt at his words and his thick cock stretching you, hitting the spot you want him to hit the most with each thrust. 

You pull the shirt out of your mouth. “Javi,” you breathe, “I’m close.” He nods. His hand snakes between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing tight circles.

It’s too much. You pull him down closer to you, burying your face in his neck to muffle your moans as you come undone all over his cock. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, gritting his teeth as you pulse around and squeeze his cock. He slows his thrusts, letting you catch your breath as your blissed out body recovers. He kisses you sweetly. “You good?” he asks.

You nod, eyes heavy and body loose from your orgasm. You still want more. “More,” you manage to whisper.

He growls, suddenly pulling out and flipping you onto your stomach. 

“On your knees,” he snarls, his large hands guide your hips up. 

You comply, arching your back, presenting your overworked and wet cunt to him. He runs his hand over the curve of your ass before gripping your hips. He thrusts inside you, the coarse curls around the base of length soaking with the remnants of your orgasm. 

He’s so fucking deep, his hips setting a pace slapping against the flesh of your ass. 

“I know, I know,” he mutters softly. “You need to be quiet.” 

You reach forward, grabbing his shirt and bringing it to your mouth to bite down hard on as he pounds into you from behind. 

He grips your hips tighter, his thick fingers digging into your flesh with each thrust. His heavy breathing pants into the air, the bed creaks loudly underneath his force. 

He slides in and out, your sensitive cunt feels every inch of him. 

He leans over you, his chest searing against your back. His lips brush against your ear as he whispers, “You’re taking my cock so good, aren’t you? So fucking tight and wet.”

You push your back further against him, telling him to take all that he can from you. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” he pants. “Such a good fucking pussy, going to cum all over you.”

You turn your head, letting go of the shirt from your mouth. “Cum for me Javi,” you whisper. 

He nods, pulling out of your slick, and with a low groan, his white ropes of cum marks his territory all over your ass. You hope you'll forever feel the gentle taps of it against your skin as he empties himself.

“Fuck,” he pants, before rising from the bed and wiping the sweat off his brow. You collapse on the bed, your overworked limbs welcoming the softness of the mattress. He grabs his shirt, wiping it across himself before he cleans your skin with it. “Be right back back,” he whispers as he puts his sweatpants on. 

You nod, watching him softly open the door and looking down the hall checking to make sure it’s safe. The soft click of the door leaves you alone with your racing thoughts. Remnants of Javier Peña’s cum lays on your skin… almost ten years after seeing that first photo of him. 

He walks back in with a damp towel. “Spread for me,” he whispers. You obey, welcoming the warmth of the water against your overworked core. His touch is gentle against you.

“Do you know what time your brother usually gets up?”

“Usually around seven,” you answer, your eyes already growing heavy.

He nods, glancing down as he sets an alarm on his watch. "I’ll set my alarm for 6:45."

Before you can ask why, surprised that he’s staying, he pulls off his sweatpants and slips into bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you. 

“Good night Javi,” you sigh.

“Sweet dreams bonita.”

The alarm blares at 8:30, you groan, rolling over in the now empty bed. Hold on–did...was? You’re pretty sure you just dreamed the most vivid Javier Peña fantasy you’ve ever had… because that couldn’t have been real… until you see the bundled up green shirt laying next to you.