#your vibes are so sweet and delightful

[aleksatia]

Five Times the Kitchen Caught Fire (and So Did They) - Request

I've been completely swallowed by work and daily life, and for a long time (even though my hands were itching), I just couldn’t find the time to sit down and write something new. April is coming to an end, and most of my plans are still unfinished. So I’ve decided to focus on your requests first — they take priority — and Songfic Game will come after that.

Picked one of the requests at random — thank you @seris-the-amious for sending it in!

CW/TW: sexual content, explicit language, suggestive themes, alcohol use, mild intoxication, food-related chaos, fire/flood/kitchen disasters, implied nudity, mild injury (non-serious), emotionally charged intimacy, flirtation, teasing, domestic fluff, bad cooking decisions, one named lobster spared.

Pairings: Zayne x Girlfriend!You; Rafayel x Fiancée!You; Xavier x Girlfriend!You; Caleb x Not-yet-girlfriend!You; Sylus x Fiancée!You Genre: Domestic chaos meets romantic heat. Lovers tangled in kitchens, kitchens tangled in disasters. From soft smut to feral tension, from teasing to tenderness. Culinary mishaps, emotional closeness, playful banter, and sex that simmers like a slow-burn reduction. Fluff with bite. Fire alarms optional, intimacy inevitable. Summary: Five different stories, each with their own vibe and varying degrees of chaos — from soft fluff to full-blown kitchen insanity. Some are louder, some quieter; not all include intimacy, but you know me — I’ll make it up to our beloved LIs next time. Word Count: (5 stories) 1.3K | 1.6K | 1.9K | 3.6K | 4.2K

🍷 Cooking with Wine 

You’d only meant to loosen up.

The recipe had three steps. You had two hands. One of them, unfortunately, held a wine glass for most of the night. The other kept getting distracted by those endless cooking reels and the fact that Zayne wasn’t home yet. He was supposed to be. But surgeries run long, and you got bored, then creative, then… clumsy.

The pan got wine. The sauce got wine. You got wine. Somewhere around glass number three, you decided that music and dancing would “help the flavor profile.” You were still wearing his button-up shirt from earlier — a white one, a little oversized, warm from where it had dried on the radiator. Only one button done. Just enough to cover what mattered. Bare legs and fuzzy socks.

The dog watched, fascinated, as you waltzed with a ladle.

When Zayne walked in, you didn’t hear the door. He moved too quietly for that. You only noticed when a shadow passed behind you — his silhouette in the hall, tall and still.

He stepped into the kitchen like a man entering a crime scene. His eyes scanned everything at once: the scorched pan, the bubbling red concoction, the open bottle on its side. The singed towel near the stove.

Then you.

You grinned, wobbling slightly, your wine glass half-full and tilted at a reckless angle.

“Darling,” you said, voice sticky-sweet and delighted, “you’re home just in time for dinner-slash-arson.”

Zayne didn’t blink. He crossed to the stove, sniffed the air once, and exhaled through his nose with terrifying neutrality.

“This is flammable,” he said.

“Like… sexy-flammable?” You fluttered your lashes. “Because I did wear your shirt, which I consider an advanced form of foreplay.”

He turned off the burner. Set the spoon down. Removed the towel with two fingers like it personally offended him. Then turned to face you, arms crossed.

“You put cinnamon in a tomato-based reduction.”

You squinted. “How do you know that?”

“I can smell it.” A pause. “And it’s floating on top like an oil slick.”

“I was improvising.”

“You were drinking.”

You tilted your head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

There was a long pause — like the kind that stretches between heartbeats on a monitor. And then Zayne stepped forward, one smooth movement, and cupped your jaw in one hand. His thumb brushed just under your lower lip, catching the smudge of wine you didn’t know was there.

“You are…” His voice dipped. Barely audible. “Absolutely not allowed near a stove unsupervised.”

You smiled against his touch. “Are you volunteering for the job?”

His eyes met yours — steady, dark, impossible to read. Then his other hand slid to your waist, pulled you forward with quiet precision. His mouth brushed yours. Not rushed. Not rough. Just… intent.

“You look like a disaster,” he murmured.

“Thank you.”

“And you smell like a vineyard in crisis.”

“I bathed in pinot noir for you.”

“Of course you did.”

The kiss deepened. His mouth was warm, patient, and maddeningly controlled — like he was cataloging every sound you made, every angle of your lips. His hands stayed low, anchoring you, guiding you. You arched into him, pressing closer, trying to pull him out of his perfect stillness.

When you moaned into his mouth — quiet, desperate — he broke. Just slightly.

His fingers clenched at your hips, hard enough to leave intention behind. His tongue slid along yours, not tentative now, but searching. Mapping. The clinical calm in him twisted into something rougher. More human.

He picked you up like it was nothing — no grunt, no awkward shifting. Just your thighs wrapped around his waist and the firm press of his hands under your legs as he carried you to the counter and set you down among chaos: wine bottle, scorched pot, an abandoned spoon.

His mouth found your neck next. Soft at first. Then not. His teeth grazed. His breath hitched when your hands found the hem of his shirt, dragging it out of his waistband.

“You're drunk,” he murmured against your throat.

“I’m charming.”

“You are a menace.”

“And you,” you said, tugging him closer until he groaned against your collarbone, “are very overdressed for someone who wants me off this counter.”

He chuckled — low and rare. Then obeyed.

The way he moved was maddening — methodical, as if he were dissecting the moment with reverence. Each button undone on your shirt felt like a soft command. His fingers skimmed your ribs, feather-light, grounding you between warm palms and the cool marble beneath you. He wasn’t rushing. Zayne never rushed. He savored. Studied. Tasted.

He dipped his head and pressed a kiss just above your heart, then lower, catching your breath between his teeth. Your thighs tightened around his hips, pulling him closer — close enough to feel how hard he already was beneath his slacks, restrained and ready. You weren’t sure which one of you was shaking harder.

His hands mapped your body like it was his favorite puzzle — thumbs brushing the curve of your hips, his mouth finding the soft underside of your jaw, then your breast, tongue circling slowly, painfully. You moaned, half a sound, half a plea, and he smiled against your skin like a man memorizing fault lines.

You reached behind, fumbling for the wine glass — still miraculously upright — and brought it to your lips. Took a long, slow sip. He paused, watching you. Sharp gaze, mouth parted.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you pulled him down and kissed him — wet, warm, deliberately messy — and let the wine spill between your lips into his. He didn’t hesitate. He drank from you like he was starved. Like it was ritual. Like you were the altar.

The kiss turned brutal — slick and heady, the taste of red grapes and something feral between you. He groaned into your mouth and pinned your wrists to the counter, grinding his hips forward until your head fell back with a gasp.

“Zayne,” you whimpered, back arching. “Now. Please.”

He didn’t answer. He just shifted, one hand dragging your underwear down your thighs with surgical precision. You didn’t even register when your legs parted wider — it just happened, instinct, need. He undid his belt one-handed, pants low enough for contact, not enough to waste time.

The first thrust was slow — testing. The second made your mouth fall open. The third pulled a strangled noise from your throat that didn’t even sound like his name.

Zayne cursed under his breath and buried his face in your neck. His rhythm wasn’t desperate — he never was — but it carried purpose, weight, knowledge. He knew exactly where to press, when to shift, how to pull your body apart and hold it there — open, high, ruined. One hand locked behind your knee, lifting your leg just enough for deeper angles, and when your breath caught, he did it again. And again.

You held onto his shoulders like the world was tilting. His skin under your fingers was warm, taut, real. His breath stuttered against your ear.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice raw. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“You know I am.”

“I want to hear it.”

You looked up at him, completely undone, and whispered, “I’m yours.”

He kissed you like he’d waited years. His hips stuttered. Your nails sank into his back. His rhythm frayed into something rougher, needier — less science, more prayer. You came with a cry caught in your throat, legs trembling around his hips. He followed seconds later, jaw clenched against your neck, breath faltering like something sacred had cracked open in him.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested on your shoulder, sweat slick between you, hearts slamming like fists.

And then — quietly, from behind you — came a soft drip.

Zayne glanced over your shoulder.

A single string of sauce, still too hot and wildly overspiced, slid off the edge of the abandoned pan and landed with a wet slap on the floor.

He sighed. “You burned the reduction.”

You smiled, still breathless. “But the dessert turned out perfect.”

🦞Omar the Almost-Dinner

You started with the garlic.

Three cloves, crushed under the flat of the blade, then minced until your fingers gleamed and the scent climbed into your throat. A generous pour of golden oil bloomed in the shallow copper pan, already warm, catching the light that poured in through Rafayel’s east-facing windows.

The whole kitchen glowed like watercolor — sunlight moving through glass, catching on polished marble, the sea breathing in the distance. It always felt like standing inside one of his paintings. Too beautiful. A little surreal. Like something sacred might happen if you just held still.

You stirred the garlic with a wooden spoon and whispered, “You’re not going to feel a thing.”

On the far end of the counter, the lobster shifted slightly inside the shallow glass bowl you’d filled with cold saltwater. His long antennae twitched.

You eyed him.

“I’m not going to name you,” you said firmly.

He waved one rubber-banded claw.

You scowled. “That wasn’t a wave.”

Another twitch.

“It wasn’t,” you repeated, softer now. “It was… a muscle spasm.”

You turned back to the garlic. Added butter. A splash of white wine. A whisper of lemon zest.

It hissed. Smelled like summer and salt and the things Rafayel hummed about when he painted early in the morning with one hand in your lap.

You glanced at the lobster. He blinked at you. Slowly. With dignity.

And it hit you.

You were going to kill something. Not just cook. Not reheat, not sear, not pan-fry leftovers.

Kill.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, throat suddenly thick. “It’s not that I don’t love you. I mean, I don’t. Not like — love-love — I love him. But I’m trying. For him.”

You gestured to the pot, now gently boiling behind you.

“That’s for you. That’s how it’s done. It’s quick. Dignified. You go in. You feed him. You become part of something beautiful.”

You paused. The lobster shifted again. Like he disagreed. Profoundly.

You looked down at your outfit.

His silk kimono, white and silver, open at the collar. Your hair twisted up, held in place by one of his old paintbrushes, soft bristles curled with dry cobalt. You’d worn it like a good omen. Like a challenge.

Now it just made you feel like a fraud.

You stepped closer to the bowl. He stared at you.

“…Omar,” you breathed.

Damn it.

“No. No! That wasn’t a name. I didn’t—”

He waved again.

You made a noise halfway between a sob and a curse. “Oh my god, you’re real. You’re someone.”

The pot behind you bubbled louder, as if urging you on. But your hand wouldn’t move.

You looked down at him — Omar. This wet little witness to your culinary ambition and your spiritual collapse. Your eyes stung. You pressed your fingers into the edge of the counter until your knuckles blanched.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

And that’s when the soft sound of bare feet against polished stone made you freeze.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, framed by light. His robe hung open just enough to reveal the fine line of his collarbone, the suggestion of morning skin and sleep-warmth. His hair was half-tied, the rest falling over his shoulders in sea-colored waves.

He took one look at you. At the bowl. At the tears.

And then, very gently:

“…Did you name the lobster?”

You didn’t turn around. You just sniffled — once, pitifully — and stared harder at the glass bowl where Omar sat like a prisoner on death row.

Rafayel crossed the floor in bare, silent steps. He stopped beside you. Looked down into the bowl. The silence stretched, long and gentle.

You swiped a hand beneath your nose and choked, “Ask him. Ask him if he’s mad at me.”

“…Pardon?”

You turned toward him, wide-eyed and red-lipped and clearly unraveling, the paintbrush still skewed at a defiant angle through your bun.

“Ask him,” you repeated, voice wobbling. “I almost turned him into your lunch. Omar probably hates me.”

There was a pause. Then, very seriously, Rafayel looked down at the lobster.

“Omar,” he said softly. “Do you harbor ill will toward my beloved?”

The lobster didn’t move. You looked devastated.

“I think he’s giving me the silent treatment,” you whispered.

Rafayel blinked once. Then, in a voice that was 80% calm and 20% suppressing laughter:

“Cutie… lobsters have extremely primitive nervous systems. Their brains are about the size of—”

“Don’t talk about Omar that way!” you snapped, and slapped his arm.

Rafayel clutched his chest in mock offense. “Forgive me. I forgot he was royalty.”

“He has dignity,” you said with a fierce sniff. “And a name. And feelings.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Rafayel leaned in. Kissed the tip of your nose.

“You are utterly unhinged,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to argue — but his hands were already at your waist, pulling you into him, your fingers still slick with butter and grief. He rested his chin on your shoulder, eyes fixed on the lobster.

“I was going to boil him,” you whispered. “With herbs. Lemon. I crushed garlic just for him.”

“Of course you did.”

“I ruined everything.”

“No,” Rafayel said, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You just… rerouted the menu. Happens to the best of us.”

You melted into his hold, the silk of his robe brushing your thigh where the kimono had slipped. His body was warm. Steady. He smelled like sea salt and sugar and some ancient perfume no one could name.

“What do we do now?” you asked.

He kissed your cheek, slow and indulgent. Then reached down, lifted Omar from his bowl like a high priest lifting a relic, and turned with regal grace toward the atrium.

“To the koi.”

The koi tank lived in his studio.

Not just because of the light — though it was exquisite in the late afternoon, spilling across the floor in long golden strips — but because Rafayel said the fish helped him “remember the rhythm of the world.” You never questioned it. Just like you didn’t question the fact that he sometimes hummed to them in a language the ocean might’ve forgotten. Or that he had names for all of them: Persephone, Laertes, Blanche, Judas.

Now he stood barefoot at the rim of the tank, the silk of his robe slipping open over his chest, Omar cupped gently in both hands like a waterlogged jewel.

The koi scattered as he approached. Swirls of red and silver and ghost-white fins vanished into the corners of their glass world. Rafayel crouched. Whispered something you didn’t catch. Maybe an apology. Maybe a blessing. Maybe a threat to behave.

Then, very delicately, he lowered Omar into the water.

The lobster drifted for a moment — legs splayed, antennae lifted like tiny banners of defiance — before kicking once and spiraling down toward the gravel, claws first.

You stood behind Rafayel, arms folded over your chest, watching the crustacean establish dominance over a large piece of ornamental driftwood.

“He’s fine,” Rafayel said, not looking back.

“He’s thriving,” you muttered, deadpan. “An icon.”

Rafayel turned, stood, wiped his damp fingers across the silk lapel of his robe. “You know, I’ve hand-fed Persephone for five years, and she still won’t come near me unless I sing Puccini.”

“I relate.”

He tilted his head. “To whom?”

“To Persephone.”

He smiled — soft and sharp at once — and stepped closer. “You cried over a lobster.”

“I cried over almost murdering a lobster.”

He reached out, ran his fingers down your arm. “And why, my sea-witch, were you even attempting culinary homicide?”

You sighed. Shoulders slumped. The knot of shame in your stomach finally loosened.

“I hate cooking,” you confessed. “I hate it. I hate the mess. The timing. The stress. Everything tastes like failure and burnt dreams.”

Rafayel’s brows rose. “And yet you attempted to flambé my emotions alive.”

“I was trying to impress you,” you said, voice quiet now. “Because I love you. And I thought — if I made you something real, something you cared about… maybe I’d feel more like I belonged in your world.”

His face shifted. Slowly. Like a wave gathering itself before crashing.

You swallowed. “But I couldn’t do it. Not to Omar.”

Something unreadable passed behind his eyes.

“...Are you telling me,” he said carefully, “that you were willing to sacrifice your own sanity to feed me something I could’ve ordered from a Michelin-starred restaurant… but not willing to harm a single dramatic sea bug because he blinked at you?”

You looked away. “He blinked with feeling.”

There was a long silence. Then: “I don’t know whether to kiss you or exile you.”

“You could try both.”

Rafayel stepped in close again. The sunlight caught the gold of his eyelashes. “I’d die on a battlefield for you, but a lobster gets your loyalty?”

You tried not to smile. “He had a name, Raf.”

He groaned. “I’m jealous of a lobster.”

You leaned into his chest. “You should be. He’s mysterious. Stoic. Dangerously well-armed.”

Rafayel let out a long, theatrical sigh.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he murmured, “but… I also hate cooking.”

You blinked. “You what?”

“I hate it. I hate heat. I hate measurements. I hate the way turmeric stains my cuticles. I once tried to cook for you, burnt my thumb on the skillet, and immediately painted the pain.”

You stared. He nodded solemnly. “It sold for nine thousand.”

You choked on a laugh. He kissed your temple.

“I’ll order sushi,” he whispered, lips brushing your skin. “It’s what civilization invented delivery for. People like us weren’t made for stoves. We were made for art. For emotion. For love. And for not setting the house on fire.”

“And Omar?”

Rafayel tilted his head toward the tank. “Will be invited to the wedding.”

He paused, watching Omar paddle in lazy circles.

“…But if he ever makes you cry again—” his voice dropped to a murmur, half-affection, half-threat, “—he’s the appetizer.”

🥞Pancakes: Physics & Other Casualties

You woke up too early for no reason. The sun hadn't fully committed to the sky yet, and Xavier was still asleep — somewhere beneath tangled blankets, breathing slow and soundless like only men with nothing left to prove do.

But you had energy. Too much of it. And a craving for pancakes.

You weren’t good at pancakes. Not exactly bad, either — just… experimental. Abstract. Four pancakes already clung to the kitchen ceiling like edible crime evidence, casualties of your first half hour. You had stopped panicking about the first one somewhere around the third. They weren’t hurting anyone. Probably.

The kitchen smelled like butter and mild fear. A playlist pulsed through your earbuds — something upbeat, guilty-pleasure catchy. You danced in place, hips swaying lazily, wearing only Xavier’s black athletic shorts (which barely clung to your waist) and a faded sports bra. Your hair was a mess. Your feet were bare. The floor was suspiciously sticky near the sink, and you were too far gone to care.

You adjusted your grip on the pan, focused like a woman on a mission, and flipped another pancake — up, smooth, controlled.

And caught it with your mouth.

A perfect arc. A clean drop. A hot, fluffy disc of golden triumph right between your teeth.

Your arms shot into the air, victorious. You wiggled. Spun. Posed like a champion gymnast sticking her final landing.

“YES!” you shouted around pancake.

Then you got cocky.

Still chewing, high on success and maple-scented hubris, you turned to the stove, picked up the frying pan again — and this time, tried to flip the whole pan. Into the air. For fun.

You wanted drama. Flair. Pancake-fueled glory.

What you got was: velocity + physics + betrayal.

The handle slipped from your fingers mid-arc. The pan flipped once, bounced off the edge of the stove, and landed squarely in the mixing bowl of batter you’d set just a little too close. The bowl spun. The counter caught a third of it. Your shirt caught another. The rest hit the floor in one majestic, cold, thick slap.

It was everywhere. Your feet. The cupboard. Your calves. The cat bowl. Possibly the wall. You blinked, slowly, looking down at yourself like someone in a war movie who hadn’t realized they’d been shot yet.

And then—

A breath behind you. You turned.

And there he was. Xavier.

Leaning against the doorway. Hoodie unzipped. Sweatpants low on his hips. Hair tousled, bare chest rising and falling in slow, stunned quiet.

He took in the scene. Ceiling pancakes. The lake of batter spreading across the tile. You, panting, pink-cheeked, wearing his shorts and speckled in something vaguely egg-based.

And — of course — the frying pan, upside down, handle sticking out of the mixing bowl like a flag of surrender.

You yanked out one earbud, breath catching. “You weren’t supposed to be awake yet.”

“I was,” he said quietly, eyes still moving — from your flour-dusted knees to your mouth. ��Just listening.”

You blinked. “To the music?”

“To the part where you said ‘YES’ with a pancake in your mouth.”

You paused. Laughed. Bit your lip, embarrassed. “It was impressive.”

“It was.”

He didn’t move. Just… watched. You could never tell if Xavier was judging or processing. His expression didn’t give things away. But his eyes did. Bright and bottomless, pale as ice and just as dangerous when focused — and they were very, very focused now.

You tried to brush a bit of batter off your thigh. It smeared. Worse.

He inhaled through his nose, slow. “Is that my shorts?”

“No.” You lied instantly. “Yes.”

You felt warm all over. Sticky, sure — but also warm. The kind of heat that crept under your skin the longer he looked at you like that.

“I was going to bring you pancakes.”

“I see that.”

“They were gonna be good.”

“I believe you.” 

His voice was calm, as always. But his gaze drifted lower — down your torso, your stomach, to the place where batter clung to your thighs like messy fingerprints. He blinked once. Slowly. Like he was storing you. Like he was learning you all over again in this ruined, ridiculous state.

And then… he moved. Not fast. Never fast.

Xavier walked toward you like inevitability — quiet feet on tile, breath barely audible, but his body all presence. You backed up without meaning to, hip nudging the edge of the counter, hands flexing at your sides. His fingers brushed your chin first. Lifted. Tilted. He studied you like he was reading your pulse through the shape of your mouth.

“You made a mess,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “That’s what mops are for.”

His thumb dragged along your lower lip. Batter. Butter. You.

“I meant this,” he said — and cupped your thigh, palm flat, streaking upward through the sticky warmth that clung to your skin. “You're dripping.”

The breath caught in your chest. He didn’t stop. Didn’t ask.

Xavier slid his hand higher, the glide of his fingers patient, unshaking, as he trailed a line through the batter and up — up, under the waistband of his shorts still hanging loose on your hips. He looked down as he did it. Watched his own hand disappear, like he wanted to understand your reactions in real time.

He brushed against you once. Deliberate. Barely pressure. You gasped.

His gaze snapped up.

Then he kissed you. Not sweet. Not soft. But steady — lips parted, tongue tasting everything you’d ruined. He didn’t devour. He took. Like a man carefully disassembling a weapon he didn’t want to break. His hand stayed pressed between your legs, just resting, while his other came to your neck — not choking, but claiming. Holding you still. Making you feel it everywhere.

“You’re warm here,” he said against your mouth, thumb stroking slow circles at the hinge of your jaw. “Wet. Sweet.”

You whimpered.

“Sticky.” He kissed your cheek. Your throat. Bit your collarbone. “Ruined.”

You barely had time to blink before he picked you up — just lifted, arms under your thighs, your back pressed to his chest. Effortless. Inevitable. Your hands clutched his forearms, nails dragging through soft cotton and into skin.

He didn’t speak again until the bathroom door clicked behind you. Then—

“I’m going to clean you.”

Not a suggestion. Not a tease. A promise.

He set you on the counter. Warm wood beneath your bare skin. He turned on the shower. Steam bloomed in the air — sharp and clean and him. The sound of water filled the room like rising tension.

Then he turned back. You reached for him — but he stilled your hands.

“Let me,” he said. “Don’t move.”

His hands were methodical. Almost reverent.

He pulled off your sports bra slowly, brushing every inch of your ribs with his knuckles. Kissed the space between your breasts like he needed to taste your heartbeat. The shorts followed — peeled down with both hands, batter clinging like reluctant gravity. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t grin.

He studied.

You were a mess. But to him — you never looked more sacred.

Xavier guided you under the water. Hot. Steady. His hands followed, dragging soap over your shoulders, your breasts, the dip of your waist — not rough, but firm. He washed you like ritual, like cleansing a blade before use.

And then his fingers slid between your legs again — slick now with water and shower gel, moving slowly, teasing your entrance in soft, circling pressure. You leaned into his chest, barely breathing.

He kissed your temple. “Relax.”

You tried. You failed — when he pushed a finger inside you. Then another.

His free hand cupped your breast, thumb stroking your nipple as he fucked you with slow, exquisite rhythm. No rush. Just purpose. Just Xavier. You sobbed once — quiet, overwhelmed — and he held you steady, nose brushing your cheek.

“You’re close,” he whispered. Not asked. Stated.

You nodded. Couldn’t speak. He kissed you — deeper, this time — and curled his fingers just right.

You shattered.

He caught you, of course. Cleaned you again. Kissed the top of your head, your hipbone, the inside of your knee.

And when he slid inside you after, slow and stretching, thick and perfect, it wasn’t out of hunger.

It was worship…

You came back into the kitchen wearing one of his long-sleeved tees and a pair of clean leggings — damp hair in a loose bun, skin flushed from the shower, limbs still humming from how he’d touched you. Kissed you. Fucked you.

The kitchen, somehow, was spotless.

The puddles of batter were gone. The ruined bowl had vanished. Even the ceiling looked suspiciously cleaner — except for one very visible pancake, clinging for dear life just above the stove like a martyr to your enthusiasm.

Xavier was at the counter, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a fresh mixing bowl in front of him. His movements were calm, measured — flour, eggs, a whisper of salt. The cat sat near his feet, round as a melon, looking both satisfied and ashamed. You arched a brow.

“He helped?” you asked.

Xavier didn’t look up. “He tried. Then ate half the batter and went into some sort of existential spiral.”

You looked down at the creature. Its belly shifted slightly with every breath. It made a faint, gurgling noise.

“You’re gonna regret that, buddy.”

The cat blinked once, as if to say: I already do.

Xavier cracked another egg with single-handed ease. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the long lines of his back move beneath soft cotton. Watching his mind in motion. There was something unbearably tender about how focused he became in small things — your things. How the world narrowed down to a bowl, a pan, and a promise.

“You didn’t have to clean everything,” you said gently.

“I know,” he replied, not missing a beat. “But you made a mess.”

You snorted. “You loved it.”

“I did.” He turned then, just enough to meet your eyes — and the corner of his mouth tilted. “I do.”

Heat crept up your spine. You stepped closer. The stove was warm, a fresh pan already heating, butter melting into golden puddles along the surface. He dipped a ladle into the new batter and poured it slow and steady, hands sure, movements silent.

The moment lingered. The smell, the steam, the soft crackle of potential.

You leaned in beside him.

“Do you want me to try flipping it?”

“No,” he said flatly.

You grinned. “Afraid I’ll outdo you?”

“I’ve seen your technique.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “You liked my technique.”

“Your technique almost destroyed the cat bowl.”

“That was a creative choice.”

He slid a spatula under the pancake — smooth, practiced — and turned it in a perfect arc.

You made an approving noise. “See? You’re showing off.”

He glanced at you sideways. “Someone has to impress the cat.”

It was then — as if summoned by memory or dramatic timing — that the pancake on the ceiling finally gave up.

It dropped. Straight down. Landed with a soft, anticlimactic plop right in front of the stove.

The cat groaned audibly, a single long note of betrayal and digestive despair.

You covered your mouth, shoulders shaking. “He can’t… he can’t possibly…”

“No,” Xavier said, deadpan. “He’s reached the limit of his mortality.”

You watched as the cat sniffed the fallen pancake, whimpered, and slowly waddled out of the kitchen like a man who’d seen too much.

Then, finally, softly — like he couldn’t quite believe it: “…Did you actually catch one in your mouth?”

You stood a little straighter. Chin up. “Yes.”

His jaw shifted — not a smile, not quite — and his eyes sharpened.

“…Do it again.”

🍗“Operation: Wing It”

“You won’t even make it past the marinade,” Caleb said.

You didn’t look at him when you dropped the chili flakes into the basket — just a little harder than necessary.

“I’m literally standing in front of a wall of sauces,” you muttered. “I think I’ve made it just fine.”

“You picked up sesame oil to make buffalo wings.”

You froze. Looked down. Yep. Sesame oil.

“...It's fusion,” you said defensively, and grabbed a bottle of hot sauce to cover the error.

Caleb made a low, amused noise in his throat — the kind that wrapped around your spine like silk and sandpaper.

You hated him. 

Not really.

But in that moment? Absolutely.

He was leaning against the side of the shopping cart like he’d been born in a recruitment poster. Dark jacket open, arms crossed over his chest, that stupid military-issue smirk on his face. Skyheavan’s standard-issue glow made his skin look warmer than usual. More golden. More dangerous.

You tossed a bottle of vinegar into the cart without looking. It hit the bottom with a clang.

He flinched. “Careful. You almost declared war on the condiments.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped. “Are your elite commando instincts triggered by aggressive grocery shopping?”

“Just saying, if you treat the chicken like that, I’ll have to call for backup.”

You whirled around to face him, finger pointed. “I can cook.”

“You can make cereal.”

“I can make eggs!”

“Which you set on fire.”

“One time—!”

He stepped closer. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth — just for a fraction of a second — then back to your eyes.

That same flicker again. The one you’d seen a hundred times. Like he might kiss you. Like you might let him. But neither of you ever did.

Too many reasons. Too much history. Too many what-ifs.

“Tell you what,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “You make wings tonight. I’ll taste them. If they’re edible, I’ll say thank you. If they’re better than mine…”

His smile turned sharp. “…I’ll let you pick your prize. And I won’t stop you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And if they’re not?”

He leaned in — not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the heat of him through your shirt.

“If they’re not, you wear my shirt while I show you how it’s really done.”

Your stomach dropped. Your brain screamed something in Morse code.

You said, with all the dignity you could muster, “Fine.”

“Great.”

Then he leaned down and picked up your bottle of sesame oil.

“And I’m taking this,” he said. “Because even fusion has limits.”

You stormed into his kitchen like a woman possessed. Which, to be fair, you were.

By pride. By spite. By the unholy need to prove that just because you’d once burned eggs didn’t mean you couldn’t conquer poultry.

The countertops were unnervingly spotless. The knives hung in perfect alignment. The spice rack looked alphabetized by military rank.

You glared at the nearest drawer and yanked it open.

Soy sauce, vodka, pomegranate molasses, some kind of unmarked flask, another unmarked flask, two napalm-grade hot sauces and a tin labeled simply: “DO NOT”.

You closed the drawer. You opened another. Hot honey, fig jam, bourbon.

You opened a third. Ketchup. Tequila. Grenadine.

“What the hell — why is the alcohol stored with the condiments?!” you hissed.

“Because they get along,” Caleb said, casually leaning in the doorway, arms folded.

You turned so fast your braid hit your cheek. “Get. Out.”

He raised one brow. “Just offering guidance.”

“You’re smirking.”

“I always smirk when people handle raw meat like it’s a loaded weapon.”

You grabbed a towel, threw it over the bowl of chicken, and marched toward him.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Then you planted your hands flat against his chest — and pushed.

Hard.

Caleb slid backward across the smooth floor in his socks, both feet together, expression going from amused to incredulous to resigned defeat in two seconds flat.

“You are not allowed in here until I win.”

“You mean ‘if.’”

“WHEN.”

You shoved him again just for good measure, slammed the door behind him, and locked it. (Okay, you shoved a wooden spoon through the cabinet handles. Same thing.)

Silence.

You exhaled. Turned. And stared at the raw chicken like it had personally insulted your ancestry.

The marinade was where you’d shine. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

You opened another drawer. Dark green bottle. Handwritten label. Spanish text. No clue.

You tilted it. Sniffed. Complex. Herbal. Definitely alcoholic. Like absinthe with a sexier résumé.

You dipped a finger. Touched your tongue. Oh. Oh, that was good. Sharp, rich, mysterious. Like something Caleb would drink while brooding in a thunderstorm.

You’d seen someone marinate wings in beer once. This felt like the same vibe.

You shrugged. “Close enough.”

You poured generously. The chicken hissed like it was judging you. You hissed back.

Somewhere behind you, the spoon wedged in the handles creaked.

You whirled. “Don’t you dare!”

Silence. You turned back to your sauce, defiant.

You were not a soldier. You were not a chef. But you were going to make these wings your battlefield.

By some small miracle — or divine act of petty vengeance — you won.

They came out golden. Glorious.

The kind of golden that made you gasp when you opened the oven, momentarily forgetting the smudge of sauce on your cheek and the streak of oil in your hair. The kind of golden that shimmered, with just the right crisp at the edges and a halo of chili flake scattered like divine confetti.

You stared. You may have whispered holy shit. You may have also done a small, smug dance in your socks.

Then you plated them. Carefully. Triumphantly.

And carried the tray out like a warrior returning from the front lines with the head of the beast still steaming on a platter.

Caleb was already on the couch, legs stretched, looking for all the world like a man who’d never been ejected from his own kitchen.

You set the tray down in front of him with all the grace of a crowned queen.

He eyed it. Then you. Then the wings again.

“…Did you order takeout and hide the packaging?”

Your palm hit his shoulder with a satisfying thwap. He didn’t even flinch.

He leaned in anyway. Picked up a wing. Sniffed it. Turned it over once between his fingers like he was inspecting foreign tech.

Then — slowly, deliberately — bit down. Not a dainty bite. He stripped the wing like it owed him intel. Left nothing but clean bone and a line of sauce glossing his bottom lip.

You blinked. Maybe twice.

He chewed. Swallowed. Raised a brow.

“...They’re edible.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s it?”

A second wing disappeared. Then a third.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said around the fourth, “but I think I might be in danger.”

You blinked again. “From what?”

He looked you dead in the eye. “Falling in love.”

Your face went up in flames. You laughed — too sharp, too loud — and smacked his leg. But you didn’t stop smiling.

Neither did he.

Somehow, between the sarcasm and the second bowl, you ended up shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing. Hands sticky. Bowl empty.

You didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. But when he licked sauce off his thumb and looked at you like you were next —

You forgot every reason you hadn’t kissed him yet.

His eyes lingered on your lips longer this time. No flicker, no teasing half-glance. Just heat. Quiet, anchored heat that pinned you in place like a pressure point no one else had ever found.

“You win,” Caleb said at last, voice barely above a murmur, rough around the edges like it had been dragged across gravel. “The wings. The bet.”

You exhaled, shallow. “That hard to admit?”

His mouth curved, but not like he was amused. More like it hurt a little. “Harder than getting shot, honestly.”

You huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t go anywhere. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like hunger. Like want. Like he'd waited long enough.

“Go on,” he added, that low timbre settling over your skin. “Pick your prize.”

It should’ve been a joke. Should’ve been easy. But your body had other plans.

The ache hit first — low and warm, coiling under your skin. It wasn’t a rush. It was a pull. A slow, molten drag that made it suddenly impossible to sit still.

You shifted, crossing your legs like it would help. It didn’t. Your underwear clung where it shouldn’t. The throb between your thighs was steady now. Treacherous.

You didn’t look at him. “I’ll think about it.”

His gaze didn’t drop. Didn’t move. But you felt it. All of it. Like touch. Like heat.

Silence.

Then, you muttered, mostly to yourself, “Is it… hot in here?”

Caleb’s brow lifted the tiniest bit. “I was wondering when you’d say that.”

He stood. Slowly. The way a soldier moves when every muscle is trained not to betray urgency.

And that was when you saw it. The dark line down the center of his shirt. The way the fabric clung to him. And lower — the unmistakable strain in his jeans.

You shouldn’t have looked. But you did.

He stepped toward the window, cracked it open. The breeze kissed the back of your neck. Still not enough.

When he turned around, you were already watching him. He stilled.

For a moment, nothing moved. Not you. Not him. Just air, trembling between two people who’d been circling this for months.

You swallowed. “You said I could choose my prize.”

He nodded once. You tilted your head. Let your voice drop. “And you wouldn’t stop me.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. “I wouldn’t.”

You stood. Carefully. Your body felt foreign. Heavy and too aware of itself. Of him. Of the scent still lingering on your fingers. Garlic and heat and him.

You passed him slow — maybe too slow — the back of your fingers grazing his stomach as you did. A light touch. Barely anything. But he flinched. Like you’d struck a nerve buried too deep to name.

And then—

His hand shot out. Grabbed your wrist. You gasped. Stopped.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you. Hard. Quiet. Like something had broken loose in him and he didn’t trust it.

Neither did you.

Not the look. Not the breath you just dragged in. Not the heat that rolled through your body like it had a will of its own.

You both stood there. Still.

Then—

His hand slid down. Fingers laced with yours. And he pulled.

You stumbled. Into him. Against him. Your chest hit his, and that’s when you felt it — the pressure. The hard, unmistakable proof that he wanted this just as badly. Maybe more.

That was the moment. The line. And you stepped over it.

You surged up and kissed him. Open. Desperate. Not gentle. Not slow. Teeth. Tongue. Breathless collisions.

He growled. Hands on your hips, your ass, your spine — gripping, anchoring, consuming. You broke the kiss only to gasp, “Bedroom.”

He didn’t ask. Didn’t tease. Just moved.

Your back hit the wall once on the way there — hands groping, mouths colliding, your braid being yanked just enough to make you whimper. Then the bed.

And then—

Clothes everywhere.

He was on top of you, between your legs, shirtless, flushed, panting like a man starving in a field of food he thought he’d never taste again. You pulled his pants open with shaking hands. He ripped your shirt at the seam.

Nothing delicate. Everything necessary.

When your skin met, it was violence. Beautiful. Raw. Atomic.

His mouth crashed against your breast. You arched into it, crying out, the sound catching in your throat as his hand found its way between your legs — fingers slicking through you like he knew you.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped. “Fucking drenched—”

“Don’t — don’t say it,” you gasped, but your hips bucked against his hand.

“Why?” he murmured against your nipple, tongue circling. “Scared it’s true?”

You clawed at his shoulders. “I don’t know what’s happening—”

“Yes you do.” His voice went rough. “You know exactly what’s happening.”

And he was right. You did. You wanted. And for the first time in years, you weren’t afraid of how badly.

He slid two fingers inside you, slow but deep, and your entire body snapped — taut and trembling, mouth open, no air left to swallow.

You came. Just like that. And he hadn’t even started.

His mouth found yours again. He kissed you through it — through your moans, through the tremors, through the shock of it all. Then he grabbed your leg, pulled it up over his hip, and lined himself up.

He looked at you once. Just once. Eyes dark. Wild. Asking.

You nodded. And he pushed in.

You screamed. Not from pain. Not even from stretch. From the depth. The snap. The way it felt like your body had been waiting for this exact shape, this weight, this claim and had finally found it.

“Jesus fuck,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours. “I—”

You didn’t let him finish. You kissed him again. Bit his bottom lip. Rocked your hips to meet his thrust.

And then it was chaos. Sweat. Skin. Fingers. Scratches.

He flipped you. Dragged you to the edge. Held your hips and slammed into you so hard the headboard knocked the wall. You met every thrust. Matched every groan.

“Harder,” you gasped. “More — don’t you fucking stop—”

“Say it,” he panted. “Say you want it. Say you want me.”

“I do,” you cried, tears on your cheeks now. “I always — fuck — always have—”

His hand slid up your spine. His mouth found your shoulder. His hips destroyed you.

You came again — helpless, shaking, wrecked. He wasn’t far behind. When he spilled inside you with a ragged, hoarse cry of your name, it was like the room exhaled.

He collapsed on top of you. You both lay there. Sticky. Shaking. Stunned.

Your thighs trembled beneath the weight of him, and his breath scraped out against your neck like he was still chasing oxygen.

You thought that was it. That you’d burned it all out in one glorious, unrepeatable burst.

Until—

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

You felt it before he said a word. Still hard. Still there.

He lifted his head. Just enough to look down at you. Brows drawn, cheeks flushed, mouth slack with something like disbelief.

“Are you—?” you whispered.

He nodded once. Swallowed. “It’s not… it’s not going down.”

You blinked. A beat. Then—

You snorted. Just once. Couldn’t help it. Caleb glared, half amused, half mortified. “I’m serious.”

“I can feel that,” you said, breathless. “Trust me, it’s the one part of you I have no trouble reading right now.”

He dropped his forehead to your collarbone with a low groan. “This is… not normal.”

“Not… unwelcome,” you offered, lifting an eyebrow as your hand slid down his side. “Unless you’re saying you’re done.”

He froze. You tilted your head. Smirked.

“I mean,” you purred, “if it’s too much for you…”

Caleb growled — low and wrecked — and tried to shift off of you. But you didn’t let him. Your legs wrapped tighter. Your hips tilted up. And his cock — still painfully, impossibly hard — slid just a little deeper.

He sucked in a sharp breath. You both did. Then your fingers curled around the back of his neck.

“No,” you whispered. “Stay.”

And he did.

The next round wasn’t gentle. It was raw. Sloppy. Almost delirious. You were slick and open and aching for it — for him — and he moved like he didn’t care if it broke him.

He fucked you like it was his job. Like penance. Like prayer. And you took it. Gave back. Met every thrust with want and teeth and fingernails.

You came again. He didn’t stop.

He flipped you. Took you from behind, your cheek pressed to the mattress, ass in the air, his hand buried in your hair like a handle he couldn’t afford to let go of. You screamed into the sheets when he hit that spot — over and over — and your legs gave out under you.

You came again. He didn’t stop.

The third time, you were on top. Riding him hard, reckless, nails dragging down his chest. His hands were everywhere. His mouth bruising yours. It felt endless. It was endless.

The heat never faded. The pulse never slowed. And neither did he.

You came again. 

The fourth time… you broke him.

His hands fell away. His mouth went slack. His body shuddered violently beneath you as he spilled into you once more, gasping your name like a confession.

He didn’t move after that. Couldn’t. You collapsed forward, your chest to his, your head to his shoulder, your thighs still trembling, your whole body pulsing around the stretch of him inside you.

You didn’t pull off. Didn’t want to. Your breath slowed. So did his.

You lay there, tangled together, limbs shaking, muscles useless, heat still simmering in the air like something sacred. Your hips twitched once more — involuntary. He groaned. But neither of you spoke.

You fell asleep just like that. Still connected. Still inside. Still everything.

Morning hurt.

In the good way. The kind that made you wince when you stretched and immediately smile through it. Muscles sore in places you hadn’t used since… ever. Your thighs protested. Your hips whimpered. Even your toes ached, and you were pretty sure at some point during round three you’d cramped your calf and moaned through it anyway.

The sound of the bathroom door made you stir. Caleb. Out of the shower, towel around his hips, hair damp, beard still glistening with steam. He walked like a man who’d been hit by a truck. You knew the feeling.

You didn’t move until he was gone from view. Then you groaned, rolled out of bed like every joint was filing a complaint, and stumbled into the shower just long enough to rinse off the worst of the evidence. Your thighs tried to fold under you again. You cursed him fondly under your breath.

You found one of his T-shirts — dark gray, soft, oversized, familiar — and pulled it over your head like you had every right to it now. Because you did.

The smell of coffee led you to the kitchen. Two mugs waited on the island.

So did Caleb.

He stood barefoot in front of the counter, head tilted, holding something in one hand. A bottle. Small. Dark. Unlabeled — no, wait. Not unlabeled. The label was peeling. Handwritten. And very, very familiar.

Your stomach flipped.

He didn’t turn around when he spoke. Just held it up like it was evidence.

“Tell me,” he said slowly, “you did not use this for the wings.”

You didn’t answer. The silence spoke for you.

He turned then. Slowly. Face unreadable. Bottle still in hand like it might explode.

“Oh my god,” he said. “You did.”

You lifted one shoulder, sheepish. “I thought it was... herb oil? It smelled good. Kinda spicy.”

He stared. Then he laughed. Not a chuckle. Not a smirk.

A full-bodied, stomach-clutching, almost-hurts-to-breathe kind of laugh that shook his shoulders and made him bend halfway over the counter.

“I told them I wasn’t gonna drink it,” he wheezed. “I told them — I said — ‘That stuff’s basically legal Viagra brewed in someone's grandma's basement,’ and you — oh my god — you cooked with it!”

You stared. “Wait, what?!”

He held the bottle like it had personally ruined his evening. “It’s called Mamajuana. Dominican thing. Rum. Red wine. Tree bark. Herbs. Aphrodisiac-level strong. My unit called it hellfire in a bottle. A guy once took two shots and tried to hump a satellite dish.”

You nearly fell off your stool.

Your face dropped into your hands with a groan. “You are not serious.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, grinning so hard it almost cracked his face in half. “And you marinated chicken in it.”

“I didn’t know!” you wailed, voice muffled. “I thought it was fancy olive oil!”

Caleb took a step forward, grin widening, voice dropping.

“Pip-squeak,” he murmured, “I came four times last night and still had a hard-on strong enough to pass for a concealed weapon. I thought I was dying.” 

You made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeak and shook your head, still hiding behind your fingers.

Then — a shift. The humor lingered in his smile, but his gaze softened.

He stepped closer. Set the bottle down.

His hands found your hips, thumbs brushing bare skin where the T-shirt had ridden up. He leaned in, kissed your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Then your neck. Slower this time.

No rush.

Just the warm, quiet gravity of someone who knew you now. Not just your body. But your rhythm. Your fear. Your fight.

His lips hovered at your jaw.

“I don’t regret a second of it,” he said, voice low and real.

You looked up at him.

“Even if it wasn’t all... us?” you whispered.

His smile faded to something softer.

“It was us,” he said. “Every second of it. We just finally stopped holding back.”

You breathed in — deep, full, present. He kissed you again. Longer this time. Deeper. Less fire. More embers.

And when his hands slid beneath the hem of the shirt — yours now — and you sighed into his mouth, the ache that answered wasn’t urgent.

It was wanting.

Wanting more mornings. Wanting this. Wanting him.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “So. That still counted as winning, right?”

Caleb sighed like a man clinging to the last shreds of control. “You’re banned from my kitchen. Permanently.”

You smiled, slow and satisfied. “Guess I’ll have to keep making a mess somewhere else.”

His groan was low, helpless. And yeah. He was already planning the cleanup.

🦆 Fire in a Wreck During a Flood

It started, as most bad decisions do, with good intentions and a duck.

You had this vision — soft lighting, one perfect dish, a glass of red wine, maybe some music playing in the background. A date night he didn’t see coming. You’d even bought a packet of helium balloons from a tiny shop two zones over, planning to float them by the window while dinner simmered.

You never got to the balloons.

The first duck died in the oven around 5:40 PM — shriveled, blackened, and glistening like volcanic glass. You’d followed half a dozen different recipes, all of which disagreed, and all of which demanded equipment Sylus would never allow into his cathedral of a kitchen. In desperation, you tried to dispose of it quickly. The garbage bin felt too disrespectful. The sink seemed... decisive.

You honestly thought there was a disposal switch. There was not.

You shoved the remains down the drain with a wooden spoon and a whispered apology, until the bird jammed in the curve of the pipe with a thud and the faucet made a low, wet, glugging growl.

Water stopped draining. Then it started backing up. Then it smelled like duck murder.

You’d tried to fix it yourself — unscrewed something under the sink with righteous fury and zero plumbing knowledge, planning to just shake out the remains like a normal person with a death wish.

But you picked the wrong pipe.

A rush of foul water hissed up, something metallic clattered loose, and you ended up holding a piece of the sink’s undercarriage like a war trophy.

You didn’t know what it was called. But it looked important.

You called the twins.

By the time Kieran and Luke arrived, you were ankle-deep in soapy panic, drying your hands on a decorative towel that now reeked of soy sauce and grief.

Kieran didn’t laugh — not out loud. He crouched beside the sink, yanked open the cabinet, and muttered, “You clogged a full industrial drain with a whole animal.”

“It was already dead,” you hissed.

Kieran shook his head, flashlight clenched between his teeth, legs braced awkwardly around the open cupboard while his gloved hands vanished into the under-sink abyss.

Luke had wandered off to inspect the rest of the kitchen, humming faintly. You’d made the mistake of leaving the duck's replacement marinating on the counter.

"Is this attempt two?" he asked, peering into the tray. “Bold.”

“I can still save this,” you said, mostly to yourself.

“Sure,” he said. “You got another fire extinguisher?”

Then he noticed the helium balloons — still in their unopened package — and lit up like he’d just spotted a new toy in the sandbox.

“Cute. You gonna blow these up?”

“Later,” you said, swiping a streak of marinade from your cheek. “Romance.”

Ten minutes later, Luke was inflating one of the balloons — not for romance — and narrating in falsetto:

“Quack-quack, darling. Look at me, I’m your third duck. I’m full of air and disappointment.”

You rolled your eyes.

He let go of the balloon. It zoomed across the kitchen with a high-pitched pppbbbt-tap! and smacked the refrigerator. Then he found another. Filled it. This time, sucked in the helium.

“Yoooourrrr hiiiighnessssss,” he squeaked, hopping around behind you. “The kitchen begs for mercy!”

You were up on the bottom shelf of the tall cabinet by then — perched on tiptoes, trying to reach a bottle you knew Sylus kept up there. You weren’t even sure what it was, but it had a gold seal, and Kieran had told you it would “caramelize skin like a dream.”

The cabinet creaked. Your toes curled over the edge of a jar of lentils. Your hand closed around cold glass just as —

POP.

Behind you. Loud. Sudden.

A burst of helium balloon, punctured by Luke's metal straw.

You shrieked. Flinched. And fell.

Flour rained down like snow. A box of penne exploded. The lentils hit the tile like a thousand tiny bullets. Except the tile was underwater — and everything sank, scattered, and swirled into what could only be described as soup. You hit the ground tangled in a tablecloth that had been drying over a chair, splashing like a capsized ship in a sea of your own making. A saucepan bounced once, then rolled.

Luke’s voice piped up from somewhere behind the island: “…she flies through the air, the Boss’s beautiful wife, wings of glory, pasta in her wake…”

“I am not his wife yet!” you howled.

“Nope,” Kieran noted. “But keep this up and you’ll be the reason Boss stays single forever.”

You were covered head to toe in culinary wreckage. Rice in your bra. Penne stuck to your thigh. A tablecloth twisted around your waist like a toga of shame. And standing just past the island, smug as a soap opera villain, was Luke — the one who’d turned a leaky sink into an ecological disaster. 

He was grinning. Still holding a half-deflated pink heart balloon.

You locked eyes. He blinked. You lunged.

“NOPE—!” he yelped, and bolted, scattering flour behind him like smoke from a cartoon getaway.

You grabbed the nearest saucepan and charged.

“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!”

“I think it’s historic!” Luke squeaked, helium still warping his voice into chipmunk-on-caffeine levels of absurdity.

“You almost killed me!”

“You bounced!” he chirped, skittering backward as you raised the saucepan like a medieval war hammer.

“You popped the balloon on purpose!”

“Science demanded answers!”

“You turned the kitchen into Venice!”

“You’re the one who shoved a duck down the sink!” he squealed, practically wheezing now.

“IT WAS A DELICATE OPERATION—”

“IT WAS A BIOHAZARD,” he shrieked, voice cracking into full cartoon chaos.

You chased him around the kitchen island — water sloshing underfoot, socks soaked, jeans heavy and clinging to your calves. You slipped once in the flood, caught yourself on the counter with a growl, then hurled a wooden spoon like a warning shot. It pinged off his shoulder with a sharp thwack — just enough to make him yelp and speed up.

He skidded around the corner of the prep table, laughing in pure helium-high chaos. “You’re so mad! You’re so cute when you’re mad!”

“I’m gonna crown you with this pan like it’s Excalibur, you little plague.”

He ducked behind a chair.

You faked right, doubled back, and body-checked him as he turned — sending you both crashing into the flood-slicked floor in a splatter of lentils and shame. Water went everywhere. You landed half on top of him, half in a puddle, soaked to the waist and swearing through your teeth as your knee skidded into a floating onion peel.

He wheezed dramatically. “Mercy! I’m just the court jester!”

You raised the saucepan.

“No,” you said sweetly. “You’re the sacrificial goose.”

And with all the dignity of a woman pushed to her limit, you jammed the pot onto his head.

Hard.

BONK.

He squawked inside the metal. “Quack—!”

You gave the edges an extra push, crimping it with both palms like a pastry crust until it wedged on tight.

He flailed. “I CAN��T SEE!”

“You weren’t using your eyes anyway!”

“IT’S DARK IN HERE!”

“GOOD.”

Kieran, still under the sink, gagged on the swampy reek of the drain and muttered, “This is the most effective leadership I’ve seen all week.”

Luke staggered upright, tripped over a bag of dried beans, and stumbled headfirst into the pantry, still yelling “Quack-Quack!” like a demonic toddler trapped in a trash can.

You stood there panting, soaked, hair a mess, one sock gone. The marinade bowl had capsized, the countertop looked like a battlefield, and the floor sloshed with every breath. A spoon floated past like a tiny, defeated boat.

Kieran groaned from under the sink. “I’m disabling the line. If anything explodes, I was never here.”

“Go,” you grunted, waving Kieran off as you turned toward the duck. It was still sitting in its tray on the counter — damp, marinated, mildly accusatory. You grabbed it with all the solemnity of a general sending troops to war, shoved it into the oven, slammed the door, and muttered, “Redemption arc starts now.”

Luke let out a squeak from somewhere behind the pantry, the saucepan still echoing on his head like a helmet of shame. You didn’t even look this time — you just marched toward him, grabbed the sides of the pot, and wrenched it off with the fury of a woman betrayed by every possible element in her own kitchen.

“Put this under the sink,” you snapped, thrusting the pot into his arms. “Catch the fountain. And then scoop.”

“I am not a—” he started.

“—scoop,” you repeated, with full executioner energy.

He obeyed, waddling toward the sink with the pot held like a sacred relic, muttering under his breath in cartoonish despair. You reached for the once-white tablecloth — now steeped in soy, shame, and poor life choices — and dropped to your knees in the puddle. Not to clean. There was no cleaning this. Just to wring it out. One sockless foot sloshed audibly as you shifted. The tablecloth squelched between your hands like it was laughing at you. You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl into the oven with the duck and call it a day.

Kieran, looking like a man who’d just won a duel with Poseidon, finally shut off the main. The next hour and a half passed in soggy penance — you and Luke taking turns scooping floodwater with pots, pans, and whatever wasn’t bolted down. Bit by bit, the tide receded, leaving behind a battlefield of soy trails, bloated pasta, and condiment carnage. 

Kieran dragged in a barrel from the garden (“emergency pickling project,” he said, like that explained anything), and everything — soup, sludge, and the last of your dignity — got dumped there. You considered changing into the dress. A real one. With buttons. But one glance at the twins, the oven, and the duck now sizzling like it had ambitions — and you thought better of it. No way were you leaving the boys alone with poultry and fire. Your stomach growled in agreement.

Kieran side-eyed the sink with deep suspicion. “I think I fixed it,” he said, then pointed a cautious finger. “I’m turning the water back on. If this explodes, I’m telling the Boss it was divine intervention."

That’s when the duck started to… smell.

Not burning. Not yet. But that turning point — when fat starts to push too hard against heat, and the sugar in the glaze threatens to go bitter. The scent went from rich to ominous in seconds.

“Kieran!” you called. “Duck’s turning!”

His voice floated faintly from the back hallway: “WATER’S BACK ON!”

You barely glanced up, busy pulling the duck out of the oven with the reverence of a starving survivor discovering civilization. It glistened. It hissed. It smelled like victory. Your stomach responded with a growl loud enough to echo off the tile.

Behind you, Luke poured the last potful of murky disaster-water into the barrel with a theatrical sigh of relief.

You straightened, turned to Kieran — who was already shaking his boots dry in the hallway.

“Great,” you said, nodding at the swamp you all still technically lived in. “Now bring something to finish the job.”

A vague gesture at the floor. “Anything. Everything. Make it shine. I want to see my sins reflected in it.”

He gave you a dry salute, walked toward the nearest cabinet, and yanked it open like a man on a mission. Thirty seconds in, he straightened up with a glint in his eye and a bottle in his hand.

It was dark glass, sealed in gold, labeled in some faded print that was definitely not English.

“What is that?” you asked suspiciously.

Kieran grinned. “Back-cabinet treasure. Might be Boss’s old flambé stash.”

You narrowed your eyes. “We’re not lighting anything—”

"Chill. Science time," he said, thunking the bottle onto the counter and grabbing a plate. 

You hovered as he drizzled a bit of the syrupy liquid onto the plate, struck a lighter, and—

FOOMPH.

A perfect, beautiful curl of flame.

You blinked. “…Okay, that’s — actually good.”

“Told you.”

You took the bottle. Lifted it over the duck. Poured — slowly, carefully — just a little.

The skin went golden. Sizzled. Glazed to glossy perfection.

You smiled. “Oh my god. It’s working — Kieran, it’s —”

At that exact moment — as if the chaos gods had been bored for a whole thirty seconds — Luke decided it was the perfect time to haul the sloshing barrel of filthy kitchen swamp water back into the garden. 

He lifted it. He tilted it. He tipped it. 

And the moment it lurched, so did Kieran — who lunged to help like some tragic grease-soaked hero. One foot hit a patch of duck-slick water, and the rest was gravity and shame. He crashed straight into the open cupboard under the sink, which took the betrayal personally and collapsed like a Victorian lady. The freshly "fixed" pipe let out a wet pop, and a new geyser of very enthusiastic water erupted with all the joy of plumbing vengeance.

Your eyebrows climbed to your hairline, and every fine hair on the back of your neck stood to attention. You watched in mute horror as the kitchen — once bravely salvaged — began to flood all over again, murky water rising with gleeful malice.

Luke yelped, pointing toward the stove.

You turned — just in time to see the duck, which had previously been golden and glorious, now engulfed in a column of flame tall enough to make the ceiling nervous.

You lunged forward.

The flambé bottle tipped with a mocking wobble, spilling straight into the swamp forming beneath your feet. The pan followed a heartbeat later, flipping end over end before bellyflopping into the puddle like it wanted to die dramatically.

The water caught fire.

You and Luke screamed in unison and scrambled onto the nearest countertops like startled gremlins avoiding divine punishment.

Kieran, ever the survivalist, dove into the open cabinet under the sink and slammed the door shut behind him like a soldier bracing for impact.

And just when it felt like it couldn’t possibly get worse — the fire alarm shrieked. Two seconds later, the ceiling sprinklers erupted, dousing everything in a cold, unforgiving cascade of water.

You didn’t scream. You groaned — a low, guttural, end-of-rope kind of sound.

“It’s water,” you whispered, eyes wide, voice cracking like a dying prayer. “It’s supposed to go out...”

From above, Luke peered down from the top of the kitchen cabinet, hair frizzed out like he’d licked a socket.

“…That might’ve been the exterior use blend,” he offered helpfully.

And then—

The front doors creaked open.

A gust of cooler air swept into the kitchen, briefly disturbing the rising steam, the smell of scorched poultry, and whatever part of your soul had already fled your body.

He appeared in the doorway like a punctuation mark at the end of the world.

Sylus.

Black coat half open. Shirt crisp. Expression unreadable. Rain still clung to the cuffs of his sleeves, like even the weather knew better than to interrupt him.

He stepped into what had once been his kitchen — a space once worthy of a museum of culinary art — and paused.

You didn’t breathe.

He took in:

The flames skimming across the floor like demons doing synchronized swimming in Hell's spa day.

The shattered flambé bottle oozing fire like it was auditioning for a disaster movie.

Luke, crouched on top of the cabinet like a gremlin, clutching the salad spinner like it might absolve him.

Kieran, inside the under-sink cupboard with the door pulled shut, as if drywall could shield him from divine judgment.

And you — perched on the countertop like a feral kitchen goddess mid-sacrifice, hair wild, one sock clinging to dignity, staring at him like you'd just burned down Versailles and wanted notes on your form.

He said absolutely nothing. He just stood there. Then, finally, Sylus inhaled.

“Kitten…” he said, with the exhausted breath of a man too tired to be angry and too furious not to speak. “Was this dinner... or did the Four Horsemen stop by for takeout?”

You swallowed. “I wanted to surprise you.”

He blinked once.

“I am very, very surprised.”

You tried to smile. It came out crooked. “It started off romantic.”

Sylus’s gaze dragged across the battlefield. “And then?”

“…There were developments.”

“I can see that.”

He stepped forward. Slowly. As if expecting the floor to betray him. It squelched.

You flinched. “Okay — don’t be mad—”

He raised a brow, expression blank. “Oh, I’m not mad. I’m just trying to calculate whether Linkon Crisis Council covers emotional trauma caused by fiancées attempting to recreate the Trojan War using poultry.”

“Technically,” you said, shrinking slightly, “only one duck was involved.”

He looked at you. Deadpan.

“Just one,” he repeated.

You nodded.

There was a pause. Just long enough to remember the first duck — the one you’d sent to an early, crispy grave. You nodded again, a touch too firmly this time, as if doing it faster might somehow salvage your dignity.

Then his eyes narrowed. “Where is it?”

“…Floating,” Luke offered helpfully. “Somewhere near the cabinet of lost hope.”

Sylus exhaled through his nose like a man deciding whether spontaneous combustion was a valid coping strategy.

Then he looked back at you. Steady. Quiet.

“You realize,” he said slowly, “I’m going to have to salt the kitchen. Like a cursed site. Maybe call a priest.”

“Noted.”

“And you,” he added, stepping close enough that you had to tilt your chin up, “are never cooking in here again.”

You tried to pout. “Even toast?”

He didn’t blink. “Especially toast.”

“So you’re not mad.”

“I’m livid,” he said calmly, lifting you off the counter like you weighed nothing. “But I’m not letting you walk barefoot through your own war crime.”

You gasped. “I’m fine!”

He raised a brow. “Kitten, remember that time we tracked an SSR-class Wanderer into a no-hunt zone, and you ended up covered in cave dust, ripped your sleeve scaling a comm tower, and dislocated your shoulder punching it in the optic?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

He nodded. “You looked more put-together then.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and carried you — wet, guilty, and still somehow grinning — straight out of the kitchen, past the still-sputtering pipe, tossing a sharp “Kieran, shut it down” over his shoulder like a grenade on a timer.

He carried you out through the garden door in silence. Past the scorched threshold, past the scent of smoked soy and betrayal.

For a second, you blinked against the sudden breeze, mind scrambling.

Wait. Was he... evicting you? Was this how it ended — dumped in the herb patch like a misbehaving housecat?

But before you could ask what in the horticultural hell was happening, he crossed the lawn with the grim purpose of a man about to hose down a crime scene.

And then — he set you down. Gently. In the grass. Like some tragic harvest offering.

“SYLUS!” you gasped, still clinging to his shirt.

He ignored you. Walked over to the side of the tool shed. Turned on the outdoor hose. Lifted the nozzle with terrifying precision —

And blasted you from ankle to scalp in a cold, high-pressure arc of righteous vengeance.

“GAHH—!”

You squealed, spinning in place like a soaked kitten who’d just been baptized in heresy. Your hair flopped into your eyes. Water ran down your back. You flailed. You slipped.

“Stop — stop it—!”

You tried to dodge. He followed. Calm. Efficient. Not even smiling.

“You wanted fire,” he said, voice maddeningly even. “This is balance.”

You lunged for the hose in protest, indignant and dripping. He dodged, of course. Effortlessly. With the reflexes of someone who clearly wrestled war criminals for fun. Then — just as you swore vengeance — he looped the hose around your waist once, then twice, and pulled.

You went stumbling straight into him with a wet thump, every nerve in your body shrieking indignation. He caught you like you were nothing at all. Warm. Steady. Unbothered.

Behind you, what was left of the kitchen flood trickled into the rose bushes. And, as your soaked shirt clung to his chest, it occurred to you that for the first time in hours…

…his house didn’t have a single drop of water left in it. Except, apparently, in the garden. And you.

“When I leave,” he murmured into your ear, breath warm and infuriating, “I clearly need to tie you up. For public safety.”

You were shaking now — not from rage, but from the cold. Your teeth chattered. Your fingers clenched in his shirt.

He paused. And just like that, the heat in him changed.

He dropped the hose. Silence.

Then — gentle. Quick. Fluid — he peeled his shirt off over his head, wrapped it around your shoulders, and lifted you back into his arms, this time with no protest, no force.

You curled into him instinctively.

He didn’t speak again until you passed through the back doors and he was carrying you upstairs. Not a word. Just the steady rhythm of his breath and your heartbeat thudding against his shoulder. You didn’t know if he was furious or resigned or about to call the national emergency hotline and declare a domestic code red.

Instead, he set you down in the hallway, dripping, barefoot, and blinking at the sudden warmth.

“Go change,” he said simply, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Before I hand you over to the fire department as evidence.”

He turned, disappeared down the stairs.

You changed quickly — dry clothes, clean skin, wrapped in one of his soft cotton pullovers that still smelled like expensive cologne and accidental forgiveness. When you padded back down barefoot, the scent of smoke had faded. Mostly.

The kitchen... looked almost normal. A bit too shiny in places. A few new scorch marks on the far wall. 

Kieran and Luke stood elbow-deep in soap bubbles, suspiciously well-behaved. Kieran glanced up and winced. Luke saw you, gave you a sheepish wave —

Then broke into a huge grin and threw you a thumbs-up. You squinted.

“Why is he smiling?”

“Don’t ask,” Kieran muttered.

Before you could press, Sylus appeared at your side, as if conjured by dry wit and exhaustion. He took your hand — gently, like you might try to make another kitchen combust — and led you out to the waiting car.

You looked back once. Luke blew you a kiss. Kieran mouthed, run while you still can.

Sylus helped you into the passenger seat with a soft sigh, shut the door, and climbed in beside you. He didn’t say anything for the first few streets. The city blurred past in late-afternoon gold. Then:

“I was gone for six hours.”

You glanced at him.

He looked ahead, face unreadable. “Six. Hours.”

“Technically, it started fine,” you said.

“No. No, it didn’t.”

“There was a plan.”

“There was a flood.”

“Only because the sink didn’t have a disposal.”

“Because you shoved an entire duck down it.”

You scowled. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You roasted a duck in a flaming puddle of floor soup.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re not gonna marry me now, are you? Just because I can’t cook.”

Sylus’s mouth twitched. “That’s not the worst of your flaws.”

You gasped. “Excuse me—!”

He reached over, casually laced his fingers with yours.

“You don’t just not cook. You destroy infrastructure. You violate the Geneva Conventions of domestic appliances. But…” he looked at you, side-glance soft now, voice quiet, “you did it because you wanted to surprise me.”

You deflated. Just a little.

“I wanted it to be romantic.”

He parked in front of the hotel — a high-end private tower you’d never even noticed before. The doorman opened your door. Sylus ignored him.

“You’re going to shower,” he said, voice slipping into command again. “A long, hot one. While I figure out how to rebuild a kitchen from ashes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are we staying here?”

He looked at the sky. “Unless you’d like to sleep on a countertop covered in caramelized soy glue.”

You were still grumbling when the suite door clicked shut behind you. The shower steamed the mirrors. The robe was comically plush — full hotel luxury. You padded out barefoot, towel around your hair, haloed in warmth.

And stopped dead. On the table: dinner.

Steam curled from a silver cloche. A bottle of wine rested in an ice bath. And in the center — carved, plated, perfect: Peking. Duck.

You narrowed your eyes. “You — you ordered this.”

Sylus was by the window, immaculate as ever — hair flawless, suit crisp, a wineglass poised in one hand. He looked like a luxury ad for danger and disapproval. And next to him, you felt like a half-drowned feral kitten someone had hosed off just enough to be allowed indoors.

You scowled. “I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He crossed the room, took your hand again, and pulled you into his lap as he sat. The robe slipped open slightly. His fingers skimmed under the hem, along the back of your thigh, warm against your clean skin.

“You had my card,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “You could’ve ordered it. From anywhere. Best in the city.”

“I wanted to do it myself.”

“I know.” His lips brushed your jaw. “And I’d still burn the house again if it meant getting here.”

You turned to kiss him — deep, slow, shameless. He tasted like red wine and something even older. His hand wrapped in your hair. Your legs shifted around him.

Somewhere across the room, the duck sighed.

Forgotten. Cooling.

Probably grateful it didn’t end up as test subject number three.

[dear-aubade]

Kisses After Midnight

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader Smut

Summary: Joel gets back from a long patrol in the middle of the night. It’s clear that his baby missed him very much.

Notes: smut, sub!reader, soft!dom!joel, praise, dirty talk, unprotected piv, Joel calls reader every pet name in the book, teasing, slight orgasm denial, dd/lg vibes sorta (but no use of ‘daddy’), let’s play a game called how many times can the author use the word ‘sweet’ in one fic

For it being the end of the world, you and Joel had a pretty good life. He’d been in Jackson for about eight months—eight months in which he gave his heart to the sweetest little thing to ever walk the earth.

Your very existence seemed to be a mockery of the times you lived in. You were soft and sweet, edges not yet roughed. He didn’t know how you’d gone so long staying as doe-eyed as you did—hell, he didn’t know how you ended up with him. He felt far too…jaded. Far too rough to be with someone so beautiful and untainted.

And yet, you were drawn to him. He still remembered the first day you knocked on his door, asking in your honey-sweet voice, I told Maria I’d give you a tour of the town. Is that alright, Mr. Miller? Oh, he’d just about died then.

Things only took off from there. Something would break in your house, and he’d be called over to fix it. Then you would bring him some bread you baked as a thank you, and then he’d say, Well this is too nice, darlin.’ Why don’t you let me return the favor by putting some shelves up in your living room? He’d seen the piles of books at your bedside—your love of reading deserved to be displayed.

Somewhere along the way, you and Joel just…fit. Something clicked, and soon he was moving into your pretty little house, placing kisses to your pretty little lips, waking up pressed against pretty little you.

Yes, for the end of the world, you and Joel were doing quite nicely.

Except on long patrol days, that is. Oh, Joel knew how much you hated it. Now that you’d gotten used to sleeping in Joel’s arms you didn’t want to give it up, not even for a single night.

But Joel had a part to play in the community—he couldn’t stop working, no matter how much he wished he could spend all his time with you. He’d press kisses to your quivering bottom lip, murmuring reassurances that he would be back the very next night.

Which brought him to now. He’d spent a day and a half out in the cold with Tommy scanning for Clickers, thinking about his princess the entire time ice and wind battered his face. Finally, after a day and a half without seeing you, he was shaking the snow off his jacket and stepping inside your shared home.

Joel was quiet as he took off his shoes and shed his outer layers before heading upstairs. Once inside your room he stripped down to his cotton t-shirt and boxers, then slid under the covers beside you. He wrapped his large arm around your body, pulling you into him and was delighted to find you were wearing nothing but one of his shirts. He nuzzled the top of your head with his nose, then placed a kiss in your hair. “Hey there, sleepyhead.”

You let out a soft yawn, still groggy and half-asleep. “Hm?”

He chuckled lightly and kissed your cheek. “Wake up, pretty baby.” Normally Joel would never wake you up in the middle of the night, but you had explicitly asked him to do so every time he got back from a long patrol. He still remembered your teary eyes the morning after the one time he’d tried to let you sleep and just greet you in the morning. He’d never tried again after that.

Now you began to really stir, blinking your eyes as you looked up at him with a soft, sleepy pout that he wanted to kiss. However, it melted away when your eyes grew a little more alert. “Joel?”

He brushed the hair from your face. “Mhmm. I’m home,” he whispered before kissing you soundly on the mouth. He pulled away just slightly, eyes dancing over your face. “I missed my gorgeous girl’s eyes…and those lips, especially.”

You leaned up to plant another firm kiss to his mouth before holding to him, nuzzling your face into his neck, letting out a soft breath of something almost like relief.

He kept you pressed to the warmth of his body, “Was my little girl lonely ‘round here?” he murmured, rubbing your back gently.

You nodded into his neck. “Missed you.”

He chuckled, kissing your neck, holding you close. “I’m right here now.” His sweet thing. His nose brushed along your jaw and neck, taking in your scent. “Let me ease that pretty little mind a bit, hm?”

Your breath hitched and you nodded, eyes getting a little more glossy…

“C’mere, babygirl…” he whispered, cradling the back of your head to pull your lips to his. Joel’s hands roamed over the curves of your body, mapping out each and every familiar piece of you, his palms warm and strong against your skin. He nibbled at your bottom lip until you parted your mouth in a gasp to allow his tongue to slip inside.

Joel soon broke the kiss, panting softly before he started trailing his lips down your throat and collarbone, nibbling and sucking as he went. “Missed that pretty little voice,” he murmured in that low voice of his. “Can you use it again for me sweetheart?” Joel knew how you got when he spoke to you like this. He knew you would be putty beneath him in no time.

You nodded, letting out a strained, “Mhmm.”

Joel pressed your back to the mattress so you were looking up at him. “Use your words, babygirl,” he reminded, dipping to kiss up your throat again. “Or do I need to make you?” His teeth caught on the sensitive skin below your jaw.

You gasped. “I-I can use ‘em.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, pulling away to look at your face, studying your expression. His fingertips brushed the edge of your neckline. “Can I take all this off, baby?”

You nodded, eyes big and wide. “Yes Joel, please.”

He let out a short, breathy chuckle. “So polite.” With that he got to work, pulling the shirt over your head with one swift tug, leaving you bare beneath him. He looked you over greedily, tracing his hands over your sides, squeezing your thighs, making you squirm. “Oh, sweetheart,” he groaned, eyes falling over your body. “Look at my sweet baby.”

You let out a soft whine of impatience, but Joel cut you off. “Ah—you gonna be a good girl?” He knew you would be. You always were. He just liked hearing it from your strawberry lips.

You nodded, eyes doe-like. “Yes, promise!”

He smiled. “Always listen so well for me.” He sat up a little to remove his own shirt and throw it to the floor, but swiftly leaned back down to kiss you deeply. You tasted like honey on his tongue and his hands slipped along your sides to rest on your hips, locking you in place.

You uselessly tried to buck against his strong hold, trying to press the apex of your thighs closer to his, but he was having none of it. He chuckled. “Needy girl…always gotta have me ‘s close as possible, hm? So greedy, baby.” His sentence was punctuated by a nip to your neck.

“Jus’ missed you.”

“I know darlin’, I know.” Such a soft, sweet voice you had. He met your big, glassy eyes as his fingertips dragged along your neck….your collarbone…until he grasped one of your breasts with his large hand.

He silenced your gasp with his kisses. His sweet girl—so sensitive, you were. You whimpered into his mouth as he brushed his thumb over the peak of your breast.

How had he been apart from you so long?

You were aching. Joel always likes taking his time with you, you knew that, but sometimes all you wanted him to do was pin you down and ravish you instead of playing you like his favorite instrument, stringing his fingers along each little spot that would make you sing….

Joel’s warm mouth closed around your breast and you let out another soft whimper as he flicked his tongue over the peak. Your hands were in his hair, threading through the salt-and-pepper curls while his tongue and teeth were at work.

Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Joel,” you whined, voice quivering.

“Don’t worry pretty girl, I’m gonna give you what you need.” His fingertips dragged down the center of your tummy, drifting farther and farther below…

“Oh,” Joel cooed, and you moaned softly as his fingers dipped into your wetness. “You’re so ready for me, sweetheart.”

You felt like you could cry from the need, the white hot flames that needed to be fanned and then extinguished. “Joel—”

“I’ll take care of you, darlin’. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

His thumb found purchase on your bundle of nerves and you keened, arching your back, trying to get closer closer closer while he stoked the fire between your legs. He held you the whole time, murmuring how beautiful you were, how pretty your little voice was, how good you were being for him.

You could feel yourself slowly unraveling; the thread of your very being was fraying, coming apart as you climbed higher, higher—

He removed his hand.

Oh, you whined at that, your climax being ripped away so cruelly and carelessly. “No, no, Joel I—”

“Shh, shh baby.” He quieted your protests with a kiss. “I just had to get you ready for me—want you to finish around my cock.”

His bluntness made you squirm, and you’d been so lost in your pleasure that you hadn’t realized you could feel his hardness against your hip, thick and heavy.

Joel shucked down his boxers and tossed them to the side while you lay there waiting, aching for that fullness you knew so well—

You squealed as he tapped the wet tip of his length against the bud atop your slit.

He chuckled and silenced your high-pitched noises with gentle shushing. “I gotcha, honey,” he murmured.

Then he slid inside.

Joel let out a soft groan next to your ear as he fully sheathed himself within your wetness. “So tight for me baby—“ He cut off with another grunt, sliding out before pushing right back in.

He was so big, his strong arms holding you as he rocked his hips, filling you up, up, up until you swear you could feel him in your tummy. Your walls clenched against him, breath hitching with every thrust.

“My baby,” he crooned, ducking his head to kiss along your neck and shower you with praises as he held you to him. “My sweet babygirl. Missed you so much out on the trail, thought about your pretty little pussy the whole time—”

Your head fell back with a gasp as the tip of Joel’s hardness tickled that spot deep inside that had your toes curling.

He chuckled. “Is that the spot, baby?” He pointedly thrust again, making you moan, and grinned knowingly. “Oh, I think it is, hm?” He picked up his pace again, hitting that spot over and over and over.

You felt something start to coil in your lower belly, something familiar and white-hot. Joel reached down to rub circles into your clit, which made you let out a high-pitched whimper and clench around his length.

You were babbling mindlessly, thoughts empty save for him and how good he was making you feel. “Joel, Joel, I—oh please—I need—”

“I know what you need babygirl.” His teeth caught on your earlobe as he kept his pace. “Can feel—fuck—can feel you clamping down on me. You gonna finish for me already?”

You nodded, your lips parted in a silent gasp of need, eyes big and wide as you whined out a desperate, “Mhmm!”

You bucked your hips into his, and this time when you felt your legs tighten, your breath fail, your tummy coil, Joel murmured hushed affirmatives you your jaw and neck and ear—

You cried out as you fell over the edge. Your back arched, your muscles seized, and your vision blurred with overwhelmed tears as you felt the warmth of Joel finishing inside you soon after.

“That’s it sweetie—fuck, so good for me, such a good girl falling apart on my cock, taking me so well—”

You were letting out desperate needy noises, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as the crackling heat lingered.

“I know, I know,” he murmured, claiming your lips, swallowing your whines with his mouth. “You did so good baby, so good….look at you, my pretty girl, my baby….”

Your body went lax, melting against him, each coo and murmur bringing you deeper under.

“That’s it…I’ve gotcha…” Joel maneuvered you as if you were light as a feather so that you were laying side by side, still connected, him still thick and warm inside of you.

Completely blissed out, you nuzzled into his chest, relishing in the feeling of his strong arms around you. Your eyes drooped.

“Tired already, babygirl?”

“Mmm.”

Joel hummed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “That’s okay, darlin’. Just fall back to sleep. I’ll be holdin’ you the whole night through.”

Soon the fog overtook your mind completely and you drifted off, comforted by the knowledge that your Joel was home again.

[lazysoulwriter]

big spoon supremacy ── pedro pascal .✦

content: fluff, romcom vibes, established relationship, cuddling, playful bickering, soft!Pedro winning (barely)

You’re brushing your teeth when he strikes.

Literally walks up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist like a python in pajamas, and rests his chin on your shoulder. Pedro’s voice is soft with sleep, gravelly with that unfair morning-after sex charm.

"Can I be the big spoon tonight?"

Mouth full of foam, you nearly choke. You spit into the sink, rinse, and meet his reflection in the mirror.

"Tonight? Babe, it’s 3AM."

He blinks. "Okay, technically, this morning."

You turn in his arms and poke a finger into his bare chest. "You were the big spoon last night."

"Not true."

"You were!"

"No, I distinctly remember your leg flopping over me like I was your personal weighted blanket."

"That’s just affection."

"That’s dominance."

You scoff, arms crossing over your chest. "Pedro, you literally curled around me like a croissant."

"And it was delightful." He leans down, kissing your temple with exaggerated sweetness. "But it’s my turn now. Let me be the croissant."

You smirk. "You mean the blanket."

He shrugs. "Semantics."

You walk toward the bed, flopping down on your side dramatically. "I’m just saying, I sleep better holding you."

He follows, lying behind you. "Yeah? I sleep better when I’m the fortress."

"The fortress?"

"Protective. Warm. Architecturally sound." He’s grinning against your neck now, arms sliding around you, already tucking your back into his chest.

You roll your eyes. "This doesn’t feel like a fair decision process."

"Baby, this is a full-body hug." His legs hook around yours. "You’re trapped. Surrender."

You twist slightly to look back at him. "Fine. But only because your arms are warm and you smell good."

He kisses the spot right behind your ear, smug as ever. "That’s what I thought."

A beat of silence.

Then, softly:

"Tomorrow night, I’m the big spoon again."

He chuckles. "Sure, sweetheart. We’ll negotiate."

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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[whytheylosttheirminds]

Blue Sweater - r.c.

disclaimer: originally posted on my old blog in October, this is a repost! soft bf Rafe belongs on tumblr, so I am returning him to his home to run free <3

cw: smut, fluffy bf vibes, inspired by s4 rafe, pinv, this fic is 18+ minors do not interact

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You’d fallen asleep on the couch, waiting up for him again. You didn’t fault Rafe for working so hard, you just miss him so fucking much when he’s in back-to-back meetings all day. 

You’re pulled from your dreams when the couch dips below you, a large, warm presence settling next to you on the sofa. You didn’t have to open your eyes to know it’s him.

“Hey,” you mumble sleepily, eyes still closed.

He’s smirking down at you, you know him so well you can picture exactly how he looks without actually seeing him. 

“Hi,” he leans forward, planting a sweet kiss on your cheek. “I’m sorry, that last meeting ran so long.”

Finally opening your eyes to meet his, you’re almost startled by the sight. Somehow, in the dim evening light, they’re more deeply blue and beautiful than ever.

“Nice sweater,” you say, reaching up to run your fingers along the hard edge of his shoulder. Even though he looks so soft and pretty right now, he’s tense, and you wish you could ease the worry that furrows his brow.

He smiles knowingly, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling in the cute way that makes your heart ache for him.

“Thanks, my girlfriend got it for me.”

“She has good taste,” you joke as your run your hand gently up and down his bicep, the soft fabric such a contrast to the hard muscle below. 

“Yeah, she’s all kinds of good,” he winks.

“Then why’d you make her wait for you all night?” You pout, sticking out your bottom lip so he’d know you’re just teasing.

“I said I’m sorrrrry,” he whines as he leans over you more, adjusting to bring his legs onto the couch. You make room for him instinctually, his body fitting into yours like you were designed for each other. 

He lets his full weight down slowly, sinking you both deep into the cushions. Nuzzling his head into your neck, he drags his lips against the skin below your ear so gently, it sends goosebumps racing across your skin. He can feel your excitement and starts kissing you more firmly, leaving little wet spots up the column of your throat.

Your hands splay out over his big, firm back, rubbing circles into the tight muscles. You press deep, working out his stress, and he groans at your firm touch. Your hands work slowly down his back, pressing as you go. When you reach the hem of his sweater, you slip your hands underneath. Rafe flinches at your touch, a shudder running through him.

“Your hands are cold!” He exclaims, his voice muffled by the fabric of your shirt.

“Oh sorry, love!” you start to pull them away, but he reaches his arm behind him and pins your palms to his skin.

“No, it feels nice, don’t stop.”

You continue, the pads of your fingers digging little figure eights into his lower back, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“What’s got you so stressed baby, hmm?” You ask.

“Just got too much going on,” he shakes his head so his buzzed hair tickles your earlobe. You giggle at the sensation, his head rising and falling with the shake of your chest.

“Poor baby,” you coo, making him smile against you. “Just need a little help to relax?”

Rafe nods against you, moving slightly to lay his head against your chest so you can run your nails along his head like you know he likes. You bring one hand up, the other still under his shirt, the motion making you open your legs wider so you can stretch. He slots between them perfectly, and when you drag your nails over the fuzzy hairs right at the nape of his neck, you can feel him twitch against your core, already half hard.

“Someone’s needy,” you hum, delighted that you can make him so hot just by touching him tenderly like this. “Want me to make you forget all about your bad day?”

“Please,” he groans into your collarbone, pressing his hips down harder so you can feel him fully against you now. Your wetness pools immediately, soaking through your panties as you arch your back and return the pressure. 

“Shit, baby, that’s so nice,” he praises.

“I’ve been waiting all day for this,” you confess.

“Then we better not make you wait any longer.”

Swiftly, he lifts his head from your chest and finds your lips with his. It’s hungry and sloppy, the wet skin of his lower lip sliding against yours as your mouths collide. You’re fully grinding up into him now, and there is nothing semi-soft about him, his hard cock threatening to rip the seams of his pants. You writhe, desperate to feel his length. You know it like the back of your hand, picturing his perfect cock clearly as you rock against it. You’ve got every vein, every throbbing, pink inch memorized. 

“Take your pants off,” you breathe into his open mouth.

With a cocky grin that makes you impossibly wetter he drawls, “now who’s needy, huh?”

You roll your eyes and reach for his waistband, if he’s gonna be an ass about it you’ll just do it yourself. He mirrors you, undressing you with the same shaky fervor. Your shirt goes first, he’s delighted to see you’ve opted for no bra. In the cold evening air, your nipples harden immediately, and he can see the goosebumps spreading across your torso. 

“Ohh baby, you really are freezing.”

“Mhm,” you nod, lip pulled between your teeth. “Warm me up, Rafe.”

A throaty groan rises from his chest as he takes over your work on his pants, ripping them off as best he can without standing, his boxers following. You slip your thumbs under your shorts, doubling up to slide your panties down with them until you’re bare for him. Only one piece of clothing remains between you, the soft blue sweater you bought for him. He starts to pull it off, but you stop him, your hand wrapping around his wrist.

“No, leave it on,” you instruct.

“Whatever you want, angel,” he smirks at your unusual request, but obliges without complaint.

He lays down on you again, his lips hovering over yours as he lets his cock press into your inner thigh. He’s so hard you gasp, inhaling sharply at the sweet pressure against your leg. He kisses you again, more tenderly this time, like he’s trying to imprint the taste of you onto his tongue. As he lets his weight settle on you, the soft threads of his sweater rub over your sensitive nipples, the sensation making your eyes squeeze shut and a strained moan echo from your chest.

“Y’okay?” He asks.

“It feels so g-good,” you croak out.

“What does, baby?”

You blush, feeling silly for it, but something about the soft material against your hardened skin is so delicious.

A little embarrassed, you admit, “the sweater on my tits feels really nice.”

“It does?” He questions, amused.

“Just stay on me baby, don’t stop.”

You and Rafe have been known to argue about almost anything, but he never argues when you tell him how to make you feel good. He flattens his chest against you fully, rutting his dick against your leg, causing his chest to rub against yours as requested. Your head falls back into the throw pillows. You let him continue to move you both until you almost can’t stand the friction anymore.

“I love that,” you whimper, eyes still squeezed shut. “But I need you inside.”

“Can’t wait any longer, huh?” He chuckles. Once again, you don’t need to see him to know what he looks like, his eyebrows are surely arched high and his lips quirked to the side as he looks at you in amusement.

“Rafe I’ve been waiting for like twelve hours,” you complain.

“I know, baby, I know,” he quells you. “I got you, alright?”

Propped on one arm, his sweater leaves your chest for a moment so he can line himself up at your soaked entrance. You wait with closed eyes, bracing for impact as you know it will take a minute to adjust to his size, it always does. But he doesn’t enter you, just grumbles with annoyance as he shuffles above you.

Your quizzical eyes open to find him fumbling with the collar of his sweater, preparing to pull it off.

“What’s the problem?”

“I want to see you, but this fucking sweater’s in the way,” he explains. You lift your head and look down to where your bodies should be meeting to see the hem of his sweater hanging in the way, blocking the view. “I’m just gonna take it off.”

“Nuh-uh!” you object. 

“Baby,” he whines.

A solution comes to you, causing you to break into a wide grin.

“Open up,” you say, and he’s never looked more confused.

But then, you reach down and pull the hem of the sweater between your fingers, making his stomach flinch as you brush against it. You lift the hem up to his mouth, revealing the sight of his cock dangerously close to your entrance. He puzzles it together, and teasingly rolls his eyes before letting you place it between his teeth. He bites down on it obediently, considering a protest before looking down to see he now has a perfect angle to his favorite sight in the world.

It feels so good when he finally slides in, stretching you so deliciously and filling you like only he can, that you almost actually cry. He moves gently, considerate enough to know there’s probably an edge of pain to your pleasure.

“You don’t have to go slow,” you assure him. “Take your stress out on me, I can take it.”

“Yeah?” He tries to sound cocky, but it’s muffled from the fabric between his teeth.

The way his jaw clenches in frustration makes you giggle. Rafe usually does most of the talking, knowing the sound of his low voice in your ear makes you come so much faster.

“I’ll do the talking, just focus on my voice while you fuck me, m’kay?” You purr.

He nods in agreement, picking up the pace until he’s rocking into you, continuously hitting the perfect spot that makes you both shudder with pleasure. He’s going so hard you have to lift your arm above you and steady yourself against the arm of the couch. His eyes flit between the sight of you taking him in so perfectly and the way your tits bounce with each thrust.

You keep your promise to talk him through it, starting with, “just like that, Rafe- mmmph- feels so good. God, I can feel you so deep.”

His brows furrow in concentration, thrusting harder, desperate to drag more praises from your kiss-chapped lips. Your eyes train on the veins in his neck, throbbing with effort. You reach your other hand up and grab his chin, pulling his face so his eyes pierce yours.

“Shit, you look so good fucking me like you needed to,” you cry.

As much as he loves the eye-contact, he’s still wearing this stupid sweater for a reason, and he needs to remind you. He matches you by placing his hand on your face, soft but firm, and directing your gaze down to see him pistoning into you.

“Oh my god, that’s so hot,” you smile, admiring the creamy mess you’re making on his shaft. “You’re fucking covered in me, baby. Made me so wet comin’ in here looking this good.”

He removes his hand from your head, looking for a non-verbal way to thank you for your compliments. He presses his thumb to your tongue, and you don’t need words to know what he’s doing. You get it nice and wet, swirling spit around his thumb with your tongue. Once it’s ready, he lowers it to your clit, rubbing back and forth a few times before forming steady circles.

“Ah- fuck- yes, Rafe that’s so-” Your commitment to keep talking falters as pleasure floods your mind, robbing you of your voice.

He knows what you need, he always knows what you need. He pulls your hand from his chin and places it on his chest, you bunch the fabric of his sweater so he can release it from his teeth.

“There ya go,” he coos. “Need me to talk you through it, huh?”

You nod desperately, confirming what he already knew.

“Couldn’t even concentrate in my meetings,” he begins, panting with the effort he’s putting in, not letting up his pace. “Thinkin’ about you here waiting for me, walking around the house in those little shorts. How am I supposed to close deals when I can’t stop thinking about bending you over the kitchen counter and fucking this perfect pussy, huh?”

His words had exactly the effect he was hoping for, you were beside yourself, moaning and squirming beneath him. Letting out the sweetest little “oh, oh, ohs” as his cock rocked your whole body. He was losing tempo, both of you nearing the edge. You brought your other fist up to bunch his sweater, too, grasping so tightly you were afraid you were gonna tear it. You clenched around him as he kept talking.

“That’s it, baby, squeeze me as hard as you can - fuck!” He was unraveling, needing to find the words to get you there so he didn’t finish first. “Fuck, that’s my good girl.”

Just as he expected, that’s what finally did it for you. You cried out his name as sparks exploded in your stomach, coming so hard you had to bury your face into his chest to keep from screaming. He followed behind you almost immediately, his hot cum spurting into you as his primal groans and grunts echoed through the room.

A few minutes later, you’re cleaned up and cuddled in his bed, now wrapped up in his sweater, the stretched-out fabric soft against you. He smirked as his hands ran over the material, rubbing over your stomach and waist lovingly.

“Might have to wear this thing every day if that’s how you’re gonna react,” he teases you.

“Uh-huh,” you giggle. “Good luck getting it back.”

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a/n: I'm only back temporarily but I'll be reposting just a few of my non-series works from my old blog that I think just belong on tumblr!! it just feels right for them to be here. miss y'all!

[satori-runa]

—Under Terms and Service

Summary: Ena and you embark on a business based dinner date!

Tags: ooc, not proof read, romance, comedy

Words: 0,7k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Ena glanced at you. You glanced back.

"A contract?" you asked, raising a brow.

Ena nodded, her signature smile lighting up her face, charming, surreal, and just a little bit unsettling in the way only Ena could be. “Absolutely! To cover the points under the terms and service document and make sure that both sides are compensated. Someone like you, a fellow smart mind, would understand how business goes, right?” she said smoothly, holding up a piece of paper and pointing at the blank line meant for your signature.

You sighed, but you couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at your lips. “Well, I guess it's needed.” Your eyes flicked to the line of people growing outside your favorite restaurant. It was couples’ discount night—one you’d been looking forward to—but you had to find a date, even if it's fake. That's when Ena, ever the business opportunist , offered to step in as your pretend girlfriend.

All it took was a signature, and just like that, Ena was officially your partner for the night.

As you both reached the front of the line, the person at the entrance gave you a long, skeptical look. Maybe they sensed something was off. Maybe they saw right through your little charade.

But before you could even open your mouth, Ena stepped forward with theatrical flair.

“HOW DARE YOU TO ASSUME THAT I'M NOT ABSOLUTELY MADLY IN LOVE WITH THEM?!” she shouted, voice shaking with raw, chaotic emotion. “A LONELY MAGGOT LIKE YOU COULDN'T GRASP MY AFFECTION FOR MY PARTNER!”

The poor host flinched hard, eyes wide. Ena wasn’t joking, and if she was, she sold it terrifyingly well.

“I love my partner very much,” she added with a proud huff, her voice smooth like honey, “more than any paid vacation days.”

And with that, she grabbed your hand, smiling sweetly as if the outburst hadn’t just shattered the restaurant’s vibe like a thrown plate. You had no choice but to go along, blushing and trying not to laugh too hard.

Dinner was… intense.

The moment you sat down, Ena adjusted her seat like it was a throne. Her smile returned, bright and poised. “This is delightful, isn’t it? The ambiance, the lighting, perfect for a romantic evening between two… committed individuals.” She leaned forward just enough to bat her lashes at you. “And remember, any additional sides are covered under subsection 4-B of our temporary partnership clause.”

You blinked. “There’s a subsection?”

“There is now,” she grinned, sipping from her water like it was vintage wine.

The waiter approached, just barely

masking his discomfort. “And for the couple tonight, have you decided—?”

“ONLY THE MOST EXPENSIVE AND BEST OF COURSE!” Ena snapped. The waiter flinched.

You tried to intervene. “Actually, maybe something in the middle rang—”

“Silence, darling.” Ena turned her head dramatically toward you, voice low and venomously sweet. “Your opinions are valued, but we agreed, I am leading this date. Article 2, remember?” Her smile was the kind that made the hairs on your neck stand up.

But a beat later, she laughed and winked at the server. “Kidding! Just kidding. We’ll go with two of the set menus, please. Perfect for lovers, right? Because we’re so deeply in love and compatible and emotionally entangled.” Her tone dripped with sugar.

The waiter fled. Probably for his life.

You leaned in. “Are you trying to scare everyone into thinking we’re real?”

“I’m trying to win,” Ena whispered back. “There’s no prize, but I like winning anyway.”

Throughout dinner, her personalities flicked like a light switch. One moment she was feeding you a bite of bread and cooing, “Oh, open up, my sweet tax deduction~” and the next, she was glaring daggers at a passing couple. “If they look at us like that again, I smack their heads inside their soup.”

You weren’t sure if you should be afraid or impressed.

Probably both.

Midway through dessert, Ena leaned back in her seat with a satisfied hum, fingers interlocked behind her head. “This was a good idea. You get food, I get emotional dominance, and together, we get a 30% discount.”

You tried not to laugh. “So this is just business to you?”

She turned to you with a completely straight face. “Absolutely. Unless, of course…” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’ve caught feelings, haven’t you?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

Ena burst into a delighted laugh, her eyes glitching slightly in color and shape. “Relax, I’m only teasing. Probably. Maybe. Contractually, I’m not allowed to say.”

You stared at her. “...You are chaos.”

“I am your girlfriend,” she corrected with a wicked grin. “At least until the check comes.

[dannyriccsystem]

hi angel i loved your carlos soulmate fic !!! could you do a soulmate au with oscar please??

YOU’RE MINE, ALRIGHT?

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

SUMMARY: Oscar’s your soulmate, but he’s certain that you’re not his.

WORD COUNT: 3.1K

WARNINGS: Light angst w happy ending, soulmate au, Y/N usage, not proofread

FEATURING: Oscar Piastri x Model Soulmate!Reader

I’m sooo tired it’s bed time for me 🥱

Since as far back as mankind can recall, soulmates have been embedded into the universe’s coding. Ancient drawing on cave walls and old decoded passages tell fabled stories of two hearts that become one is a dazzling spectacle of shimmering lights. Your classic love story followed the mindless laws of life to a T, always beautifully describing the event that transpires upon the kiss of your beloved.

It was a simple set of details and instructions to guide you in meeting your other half. Everyone came into the world with a unique mark upon their skin— It could be anywhere from head to toe, and it didn’t even have to be in a spot that was typically visible. It was in a spot with a design specific to you, the only other person bearing such a unique feature would be the one you’re meant to be with forever.

Your mark was always appraised. Perhaps it wasn’t in the most convenient spot for the sake of the hunt, but it was downright gorgeous. Detailed angel wings were folded up on your back, covering the entire surface in the dark tattoo-like ink. Everyone who had the opportunity to perceive it found themselves in awe, jealous of such a beautiful design.

You, however, were not pleased. It was unfortunate to have your mark be located in a place most people kept hidden. You had to wonder if you had ever passed by your destined lover, unaware it was them because their shirt was concealing the truth from you. You truly tried everything from dating apps to display your tattoo to online forums dedicated to finding your soulmate, but if they were out there, they stayed silent.

It was tiring to constantly be putting in all the work. If the universe wanted you to be with this person so badly, why did they make it so difficult for you to find them in the first place? Were you doing something wrong? Maybe you were unintentionally avoiding all the sign, but then again… Maybe they simply weren’t obvious enough.

You want to be bold and make a statement. If they’re out there, you’re going to make one final move that calls out to them. With your career as a model, you had a face that was easily recognizable. However, you carried yourself with humility and a humble attitude. Just because you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing your own mug plastered on every screen and billboard doesn’t mean you have the right to act like it.

You requested a shoot for a fashion designer, particularly intrigued by the open-back dress she had just released for public view. She was delighted to have a high class model like yourself reach out and you two set up a date for the arrangement. It was the day of, and you were currently waiting in the spot you both agreed on.

When she got there, you explained your unique situation to her. She took the news quite well, and offered to feature one photo of your back in the shoot, and hopefully aid you in your final step of the search. After this, if things didn’t work out, you’d finally give in and let love come to you instead. Besides, you were a successful woman living off your own job. You didn’t need love— You were simply itching to find out.

The photos blew up, as they always do, but this time the vibes were different. You had every single fan admiring your mark, leaving sweet comments on how lucky you were to be born with such an elegant tattoo on your back. You’d reply and tell them you were certain theirs was just as lovely, and then either find yourself aww-ing or laughing depending on what it was.

It didn’t take long for expert sleuths on the internet to get to work, and it didn’t take long for the results, either. Being famous had its perks. Your fanbase had a wide range of interests, which meant when one internet user in particular laid eyes on your tattoo, they were instantly able to put two and two together.

To avoid making a scene in your comments, they decided to shoot you a private message at the risk of you never receiving it. It read simply, “Hey girl, about your soulmate mark… I think you might be looking for famous F1 driver, Oscar Piastri.” Attached to their message was an image of him post-race, his uniform pushed down to rest on his hips, while the top of his fireproof was just slightly lifted as he used it to wipe sweat from his face.

He had a strong back and a thin waist, but that’s all you could see about his physical appearance— Aside from the obvious. Just barely peeking out was the tips of a pair of wings, folded in a similar position as your own. You didn’t need a comparison, because you were certain; that was the mark you had been staring at all your life.

You thanked the person who brought it to your attention, playing it off as if they weren’t a match, despite the fact they very clearly were. With this newfound information and a slight skip in your heartbeat, you decided to look the guy up. He was indeed quite famous, and his life seemed very busy. He was always traveling for racing, posting pictures in different areas of the world, and lots of pictures featuring a pretty trophy. Impressive. Your soulmate was a winner.

This was it. You had found the person you spent twenty-three years looking for, and all you could muster up the courage for was a message, and a very straightforward one at that. “Hey” you’d begin, unsure if you would even manage to catch his attention. You just hoped that the blue check mark beside your name would push him into a response. “I’m your soulmate.” You attached an image of your back as proof.

Of course, he didn’t respond for about a day. You were sure it was because he wasn’t someone who was very active, but the more intelligent side of your brain told you that he simply was ignoring you, trying to think of a response to that. What about one even say? Not even you knew.

“Sorry mate, you’ve got the wrong guy. I already found mine.” That response was enough to shatter your heart. Right when you thought the search was over, you were met with the biggest rejection of all. You weren’t sure what hurt worse: Thinking someone was your soulmate and being wrong, or never knowing to begin with. You scrolled through his page once more, finding that he did indeed have a girlfriend— Probably his soulmate.

You had been so sure, too. It was hard to believe that your instincts led you in the wrong direction.

This certainly wasn’t the end, though. The comments finally started to flood in as more and more people connected the dots. You got thousands of messages informing you that this Oscar Piastri guy was the one for you, and you could almost guarantee he was getting the same thing. One person being wrong seemed like a viable explanation, but when more people started to tell you the same thing, you began to grow suspicious.

Maybe it wasn’t your business to ask about someone else’s relationship, but it was your business to ask your potential soulmate if they were lying to you. It was hard to face the man you had just recently embarrassed yourself in front of, but you managed. “I know you said I was wrong, but our marks are identical. I just want to know the truth.” You deserved the truth, right? Soulmates were meant to be honest with one another.

He responded immediately this time. It was like he had been there in the chat too, drafting up his own message. It was somewhat intimidating. “Fine.” You could hear his frustration, and it somewhat angered you. Was it so wrong for wanting to know if you had truly found your soulmate or not? “You’re not my soulmate. But I want to make it very clear I’m already in a happy relationship.”

“I understand.” That concluded your conversation. You hated that he dismissed you so easily, but you also understood. Lots of people dated others who weren’t their true love, because it wasn’t exactly an easy task to complete. But dating someone else when you had the right person standing right in front of you felt like a cruel joke.

If he wanted to be that way, you could too.

Being a model meant you ran on a strict schedule that other people planned out for you. Your agency was very busy, always looking for new opportunities to promote your brand and lifestyle to the public. The public opinion on you seemed to be high, considering you as one of the more relatable and influential celebrities out there.

Today was a big step in your career for multiple reasons. You were going to be featuring as a guest at a Formula One race. Not only was that a huge event, but for the first time in probably ever, you’d end up within a mile of Oscar Piastri, who was undeniably meant to be yours.

You wanted to flaunt yourself. You wore that same open-back dress you modeled ages ago now, feeling confident as you strode through the chaos of the paddock. Even without your soulmate mark on full display, the dress itself was very flattering. You received lots of compliments in under a minute, fueling your ego.

You recognized a lot of faces, mostly ones that went down a similar path as you. Lots of the other wives and girlfriends were models themselves— Models whom you looked up to, considering their years of experience and expert knowledge in the field. You greeted one of them, Rebecca Donaldson.

You recognized her boyfriend, Carlos. Beside him was a guy in a bright orange shirt with tan skin and curly hair. He seemed quite friendly, waiting to introduce himself as you chatted away with Rebecca. Finally realizing your impolite behavior, you stopped and held a hand out for both of the other men, who shook it individually.

“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. Y/N.” You nodded, and followed your example. The younger one was Lando Norris, a racer for Mclaren. Your soulmate’s teammate.

You dismissed yourself, continuing to walk through the ground of the paddock, running into various fans of your own, or even vice versa: people you were fans of. It had been a delight so far, but all good things must come to a mortal demise. Oscar had spotted you at the same time you spotted him, and he didn’t seem terribly happy.

“What are you doing here?” He questioned. It sounded hostile, but his face was more monotone than anything. “I already told you, I’m not interested.”

This somewhat angered you. Maybe it was a fair assumption to make, but that didn’t help to soften the blow in the slightest. You clenched your jaw, and then took a deep breath before responding, “I’m not here for you.” With that being said, you turned around and walked away; allowing him a good view of your own tattoo.

You didn’t continue to pursue him. He told you he wasn’t interested, and that was just fine with you. Of course, his incessant teammate reached out to you again and again, furthering questioning the undeniable connection between you and Oscar. He claimed to have noticed the tattoo the day you met him, and put two and two together, since he had seen it on his teammate’s back before.

He’d bother you about your plan, trying to create schemes to put you two together. Lando’s timing was impeccable, because you just naturally assumed that Oscar’s new liking sprees were a setup caused by the slightly older man. You’d get a string of notifications letting you know that Oscar had liked your most recent posts all together, implying the stalking of your account.

You figured it could have been anything. Maybe it was for PR, or maybe it was unintentional. What you didn’t expect was his sudden message. “We got off on the wrong foot. Do you want to meet for coffee some time?”

You wanted to have a ‘take that’ moment and brutally reject him, but you found yourself softening at the idea of finally getting the opportunity to meet the person who was quite literally destined to be your boyfriend. So, even though it took some thinking, you said yes.

Come the date of said day, you chose to dress casually this time. The dress at the race was a statement, but your goal here was to have a nice time, and not to intimidate him. So, you opted to wear a nice shirt with some jeans. Still nice, but not overly dressed. You met over coffee, sharing a small table in the corner of the cafe.

You took note of how his knees would accidentally brush against yours when he leaned back in his seat, and of how his feet would idly kick at yours under the table. It all felt so familiar as you slowly warmed up to each other, sharing funny stories and catching up just like old friends would do— Except you weren’t. This was the first time meeting, and it was going so well it almost hurt to part ways.

Being the gentleman he is, Oscar offered to take you home so you wouldn’t have to walk. It was late now, both of you spending hours until evening transformed into a pitch black night sky. You admired him as he drove, smiling softly to yourself. He looked so focused as his strong arms held the wheel, only looking away from the road to sneak glances at you, and then quickly look away thinking you didn’t notice.

You did.

He dropped you off, and you slowly dragged your feet to your front door. You didn’t want it to be over— He had been a delight, but he also had a girlfriend, and you couldn’t handle the pressure of being a home-wrecker. So, even though your mind screamed to run back and kiss him, you didn’t. You kept going until you reached the front door and were forced to stop.

“My girlfriend broke up with me.” He stated blatantly from behind you. That was all he said before you peered over your shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

“Goodnight, Oscar.” You slyly slipped inside, locking it behind you.

“Goodnight,” He muttered after you were long gone.

You felt stupid the next day. It should have been clear to you that he was trying to tell you something; he was trying to tell you that he was available. That he really was your soulmate, and he was willing to accept that fact now, instead of continuously pushing you away. Now it was your turn to be the one pulling back.

You were bedridden the next day. Not from a physically sickness, but from the weird feeling in your gut that made you want to throw up anyway. You should have said something. Something other than ‘Goodnight, Oscar!’ You made a complete fool out of yourself.

He texted you around the afternoon, asking if you slept well. You told him yes, but unintentionally threw your excuse out there. “I’m feeling a little sick,” you’d throw it out unprompted. He didn’t respond, until you heard the knock upon your door. Of course, standing there with a back of items in his hand was Mr. Piastri himself.

He’d ask if he could come in, because he brought some things to help you feel better. You’d say yes, even though he’d now be sure to catch you in your lie. And he did. Oscar cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy as he read your temperature, which seemed perfectly fine.

“I’m not sick,” You finally explained, shame tinging your tone. He set everything down and folded his hands in his lap, patiently waiting for you to continue. “I was trying to avoid you, but I guess I did the opposite.” You laughed weakly, and then shook your head. Bad timing, I suppose.

“Why?” He asked, his voice soft. “You were the one who wanted to find me so bad.” Yeah, you expected that sort of response.

“I just… I feel so nervous now.” You huffed a gentle sigh, leaning your head back with shut eyes. “My feelings are always straightforward, but not when it comes to you. I feel… Complex.”

“Maybe you’re not ready yet,” He stated, and for some reason that hurt even more. It was like the twist of a knife that had already been repeatedly stabbed in you, again and again. “But…” Oscar slowly stood up, turning his back towards you. Without any warning, he lifted his sweatshirt up, unveiling his bare back. There was his tattoo, just as beautiful as yours. “We’re destined to work out just fine.”

It was a positive and refreshing outlook on the situation. You slowly stood, your fingertips reaching out to brush against his inked skin. You traced the lines softly. This was the first time you got to see your mark like this, because it was hard to look at your back. He completed your puzzle perfectly, making it all clear now.

You watched his back muscles twitch and flex as you dragged your nail across the outline of the wings, your face unreadable. You stared at his skin, littered with scars and moles, like it was the hardest math equation in the world. This was a problem for you to solve, but Oscar was the solution.

“You’re right.” You pulled your hand away and stepped back, letting him shimmy back into his cozy hoodie. Oscar pivoted to face you, matching your expression. “I want to love you. I want to give us a chance.”

“Then do it.” You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched into a smile, and considering the way he matched your grin, Oscar couldn’t either.

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing soft kisses against your knuckles. You watched as your joined hands erupted in a warm light, sending a tingling sensation through your skin. You locked eyes with him, searching for some sort of guidance. Oscar squeezed your hand tighter.

Upon the first kiss, both bodies would erupt with a beautiful light, slowly beginning the fading process of their matching marks. It left you both giddy, filled with hope for this newfound love.

“We’re gonna work out,” You finally declared, actually able to believe it this time.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, somewhat yandere awaking, fuck-boy vibes, but you're the one

gn reader

It’s the shittiest confession, but that time you gave him head for the first time was the moment he fell in love with you.

You were everything all at once—the cutest, most beautiful, sexiest thing in the world—kneeling for him with his cock in your mouth. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had a blowjob before. It was just… this was different. That pretty look of affection in your eyes was beyond him—big and misty with heat, looking up at him with a saccharine stare.

His cheeks were a dusted pink, while his heart pounded hard and loud in his chest, looking down at you with his lip tucked between his teeth, chewing it as he groaned out in shudders—just shy of whimpers.

You didn’t just suck on it—it was more than that. You gave it kisses, and watching it made him speechless—how your pink tongue slid along the spin, catching pre and mixing it with spit. Your hand was all wet with it, cupping his balls—fondling them sweetly—so good he couldn’t help but shiver in delight, toes curling into the carpet below..

It would end all too quickly if the sight of you continued, but he didn’t want to look away either—he couldn’t—feeling spellbound to hold your gaze as he melted under your touch.

He cupped your cheeks, guided you up by the caress, and kissed you right on your slick-coated lips. He’d never done such a thing before. He’d always thought it would be gross—but no, it was so right. His taste, along with the sweetness of your lip balm and saliva—fuck, it was like a drug.

Maybe he had it wrong—maybe he’d been in love with you for a long time already but only now realized it. Yes, that could be. 

He pulled you further up and then ushered you onto his lap. He wanted to fuck you right. He had the strangest feeling of wanting to make you cum first—make you cry his name—then having the deepest of eye contact while cumming inside you.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[the-modern-typewriter]

In a recent post you said most of us weren't here for vampires but I beg to differ; your vampire snippets are literally enthralling. If you're in the mood to write another one, here's an excuse for you to do so (pls they're so good-), preferably with an enemies to lover vibe? Who doesn't love a little dramatic tension, right? Thank you!~

"Don't turn around."

The human paused, heart slamming in their chest at the voice. The hall of mirrors was eerie around them, all shadows and neon and flashing lights and distorted glass that offered them no sign of the vampire behind them. After a beat, the hunter kept walking, gaze trained to the wall of mirrors lining the left.

Somewhere, in the distance, they could hear screaming. It was difficult to tell if the sounds were horror or delight.

"What happens if I turn around?" the human asked.

"I'll have to kill you, and neither of us wants that."

"I'm a hunter. I'm pretty sure we both want that fight. Kinda how it goes, you know?"

Yet, the hunter didn't turn around. They had a weapon on them, of course, because they always had a weapon on them. But they hadn't come to the fairground to wage battle against terrible evil. The night was supposed to have been a fun one, candy-floss sticky and sweet with first kisses. A stupid lump wedged in their throat. They hastily wiped the remnant tears from their eyes.

They felt the vampire move next to them, though they heard no steps and felt no breath. Only the slight emanating chill of the undead. Despite themselves, despite knowing better, they searched the glass for any sign. There was nothing.

"What do you want?" the hunter demanded.

"What do you want, coming here?"

"I didn't know this was vampire territory."

"I suppose you are just a baby hunter. How old are? Sixteen?"

"Seventeen," the hunter snapped.

The vampire chuckled. "Seventeen," they echoed. Musing. There was something in their voice that the hunter couldn't quite read.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

The hunter rolled their eyes. They supposed they should have been terrified - on any other day they would have been. They hadn't technically done their first solo hunt yet and even one vampire was not a creature to be taken lightly. Everything in their head was too loud for terror. Too raw.

"Is it the girl you liked, or the boy?" the vampire asked.

"Excuse me?"

"The boy and the girl who were kissing here, not long ago. That you saw. I saw you see them. You looked like you'd been staked through the heart. Which is the one you liked?"

The hunter whirled, furious. They caught a blur of movement before an icy hand clamped over their eyes, slamming them back against the glass hard enough to knock the breath out of them. They were surprised the mirror didn't shatter. Their head throbbed and a low whine of pain slipped free of their throat. The vampire caught their wrist before they'd finished reaching for a weapon, grinding that into the glass behind them too.

"I said," the vampire's lips pressed against their ear, voice a sudden lethal hiss, "don't turn around."

"And I don't take orders from vampires!"

"Touchy subject, was it?" The vampire's grip tightened hard enough to hurt.

"If you're going to kill me, just kill me!"

The vampire was silent, at that. They did not retreat, but their grip eased enough to be only iron instead of something painful. Their body felt hard and lean and strong against the hunter's. Dangerous and gorgeous. Nothing like the gentle wholesomeness of-

"The boy," the hunter said. "Eddie."

"Eddie. And you are?"

"Fuck off, leech."

"You're hot," the vampire said. "Eddie's an idiot."

It startled the hunter enough that the venom died on their tongue and their mouth dried. They'd expected - well, anything but that perhaps. They would have gaped at the vampire if they could see past the press of darkness over their eyes. They were sure their jaw dropped.

Hot. A vampire had just called them hot. Maybe they had concussion. A shiver ran down their spine.

"Want me to kill her for you?" the vampire asked, conspiratorial. "Bet I could make it look like an accident."

"No! She's my friend."

"Some friend. Want me to kiss you?"

The hunter - the hunter had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Well. They knew what they were supposed to say. No. Nada. Absolutely not. Vampires were vampires, and the only acceptable way to deal with them was to stake them.

The vampire chuckled again, presumably at their expression. They pressed a kiss to the hunter's throat, above their jugular. The hunter's breath hitched anew.

"God, you're so angry and so hurt," the vampire said. "I want to eat your heart. You're gorgeous. You can cry again if you like, I won't mind. I won't judge."

Vampires, their parents always said, craved life. It was why they were found so often in bars, or fairgrounds, or the other high points of the night. It wasn't just hunting. They were drawn to the sound, and the vibrancy, like ravenous ghosts clawing at the wounds of the world.

Somehow, it made the hunter feel less pathetic. For all those chuckles, it felt a bit like power. They could only imagine what their parents would say to that. No doubt they would berate the hunter for their unforgivable stupidity, because vampires killed hunters and hunters killed vampires and if the fairground was actually a travelling coven then -

"Do you want to kiss me?" the hunter asked.

"Yeah."

"That's embarrassing for you."

The vampire scoffed.

"And crying alone in a funhouse over some boy who doesn't even know vampires exist is cool?"

"I thought you weren't judging."

"Vampires are all shameless liars. Didn't your parents teach you that?"

Despite themselves, the hunter snorted.

"It's because you're not normal," the vampire said, in a different voice. Quieter. Suddenly serious. "Not like them. Can't do the things they do, because you're too busy stuck trying to slaughter the likes of me. Eddie's normal. Safe."

The hunter swallowed.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," the vampire echoed once more.

The vampire kissed them then, or maybe it was the hunter that started it, but it was clumsy and shockingly gentle and good and definitely the dumbest thing that the hunter had ever done. But they weren't thinking about Eddie anymore. It was impossible to think about Eddie with that cold perfect mouth and the adrenaline searing heat through the hunter's body. Every instinct in their body screamed danger and it was the most glorious distraction from heartbreak.

Their body arched against the glass, pressing foolishly closer.

They were left panting.

Then the vampire kissed them again, and it was a little less clumsy, more claiming, like the vampire was learning how to do it. Like maybe they'd never kissed anyone either. Like maybe they really were seventeen, and had thought their life would all work out differently.

"Next time," the vampire said, and nipped their lip just enough to draw blood. "Don't turn around. I've gotta go."

They shoved the hunter away, and - the hunter wasn't sure if they were left alone with the empty reflections, because they didn't turn. They looked at themselves, all dark eyes and hurt and confusion, in the glass.

All hunger.

They smiled, wiping their own blood from their lip.

They did look hot, actually.

For at least a moment, they walked out of the hall of mirrors feeling better than before.

[chlix]

superbloom

bf! chan x fem! reader: you almost ruin your own proposal

pairing: chan x reader

genre: fluff!

word count: 1.7k

warnings/tags: public proposals, y/n is a bit of a mess but its ok

a/n: this is a request from @taevhs who requested reader accidentally saying no to her own proposal out of shock and stressing chan tf out (ask is linked HERE). i am SO sorry this took so long to get to 😭😭😭 i hope it was at least semi-worth the wait

The thing is: you should’ve seen it coming.

Chan is a lot of things, but he’s not subtle. Especially when he gets really into something. He’s good at disguising the planning, at worrying in private and then clearing his face when he sees you, but you know him too well. You can sense the vibe even without him saying anything.

And anyway, you’d talked about marriage before. You’d thought about wedding planning and what time of year would be best, who would you invite. You inquired about a marriage license. You planned on getting a better apartment together. You were engaged in everything but name. So really, the proposal was imminent. It was just a matter of waiting for all his plans to come to fruition. So, you played dumb when he started paying special attention to your hands and the rings you wore most often. You didn’t start fights when you noticed him texting your best friend more than usual. You pretended not to see when you saw him researching photographers on his open laptop. You were willing to play into the surprise, and honestly, you didn’t want to pry. You wanted to be enchanted and impressed when the time came. It would make it more exciting.

You must’ve had a lapse in mentality for a second, or perhaps you just had a lot on your mind that day, because when he asked if you wanted to play hooky and go on a day trip with him, you didn’t suspect a thing.

“How spontaneous,” you’d said, delighted.

He’d only smiled. “Gotta keep you on your toes, y’know.”

You didn’t notice how the nervousness pulled at his eyes as you called in sick to work and put on a cute blue dress. He suggests a white sundress, but you decline, feeling like it’s more of a blue kind of day. You don’t notice how he doesn’t comment on the choice the way he normally does.

Your destination was a botanical garden up north, a prospect that excites you. Your Instagram needed something to spruce it up and some photos against the foliage would be perfect to introduce a vernal vibe. He leads you over to a wall of hydrangeas, and helps you rearrange your hat and jewelry so they stand out in the bright afternoon sun.

"Okay so look left, now look up, now hold out your bag." He's always good at directing you for photos, copying the same directions he's been given on his various shoots, and you've become much better at taking direction the longer you've been together. 

"Okay now look at the flowers and pretend to pick off a petal. No, reach out a little farther. Okay, hold that." You hear his voice moving as he changes angles, trying to find exactly where the best shot is. Your eyes fixate on the hydrangeas, at the vast greenish blooms that are climbing up the trellises, smelling almost sickly sweet. For a moment you worry that the pale green of them might clash with your dress, but if that was the case then at least you have dozens of other photos in different locations. No great loss. Inside the bush, you can see small insects climbing along the branches. There are a few buds deep int he recesses, too young to push their way out and bloom. All whole world beneath you, sheltering in soft petals. A home for smaller creatures.

You get so distracted by the flowers themselves you don't notice that Chan has stopped speaking.

"Did you get it?" you call out. No response. You turn to where he was standing across the way.

He's gone.

Confusion settles in. Your eyes dart back and forth. "Baby? Where'd you go?" He's nowhere. You turn completely around, towards the other end of the wall of hydrangeas, and that's where you finally find Chan.....down on one knee.

Your vision immediately tunnels. His hair is out of place, as if he's been running his hands through it. He does that when he gets nervous. Your gaze darts down to see an open ring box in one hand, the gem glittering in the bright sun, nearly blinding you just from the intensity of its presence.

"Oh my god." You can't breathe. Your heart stutters in your chest.

"Y/n," he says, looking up at you with so much tenderness and love. "these past few years with you have as beautiful and perfect as a spring day. You're the most wonderful woman I've ever met, and I’ve never been so glad to know anyone. I never want our time together to end. I love you more than life itself.” He takes a breath then says those four words. “Will you marry me?"

Your brain short-circuits. It’s like the sun is dimming above you, your whole body struck still. You think of the hydrangeas washing out your dress, and the sun in your eyes, and all the people around watching you flounder and struggle for something to say. You’re so shocked and excited that it’s overwhelming you- cold sweat breaks out on your brow and you lose control of your mouth entirely so instead of saying a resounding "Yes!" the word that comes out is a very quiet "No..."

Chan freezes. The smile that had been spread across his face falls, his eyes dim. 

"No?" he asks, clearly unprepared for this answer. "You don't-"

His own shock snaps you out of yours and your brain kicks back into gear. Horror overwhelms you.

"Oh my god! No, no I just- I was thinking about how I look and how everyone is looking at us right now and I should've worn that white dress you suggested to me and now I've fucked up all the photos and-"

You can't tell if you're making it worse or making it better, so you give up. You grab him by the coat, haul him up, and kiss him.

Suddenly, there's movement around you, and several people burst out from behind the hydrangea bushes that surround you. You open your eyes and see all your friends and family swarming and excited. They were watching the whole thing. They’re all wearing white. Chan invited them so they could share in this happy moment with you. The people around you in the garden clap politely and call congratulations. You look up and notice someone pointing a camera at you a distance away. Chan had the whole thing filmed.

It's a picture-perfect proposal and you'd almost ruined it.

You step back from him, and god he still looks so unsure and you hate yourself for stealing even a little of his joy.

"Yes, Chan. Yes, I'll marry you. A thousand times yes."

Relief sinks into every part of his being, and he leans in to kiss you again. And then your friends and family reach you, and it's all chaos. Your friends are shattering excitedly at you about oh my god Y/N you don't know how hard it was to keep a secret we've been planning this for ages, and the guys in your friend group are clapping Chan on the back, giving more sincere congratulations than you've heard from them in years, but all of it is white noise to you. The only person who exists to you in this moment is Chan. The adrenaline slowly ekes away, and you feel more at peace, more right than you ever have before.

Later that night, you're sitting in your apartment flipping through some zines you'd picked up from the gift shop on the south end of the garden. Chan is in the kitchen putting away leftovers, and the TV is turned on low, white noise for your quiet evening. Your new ring gleams on your finger, and you can barely focus on the botanical facts you're wearing because it keeps catching your eye and distracting you with private glee.

You feel the couch dip as he sits down, and you lean into his side. His hand comes up to wrap around you automatically.

"You scared the shit out of me today," Chan says, and his tone is light but you know he's telling the absolute truth. You wince, setting the zine down and turning to face him properly.

"I was nervous about doing a public proposal," he continues. "I know you said you were okay with it but when I saw you panic I started to worry."

"I'm sorry. I really was just surprised. My mind was in a thousand different places."

You both know you have a tendency to put your foot in your mouth. It's rare you fumble on such a serious occasion, though.

"When you said no, I think my heart dropped into my stomach."

You sigh, cursing your past self for planting any seed of doubt in his mind. "I got overwhelmed. With love for you, I swear, but I started spiraling because I was so caught off guard. I regretted not wearing the white dress you told me to wear. I'd already been thinking that my blue dress clashed with the flowers, and then I realized you were proposing and I thought I'd ruined your whole plan. I felt bad.”

Chan let out a sigh, but it wasn't a tired or exasperated sigh. Instead, it was fond.

"You could've insisted on wearing sweatpants today and it wouldn't have ruined the proposal. You look beautiful in anything. All I wanted was your answer."

"You must've known that there was no way I would've said no."

"But you did."

"Out of shock! Cut me some slack, it's not every day you get proposed to! I've never done it before! I didn't know what to do with myself!"

"I've never proposed to anyone either," Chan says. "I was sweating bullets."

"I just thought it was the heat."

"You're a menace."

"I'm your fiancée," you say, and it's the first time you've said it out loud, and it fills you with so much excitement that a smile splits your face in half all over again. "I'm going to marry you soon."

Chan's smile is a twin of yours. "You are," he says. "And you've never done that either."

"We'll figure it out," you vow. "And I'll learn to watch my mouth."

"Please do. If you don't say "I do" at the altar, I'll collapse out of cardiac arrest."

"Then I guess I better start practicing," you tease. "I, F/N L/N, do take you, Christopher Bang, to be my lawfully wedded husband. I'll repeat it in the mirror every morning."

You're joking of course. You know that when the time comes to say vows, you won't be stuttering or stumbling over the words. They're already echoing in your head over and over again. You think you might start saying them in unrelated conversations, the words bursting out of you like water from a dam. I do, I do, I do.

Chan leans over, finally relaxed, and kisses your cheek. You close your eyes and bask in the attention.

Next time you’ll wear a white dress, and you won’t flinch for a second.

[starmocha]

Hi hello so im back again with a smaaaaaaallllll rant about Colonel Caleb and general's daughter. I just got the ideea and i had, once again, nowhere to rant about it.

Ahham. So....them having their own 'myth' lets say. They were lovers in their past lives(historical maybe the 1800 or the 1900)but couldn't be toghter since she was of lower status then Caleb, him being a Colonel in the army (i love Colonel Caleb so bear with me) and her being a commoner or someting and she dies in his arms and he swears to protect her in their next lives and faith makes sure to have them be of the same 'rank'??? so he could fullfill his promise FUCK MY MIND IS IN RUINS 😭😭😭😭😭😭

I hope i made myself clear if not blame my mind, thank you! Good night! 😭😂❤️❤️

MINA I AM DELIGHTED TO SEE YOU AND YOUR LOVELY AU AGAIN. <333 gosh I wanted to answer this immediately last night, but Caleb’s latest trailer had me losing my mind and things spiraled 😭😭😭

Giving you all of my attention, because EXCUSE ME. WHEELS ARE SPINNING.

Can we…can we just indulge on this a little more? 🥹 omg excuse the slightly heavy Moulin Rouge! influences sprinkled in here, but this is the vibe I am getting, especially for their “tragic” ending.

A Colonel and His Lover

Imagine Colonel Caleb is dragged to a brothel by his associates and superiors. He finds the whole thing disdainful, but is pressured by his own superiors to indulge in a little nightly fun and let loose and forget their duties for a bit.

He doesn’t plan to. He had planned on leaving the moment everyone finds their partners.

Until he sees you.

Literally lust love at first sight.

He’s captivated by your beauty, your wits, and he’s falling hard and fast before he realizes what is happening.

One night with you leaves him yearning for more. He has already remembered how you felt under him, the way you quivered and moaned for him.

He remembers the sweet nothings uttered between the two of you, and though a tiny part in his mind is telling him that you are just a whore who is good with her tongue, he wants to believe that there is something genuine blossoming between the two of you.

He starts going back to the whorehouse more often. Nightly, if he could. He still puts on an act that he was being pressured to tag along, but in reality, all he wants is to see you again. No matter what it takes, what the price, he wants you and only you.

In the beginning, he was just another client. One of those military brutes who only saw you as something that can be bought for and used until they were satisfied.

You did intentionally charm him in the beginning. A false smile, a few sweet words to prickle his male ego, but it soon becomes apparent to you that Caleb is not like all of your previous clients. When he sees you, there is genuine feelings in his eyes, he is truly looking at you for you and not just a body to be used.

You try to discourage your own feelings, reminding yourself of the different classes you belong to. This can never happen—could never happen.

A prestigious colonel on his way to greatness and a common whore? What a joke. It seems almost insulting to entertain such an idea that you could ever truly be his. You quiet those feelings, try to imagine him as any of those other bastards who drag you to bed.

Except you can’t.

Caleb won’t let you. He sees you for you. He wants to know you, the real you, who you have hidden away for years.

You no longer wait for him to come to you as a client. You begin to sneak around whenever you both could, having regular rendezvouses where he is no longer a client or you’re a whore, but two lovers meeting to be together.

After one afternoon delight, you lay with him in an inn bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped in his warmth, and he paints you a beautiful picture of the life you both could have together.

He would buy you all of the beautiful dresses for you to wear, show you off with pride, his equal at his side wherever he goes. Men may still lust after you, their wives green with envy, but to Caleb, he couldn’t care, because he knows you are his and his alone.

You would live in a beautiful house, your days filled with idle contentment and no longer have to worry about anything or want for anything. Caleb promises to provide you with everything you could want and more.

When you tell him, though, that he is all that you want, his cheeks tinge pink, but his smile is layered with joy and also…gratitude? He looks at you like you are his whole world, because that’s just how it is: you are his world now. He had never thought he could cherish someone as much as he cherishes you.

A beautiful life awaits you. He asks you to marry him.

For just a moment, you hesitate, and he is confused. He gently questions you, wondering if you have any doubts about his feelings.

“No! Never!” you tell him, and then reluctantly, you reveal that you could still feel that distance in classes between the two of you. You worry about his reputation, and Caleb seems surprised.

He reassures you there is nothing for you to worry about. He can handle whatever happens, and he promises to keep you safe.

You agree to marry him.

Life continues as normal as the two of you plan to run away and elope. He had promised you an extravagant wedding, but you want him now, already wanting to be his wife and he your husband.

This rosy life you are seeing turns grey in an instant, everything grinding to a halt when you start to display symptoms of an unknown illness. You start coughing up blood more often, your body weakened some days to the point you need to be bedridden. Secretly, you hid everything from Caleb, not wanting him to worry.

Caleb starts wising up, realizing something is wrong when you continue to evade his questions or even outrightly avoid meeting him again.

When a physician reveals to you that you only have less than five months to live, you realize that the dream life Caleb promised you would never come true. Not wanting him to bear the pain of seeing you dying, you start to drive a further wedge between the two of you, consciously doing things to make him hate you so he wouldn’t ever have to feel the pain of losing you.

It works.

You fight with him to the point that you’re both yelling and screaming at one another until he loses control of his anger and drives his fist into a wall, scaring you briefly, having never seen this side of him before. He doesn’t want you to see him like this either, so he leaves, leaving you with these bitter harsh words and some bills tossed at you in spite:

“I have paid for my whore. My debt is paid and she is nothing to me.”

When he is out of sight, you fall to the ground sobbing, angry at yourself for doing a good job of driving him away and making him hate your existence. The man you loved is gone, and though it hurts, you still wish he would find someone to replace you, because you still love him with your whole heart and never want him to be alone like this.

Caleb is angry and it shows. The Colonel has always been very disciplined and strict, but everyone has noticed his temper seemed even more short. There is no leniency with him. You mess up, he will make sure you learn from your mistakes. You talk back to him, and it will be your last words in his presence.

He starts to drink more often, wishing to numb his pain, to forget your fights, to forget you. There is no alcohol in the world strong enough to cure him of this heartache. In spite of everything, he still loves you. He replays the memories often, wondering when everything had gone wrong.

One night as he sits at the bar, on his fifth glass of scotch, he pulls out a ring box, opening it to look at the dainty little ring he had secretly chosen for you. It wasn’t a huge diamond, but still perfectly sized, and he knows it would look beautiful on your finger.

He downs his glass, pays his tab, and stumbles out of the bar. He staggers through the streets disoriented, not even thinking clearly of where he is going.

He finds himself at the brothel again, and he scoffs. He goes in, demanding to see you.

The madame there tries to turn him away. She knows who he is, and also knows of his secret relationship with one her girls. She knows what you two had planned, because you had revealed everything to her and begged her to never let him come near you again—for his sake. Always for his sake. Even as you are dying upstairs, each day, you breathing growing weaker, you still think of him.

Caleb doesn’t take “no” for an answer and in his current drunken state, he is more prone to violence than usual, slurring insults about you in spite. It isn’t until one of the other girls screams out that you were dying, that he freezes, sobering up instantly.

“What…did you say?”

His whole world had stopped. The colors drain from his face, his heart slowing as he replays her words in his mind. The dots start to connect as he remembers all of your final fights, realizing your expressions had always seemed off somehow.

His throat is dry, his limbs rigid as he tries to move. Suddenly, he runs off in a mad dash before anyone could stop him. He rushes up the stairs, passing several rooms, pushing anyone in his way to the side until he finds your room, the door bursting open and he freezes again, not recognizing the frail woman laying in bed under multiple covers as a nurse is tending to her.

Caleb doesn’t leave and rushes to your side, dropping to his knees as he reaches for your hand, begging you to look at him. He apologizes profusely, his eyes glistening with tears.

“Why didn’t you tell me?! Why did you lie to me?! Why, why…why…”

His large hands wrapped around yours, holding it close to his face as he sobs.

“Ca..leb…”

He looks up, seeing you smiling at him weakly.

“I’m here,” he assures you, “I’m here…I’m not leaving…Not again…”

Too weak to fight, too relieved to see him, you let him stay and you close your eyes.

He stays by your side for your remaining days, cherishing the little time you had left.

One afternoon as he watches you sleep, he sits on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing aside your hair, his eyes heavy with sadness as he realizes how frail and pale you are now compared to who you were months earlier. Quietly, he pulls out the ring box, taking the ring out, and slipping it on your ring finger. It looks perfect on you, just like he had known it would.

When you wake that evening and see the ring, you start to protest, saying it’s wasted on you.

He silences you with a kiss, and once again, he reassures you that nothing he does for you is ever wasted effort. You are his only bride, and no one will ever take your place.

Time dwindles, and he watches you waste away each day, his heart heavy with remorse and anger that he is losing you before his very eyes and there is nothing that he can do to stop this. For all of his strength and glory, Caleb has never felt as weak and helpless as he does now.

He tries to fill your days with as much comfort and happiness as he could.

It was a spring afternoon when he lays in bed with you. He leans back against the headboard, your body resting against his, the cover up to your neck for warmth, but nothing felt more comforting than his own body heat against you.

He tells you stories again and as you listen to him, you wonder why his voice sounds more distant even though he is right here next to you.

Caleb watches, realizing, he has lost you, your body growing colder and unresponsive.

He breaks down crying as a warm spring breeze rustles into the room from the opened balcony door. He holds you close to him and just sobs and curses every deity in the world.

He promises in the next life, he will be a better man and give you what you deserve. In the next life, things will go right. The story of you and him will be rewritten, he swears on his life.

[tinytinyblogs]

Hello!!!

I saw your request is open and would like to ask for one! (I apologise if it's not)

Can you please write Stray kids' reactions to their s/o pulling up this prank on them? https://www.instagram.com/reel/DABkBvONJRd

Thank you!

Does My Shirt Smell?

Prank them by asking them to smell your shirt, only to lean in and kiss their forehead instead—then watch their reaction!

Hyung line, Maknae line(coming soon)

Stray Kids Masterlist 1.0 & 2.0

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Chan

Without thinking much, Chan leaned in to check the smell, only to be met with a soft kiss on his forehead. A wave of warmth spread over him, and he couldn’t hide the smile that formed on his face. His lips curled into a wide grin as he looked at you, clearly delighted. He loved this kind of affection—it was unexpected and playful, just the way he liked it. "Darling, you play dirty," he said, chuckling as he spoke. His voice held a playful tone, and it was clear he enjoyed the surprise. His arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace, pulling you close. He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, mimicking the action you had just taken. "I'll take my revenge," he said with a twinkle in his eye, a teasing promise in his words. You couldn’t help but smile at his playful nature, but before you could respond, he began to pamper you with a flurry of kisses all over your face. The sudden onslaught of affection caught you off guard, and you laughed, trying to push him away gently, but he was relentless. His kisses were warm and full of affection, each one making you melt a little more. You soon gave up, surrendering to the sweetness of the moment, your laughter filling the room.

Chan pulled back slightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Feel this—the power of my kiss," he said, his voice still playful. "Your shirt doesn’t smell bad at all. In fact, I can only smell love between us, and it’s strong." He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, his joy unmistakable. You couldn’t help but smile at his words, feeling a surge of affection for him. His playful teasing only made you love him more. But he wasn’t done yet. "And next time," he continued with a mischievous grin, "I’ll be the one giving you this cheesy prank. You better be ready." There was something about the way he said it—half teasing, half sincere—that made your heart flutter. You knew it would be impossible to say no to him, especially when he was in this playful mood. His energy was infectious, and the way he showered you with love, even in the form of jokes and pranks, made you feel cherished and special. As you looked at him, his eyes still filled with a twinkle of mischief, you realized that moments like these were what made your relationship so unique.

Minho

It’s silent after he receives the kiss on his forehead from you. Minho stands there, caught off guard, his fingers still holding the shirt he was sniffing to check the smell as you had requested. His expression shifts subtly, the confusion in his eyes gradually giving way to realization. You can almost see the moment it clicks—he knows you pranked him. For a second, he looks like he might say something, but instead, his lips twitch upward into the faintest hint of a smile, though he tries to play it cool, as always. Before you can react, he takes a step closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried. His hand reaches out, lightly brushing against your arm, and in one swift motion, he pulls you into a kiss. His lips meet yours, firm yet tender, catching you by surprise. The kiss lingers just long enough to leave you breathless, but he doesn’t pull away completely, his lips hovering close as he speaks. “You could just ask if you really wanted a kiss,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. A smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth, one he’s barely able to suppress.

He’s trying to maintain his usual air of indifference, but it’s a losing battle. The sparkle in his eyes betrays him, revealing the amusement and affection he can’t quite hide. He liked it—the prank, the attention, and the love you gave him—even if he didn’t show it often. Minho leans back slightly, his hand still on your arm. His gaze locks onto yours, and he tilts his head, studying your face. “There you go, another kiss,” he says softly, his tone playful yet warm. “Or should I stop?” His dark eyes glint with mischief, and you can feel the challenge in his words. You laugh, your cheeks warming, and shake your head. “Don’t stop,” you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible. His smirk deepens, and he leans in again, this time pressing another kiss to your lips. It’s softer, slower, as though he’s savoring the moment. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek. “Maybe my darling is craving my attention so badly they had to come up with this silly prank,” he teases, his voice dropping to a hushed, affectionate tone. “You’re lucky I love you.” He finishes with a kiss on your forehead. “Next time, just ask. You’ll get all the attention you want.”

Changbin

Once you kiss Changbin's forehead, he freezes for a moment, caught in the middle of trying to smell your shirt. His confusion is short-lived as laughter bursts out of him, loud and rich, echoing in the room. That laugh of his—it’s something you’ve always adored. It’s vibrant, warm, and so uniquely him, filling the air with joy. It’s obvious your little prank has completely amused him. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting back your own laughter. You’re determined to keep an innocent expression, as if you have no idea why he’s laughing so much. His sharp eyes catch yours, twinkling with playful accusation. “Is that your way of sneaking a chance to kiss me?” he teases, his voice thick with amusement. His grin grows wider, and the way his laugh lingers makes it harder for you to hold your composure. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, barely managing to keep a straight face. Changbin doesn’t buy it for a second. Shaking his head, still grinning, he steps closer. “Alright,” he says with exaggerated patience, his tone light but teasing, “you want a kiss? Here you go.”

Before you can process his words, his hands find their way to your waist, his grip firm yet gentle. He pulls you closer, the warmth of his presence immediately surrounding you. His movements are slow, deliberate, as if he’s giving you a chance to change your mind—but why would you? He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft, so tender, it sends a shiver down your spine. The world around you seems to fade as you lose yourself in the moment. When he pulls back, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes lock onto yours. Those eyes—dark, intense, and filled with love—make your breath hitch. They seem to hold an unspoken promise, a quiet devotion that makes your heart swell. “Better?” he asks, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Or do you need more?” Before you can answer, a mischievous grin spreads across his face. He raises an eyebrow, the playful spark in his eyes unmistakable. “Or should I just attack you with kisses? You can count it as my revenge for that sweet little prank of yours,” he adds, his tone mock-threatening. Then, with a smirk, he leans in even closer, his voice low but full of teasing. “Get ready, love,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I don’t have mercy when it comes to this kiss attack.”

Hyunjin

The first thing you see is Hyunjin’s irritated eyes and playful glare as you kiss his forehead. His lips purse as he dramatically wipes the spot where your lips just landed, a mock display of disapproval. “Come on, where do you even get these silly ideas?” he asks, but the lightness in his tone gives him away. There’s no real bite in his words—just a playful exasperation that makes you grin. Before you can reply, he continues, “You really need to step up your prank game. Maybe something more creative... like a kiss in the right place.” His finger points directly at his lips, and despite his effort to appear serious, a grin spreads across his face, a little too wide to be convincing. You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool, but he catches the slight flush on your cheeks. “Oh, don’t act like you’re not tempted,” he teases, his grin now bordering on mischievous. “But okay, I’ll let it go for now.” Before you can process what he means, Hyunjin pulls you down onto the couch with him, his arms wrapping securely around your waist.

The sudden closeness catches you off guard, and you yelp as he pulls you tighter against his chest. His legs wrap around you too, locking you in place as if you’re some sort of oversized teddy bear he refuses to let go of. The warmth of his embrace and the weight of him pressing against you is both comforting and slightly overwhelming. “See? Now I’ve got you right where I want you,” he murmurs into your ear, his voice dripping with teasing affection. You can feel the vibration of his words against your skin, and it sends a shiver down your spine. Hyunjin tilts his head to meet your gaze, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “I’ll make sure you get that kiss you’re so desperate for,” he says, his tone light but laced with a hint of challenge. His grin returns, mischievous as ever. “But don’t think you’ll get away without paying the price. Maybe I’ll keep you here all night... you know, to make sure you don’t try another silly prank on me.” And just like that, his laughter fills the room, pulling you into a moment you wish could last forever.

[fbfh]

makey makeover - rodrick x hyperfeminine reader

wc: 1.5k

pairing: rodrick x gn hyperfeminine!reader

warnings: rodrick isn't used to being taken care of but only briefly mentioned at the end, rodrick does not know what hyaluronic acid is

summary: rodrick can never say no to you, but if it means having you straddle his lap while you use all your skincare products on him and listen to music together, he wouldn't want to say no anyway.

song recs: makey makeover - crazy ex girlfriend cast, jesus of suburbia - green day, perfect day - hoku

a/n: I started writing a kids book yesterday?? like I finished the first chapter and outline in one sitting???? it wasn't at all planned but when the muse strikes yk. Anyway I don't think it will take me as long to write so if you wanna read a chapter book about magic and girlhood and unicorns and other mythical creatures with bella sara vibes that's probs gonna be ready reasonably soon lol

tags: @yesv01 @magcon7280 @dustyinkpages @the-snake-pit @kiara7777 @inthehoneymoonwithconnorrk800 @followingthefanfiction @2220825 @Maggzsworld @xiaos_crustytoenails @ionlymadethisaccountbcihadto @strawberryjen124 @Isaentremundos @hxnbah

Rodrick likes to think he's a pretty tough guy. Between being born and raised on the rebellious messages of pop punk music, and the nonconforming ideologies of emo and other alt subcultures, Rodrick knows in his bones that he'll never let the man break his spirit. He'll never bow down to someone just because they want him to do something. He's had countless opportunities to stand by these beliefs at school and at home, and he has never - not once - come close to doing anything for someone simply because they want him to. Rodrick has been confident in his ability to never give into other people’s orders, no matter how much they demand of him. 

Until now.

“Pretty please, Roddy…?” You pout your glossy lips at him, blinking up at him and batting your doll like eyelashes, and that’s all it takes to make him fold.

“...I guess, if you really-” He’s cut off by an excited squeal from you, and he’s glad that you’re too distracted to notice him blush. Rodrick has never felt his willpower give in so fast, but as he watches you rush around your room and smile, delighted that he’d agreed, he realizes that he’d do pretty much anything you tell him too. Ben and Chris would call him a pussywhipped simp, but… no, that’s pretty much it. He chuckles a little at the thought, watching the pile of stuff grow. He recognizes nail polish and tweezers, but that’s about it.

“Thank you thank you thank you!” You say, rambling happily as you settle down on your bed across from him. “I’ve been wanting to do self care stuff but I’ve done so many everything showers and self care nights there’s nothing left for me to do on myself. But you…”

You take his face in your manicured hands, moving him around to inspect more closely.

“You are in serious need of a facial.”

Rodrick doesn’t really process what you’re saying, he just loves when you touch his face like that. 

“...Uh, yeah totally.” He mutters absentmindedly, distracted by your sweet smell. After a moment, he processes what you said, and chuckles, leaning back into your silky pink pillows. “Babe, you can do anything to me, anywhere, anytime.” 

You giggle, feeling your face flush a little as you get all your stuff organized. Rodrick runs his hands up and down your waist, fidgeting with your soft fluffy pajama shorts and big loded diper shirt you wear all the time. He sees the little burn marks and worn out hems and realizes it’s the one you stole from him. He smiles softly, loving the way you look in it even more now. His attention is pulled back to you when you push something over his face, brushing his hair back. You adjust the fluffy cat ears on the headband, making sure you have access to his whole face. Rodrick giggles a little, knowing he must look a little out of place wearing a pierce the veil shirt and fluffy kitty cat headband. 

“I don’t think my forehead has been this exposed since like, 4th grade…” he chuckles.

“That’s good, you’ll have less sun damage that way.” You smile, putting some micellar water on a cotton pad. It’s a little cold to the touch, but after a moment, the feeling of you gently wiping over his face and neck ends up being way more relaxing than he had expected it to. You throw it away, and he hears it land in your trash can with a crinkle. 

“I’m gonna mist your face now, okay?” You say, and he nods. You spray rose water on his face, and Rodrick can’t get over how considerate you are to give him a heads up like that. Rodrick smiles a little as he adjusts to the subtle floral smelling facial spray he’s used to smelling on you. He basks in the quietness of your room, opening his eyes as he watches you sitting on his stomach and looking for the next product. You hesitate for a moment. You feel like something’s missing, but you can’t put your finger on it.

“Oh,” you say, reaching for your phone as you remember. You open up Spotify, and put your favorite playlist on shuffle - the one you and Roddy share. It’s full of both your favorite songs, mostly boiling down to early 2000’s pop punk and trashy pop. It’s chaotic but really does suit you both perfectly.  Rodrick smiles suddenly as he instantly recognizes the opening notes of Jesus of Suburbia begin to play. You take out your favorite serum, jasmine and blackberry hydrating jelly, and place a few drops around his face. 

“What’s that one?” Rodrick asks, picking up another bottle. 

“Hyaluronic acid.”

Rodrick looks at the little dropper bottle.

“Does it, like, melt the flesh right off your bones?” 

“No…?” You chuckle, massaging his cheekbones and jawline with your fingertips.

“Then why is it called hydroponic acid?” He asks rhetorically, “Acid is supposed to melt shit.”

You laugh again, and he makes a mental note to sample your laughter for a song at some point in the future. He doesn’t know which one yet, but he knows it will be his best one yet. 

You rub some cooling aloe vera gel into his skin, then take out your rose quartz gua sha stone. You tap your fingertips against his chest, and he looks at you with an amused smile.

“What does that do?”

He watches you work, eyes locked on you. He can’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed and peaceful. 

“I’m prepping your lymphatic drainage system.” 

That clarified absolutely nothing for Rodrick, but he trusts you implicitly. You’re so good at so many things, but Christ, you could write a book on all that girly beauty stuff. It’s way more hardcore than people think it is. You know about all these acids and drainage systems and the pink rock thing, and even though he’s impressed, he’s not at all surprised by how good you are at all this stuff.

You begin gently gliding your gua sha over Roddy’s skin, working from his forehead down to his neck and jawline. He stops talking as you work, and it’s like you melt all of the stress out of his body through his face. He could fall asleep with you touching him so gently like this. After a while you rub some more cream into his face, then place something under his eyes that feels like thinly sliced jello.

“What the fuck?” He asks, bringing another laugh out of you. He watches you take two more of the weird jelly things and put them under your own eyes.

“They’re under eye masks.” You answer with a chuckle. “They hydrate your skin, depuff, and get rid of dark circles.”

“Huh…” he hums in response, playing with the patches as they sit on his face. 

Once you’ve used half your arsenal of skincare products on him, you peel off his sheet mask and let him sit up. You hand him a mirror, and as he sits up and stretches a little, kind of wishing you had more to do, he feels like he just woke up from the best sleep of his life. 

“So? What do you think?” You ask excitedly. He can’t help but crack a smile at how cute you are. Rodrick takes the mirror you offer him. When he sees his reflection, he almost doesn’t recognize himself. 

“Oh my god…” he says with a soft smile. He’s glowing. He doesn’t think he’s ever looked this soft and moisturized and… cared for before. He doesn’t even have any crusty eyeliner from yesterday smudged around his eyes. He can never get it off all the way, but one wave of your magic wand, and it’s gone. He laughs again, touching his cheek. He looks up at you in surprise.

“My face is so smooth…” “I know!” You exclaim in delight. “So, do you like facials after all?”

You have a feeling you already know the answer, but Rodrick looks up at you anyway.

“Yeah,” he states, pulling you in for a kiss, his lips soft and exfoliated, topped with your favorite strawberry lip balm. You think Rodrick is right, it does taste better in a kiss. After he pulls away, it takes him a minute for his brain to stop short circuiting. 

“So… uh, are we doing this again next weekend?” 

You laugh at his hopeful tone of voice, how he raises his eyebrows a little. 

“Yeah.” You nod, taking him in for another kiss. You take his hands in yours, looking at the stick and poke tattoo he got of the heart you drew on his hand in chemistry class, his little calluses from drumming. “Next week I can do something about your cuticles.”

[keeheauxtales]

We can just keep talkin' 'bout the last time

You were here, what we did

No sleep till morning

Only bubble baths and back rubs 🔞

— “So Anxious” - Ginuwine

pairing: soft!dom!Keeho x fem!bodied!reader (with switch vibes)

genre: tub sex :) established relationship smut with minimal plot, y’all know the vibes?

word count: ~1.8k

content warnings: dirty talk, cunnilingus, nipple play + underwater handjob!, dick riding, edging, multiple orgasms (fem receiving), a bit of breeding 🫢 (& thus ‘daddy’ is used, among other nicknames)

author’s notes: I’m kinda making this a prologue of a new project of sorts titled my “S.I.S (Self-Indulgent Series).” A bit of excuse for me to start writing more of what I wanna write – for me, but y’all get the pleasure of reading it! 😅 also: guess who just finally figured out how to make the text smaller like I’ve seen so many other awesome writers do?! 🙌🏾😂

—————————————————————————

9:38pm

Attachments: 3 Images

“wanna join me? 😉🛀”

Your phone lights up with these lovely invitations masquerading as text messages as you sit in the hotel room across the hall from your boyfriend. A smirk creeps along your face as you rise up from your bed to discard of whatever clothes you have on. Throwing on a robe that typically rests in the room’s closet, you grab your phone and room key, and briskly make your way to your lover.

When you open the bathroom door, you’re greeted with the same thing those pictures were alluding to, along with a more delighted expression on the face of its sender. Keeho spots your bare shoulders as you had positioned your robe lower the moment you entered his room. “Well,” Keeho starts, “glad you decided to come over.” He hovers his phone over the bathroom floor before you take it into your own hands to bring it over to the counter with your items. “There’s only a couple things keeping you from where I want you to be,” he states, dragging a finger along your height in the air.

You gradually peel the robe (thing #1) off of your body before beginning to close the distance (thing #2) between you and the warm water that has already been enveloping your boyfriend, eventually stepping in to join him.

Soap-covered hands immediately emerge from the aforementioned water the moment that second leg is inside of the tub, caressing and pushing your thighs as far apart as can be allowed. You’re briefly stunned before catching Keeho’s wanton gaze trailing up every inch of you before his eyes finally meet yours.

“Don’t sit yet, babe, wanna taste you…” And just like that, Keeho spits on your pussy like it hadn’t already been wet since before he sent those pictures. He drags his tongue leisurely along your entrance, and as you set a foot up along the edge of the tub, you let out a long, loud moan you didn’t even realize you were holding in.

“Oh fuck, baby,” you blurt out, feeling Keeho’s tongue enter your dripping folds with incredible efficiency. You feel intense vibrations from beneath you as Keeho journeys up and down your inner cavern, moaning at how good you taste. You admire his consistency, how he enjoys you every single time like it’s your first time all over again. “Don’t stop…” you moan out, “until I cum in that f-filthy mouth of yours…”

Keeho only has it in himself to hum against you in compliance before beginning to make out with your cunt. You start to feel your legs shake as his big hands inadvertently lather your thighs with soap, caressing them while he sucks sweet juices – and even sweeter sounds – out of you. He raises his hands behind you to your lower back, giving you full reign to grind against his face, roping your fingers into his wet hair for some sort of leverage before throwing a leg over his shoulder.

The reality of him being the source of your evident pleasure riles him up further as his own moans match the magnitude of yours. Drowning out the wetness of the water itself is Keeho’s mouth unabashedly pervading your wetness, and by the time you regain consciousness you didn’t know you had lost, that knot in your stomach begins to tighten.

“Yes, Kee… Oh shit… Yeah… Fuck!” Before you could even warn him like you tend to do, you cry out as your legs quiver, exploding into his mouth just like you had wanted. You whimper at Keeho as he slurps as much of your essence as he possibly can, moaning lustily into your heat. Big hands grip your ass before he pulls away from you completely, licking his lips as he resumes his position in the tub.

Then I fill the tub up halfway, then ride it with my surfboard…

— “Drunk In Love” – Beyoncé

As you do your best to slowly enter more of your body into the water, you notice it rise by default. With your partner’s permission, you raise the nozzle to empty a small portion of the water before fully submerging yourself into some much needed relaxation.

All the while, Keeho’s hands have been caressing his own thighs underwater in an effort to calm himself down a bit. However, he achieves quite the opposite as your legs land on top of his. Your thighs act like magnets as far as Keeho’s concerned, the way his hands are back on top of them, caressing them just like when you were upright minutes ago.

The both of you cautiously work to close the distance before officially colliding toward the middle of the tub. With Keeho’s hands now going up and down your legs, one of your arms snake their way around his neck. As the other arm trails up and down his back, Keeho leans forward until his lips meld with yours.

Melting into the kiss, you feel yourself settle into the warmth of Keeho’s embrace, his hands now rubbing against your back with the soap lingering atop the water. After a few moments, you guide your hands to his chest, resting along his pecs. Your fingers maneuver around his nipples, thumbs treating them like gears on game controllers before your index fingers join in to pinch them. You hear your boyfriend begin to moan rather loudly, breaking the kiss to callously grunt into your gaping mouth.

“My dick is already so fucking hard for you, and you wanna play with my tits…” Keeho spits out provocatively. “Okay then,” he concludes before mirroring your exact fingering motions on your breasts, eliciting whimpers loud enough to overtake the sound of any wetness beneath you.

Keeho latches his thick lips onto your neck, and subconsciously, your hands leap into the water in search of this ‘hard dick’ he spoke of. You find it in no time, mere seconds after Keeho lowered his mouth onto one of your nipples. You lean back for comfort, and his brain short circuits feeling hands that aren’t his grip his cock underwater. He flicks his tongue rapidly before nipping at your areola as a response.

You release a deep groan from the back of your throat, your hands overworking to win the fight with buoyancy as they aggressively stroke Keeho’s bricked shaft in between the two of you. You feel a bit disgusted, knowing that your leftover arousal is dripping out of your pussy into soapy waters, especially with your thirsty partner shooting doe-eyed glances into your glazed-over stares at any given moment. Miraculously, you feel precum each time your thumb rolls along his tip.

Eventually, Keeho leans back like you did earlier, resting his flexed arms along the tub. You’d be lying your ass off to say that the sight of his toned chest heaving wasn’t turning your legs into mush. His entire stance was inviting you to just pounce on that dick your hands were wrapped around, and you knew it.

You carefully follow that thought, begrudgingly releasing Keeho’s cock from one of your hands for leverage. As a result, his deep moans halt momentarily while you position yourself on his soaking and loaded dick. One of Keeho’s veiny arms assist on your hip before you lower yourself back down, this time boarding the solid member that’s been heavily anticipating your warm cavern of a cunt this entire time.

In a fit of instantaneous weakness, you feel yourself shake once Keeho has entered you, your hands back caressing his neck. His hands slide down your back before they dive beneath your ass, kneading your cheeks. The both of you exhale a slew of obscenities at one another before you start to grind on his lap.

Once you both adjust to one another in this different environment, Keeho wills himself to fuck up into you as slowly as he can allow himself to. All the while, you can’t seem to stop your pelvis from moving, causing the water to splash a bit wildly. Neither of you could care to exercise caution, instead you both grow more and more careless the more you get lost in the lust of it all.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” Keeho grunts, sweating around the wet bangs covering his forehead.

“Shit… Fuck, make me cum, baby!” You cry out as Keeho’s throbbing cock reaches your spot in those gummy walls he keeps pulsing deeper into.

“Call me ‘baby’ like that again…” Keeho spits out, already reduced to just sitting back and letting you ride, but not before one particularly deep thrust aimed directly at your clit unlocks another nickname in its stead.

“D-daddy!”

“Oh shit,” Keeho breathed out, feeling like he was drowning in that tub (and would’ve been okay with it after hearing something so rare leave your mouth like that). “You’re gonna fuck around and make me wanna become one for real, keep playing.”

And just like that, you feel a knot tighten deep in your stomach for a second time tonight, almost like it came into contact with your boyfriend’s cock drilled into your hole. “Then cum inside me, Steph,” you breathe in his ear seductively, “no sense causing such a sticky mess in this tub for housekeeping to have to clean up.”

“It may not matter once you’re cumming with me, sweetheart,” Keeho challenges in almost a whisper before he resumes rolling his hips up in time with your body damn near bucking against him.

You accept the challenge with so much composure as you grip the tub with your hand, your pussy gripping every bit of Keeho’s girth. Sensing a climax approaching from the both of you, he lowers himself back into the water with one of his hands clamping your waist, the other starting to squeeze your neck in that freaky progression that teeters between slight discomfort and alarming danger, and you could usually give a fuck… Keeho quite literally couldn’t stand to give a few fucks now.

“Is my baby gonna cum all on daddy’s dick like the good slut she is?”

You hum and nod in response, whimpering over his words.

“And are you gonna let daddy cum inside that tight… little pussy like you said?”

“Fuck, please!” you yell out, briefly realizing that he paused while awaiting your answer.

“‘Please,’ what?” he inquires as his voice drops a notch for an added edge.

“Please cum for me, baby! I want to feel your hot cum inside me, for fucks sake!”

Maybe it was the fact that the water was getting colder around you, or the way Keeho’s cock kept twitching inside of your swollen cunny, while denying himself of his own orgasm in the process, but damn, y’all were desperately determined to find release before leaving this bathtub.

After moaning your name, and lustily reiterating how good your pussy feels around him with his eyes rolling back, he gaspingly asks one more question. “Are you ready for this load, babygirl?”

“Oh god, yes, Kee– I’m cumming,” you exhale, vibrating around your lover as warm semen oozes out of the both of you. Keeho claws at your back as he fucks his own orgasm out, causing a chill to run down your spine as you fall forward onto his chest.

“Aww,” Keeho coos in your ear, smiling as you both unwind like you were planning to in the beginning of this impromptu date, “you did so good, mama.”

[deconstructthesoup]

All right, quick rundown of our new PCs:

-While Maxwell seems to be continuing Murph's D20 trend of playing doofuses (only broken by Riz in JY because, well, he was reprising his very first D20 character), it looks like he might actually be our first balance between Murph's two different types of PCs---he's a reasonable, level-headed, intelligent guy who also happens to be a bit of a clueless rich boy. Also, to my knowledge, Maxwell may be our first instance of D20 having a PC whose class itself is homebrew---not just a homebrew subclass, like Pinnochio being a Destiny warlock or Gorgug being a Barbificer... barbarian/artificer, but full-on playing a homebrew class. To that, I say hell fucking yeah.

-Olethra is, of course, continuing Ally's trend of playing the most blatantly queer character at the table, and this time, their PC is a starry-eyed transfemme with a deep sense of wanderlust. I was, sadly, wrong about her being an Armorer artificer---at least, for now, and if I had to guess, I'd say that the mech suit is so she's not at a disadvantage as the only level two character in a party of level sixes---but honestly, I'm really curious to see how Olethra's gonna level up. I don't think we've ever gotten a straight martial character from Ally before, and if Olethra doesn't take some artificer levels (or becomes an Arcane Trickster), she might be their first. (Liam doesn't count, rangers are half-casters.)

-Daisuke appears to already be beating out Lapin and Ricky for the title of "hottest Zac character," and after that incredible introduction... oh, boy, do I fucking agree. It's so fun to see Zac play a genuinely smart and crafty character, which is honestly more common than most people think---Gorgug eventually found his smarts and confidence, Lapin was... Lapin, Skip was very intelligent and just needed time to get used to being in a human body, and Pib was obviously a little scheming stinker. Seriously, though, Daisuke is a delight, I love that he's a Gunslinger, and I think we all need to appreciate the poetry of the comedy sniper actually playing a sniper. Who is also an old divorced outlaw who kills people who try to mess with his ex-step-granddaughter.

-Marya Junkova, the woman of my dreams. Once again, Emily has created a character who I will become unreasonably obsessed with, and I am not just saying that because she's spooky (my favorite D&D character asethetic) and an artificer (my favorite D&D class). I love her accent, I love her look, I love the idea of her being a happy-go-lucky adventurer who has been turned sad and cynical by trauma, and I am so fucking excited to see the lore behind the crow-thing she's gonna kill. Also, I'm all in favor of the headcanon of her being undead... mainly because my current character is also a steampunk-heavy, spooky, undead artificer with a gun and weird pets. They have a mechanical heart.

-If it weren't for Iga Lisowski, Van would be a completely different direction for Siobhan, but I am so stoked to see her play an IDGAF old woman with a sweet, supportive husband again. She's a badass, she's a bicon, and I really wanna know how she lost that arm. Not much to say about Van as of right now, I'm excited to learn more, and I can't wait for Siobhan to repeatedly wreck everyone's ears with that whistle.

-And last but not least, we have a beautiful return to the Kingston Brown vibes with Monty, who doesn't really appear to have that "chaotic entitled" energy that Lou found so appealing after playing Squak, though of course there's something to be said about him playing a famous author again. I love seeing Monty be all warm and paternal and supportive, I love how he really encapsulates the energy of your archetypical nature caster, and I love how there's a little bit of chaos wound into this big, comforting soul. Though... that being said, I do hope he's got a decent subclass under his belt. If you're not playing a Gloomstalker or doing an insane multiclass build like Siobhan did with Rosamund, rangers can be tricky.

[gingerteafairy]

Hiiii

Could you write a bimbo (kinda dumb) reader x Rodrick ?

hiii, sure. i think i can't really make a good bimbo reader, but i tried lol

𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒍

tags n warnings: fluff. word count: +700 masterlist

If there was one thing Rodrick imagined before having a girlfriend, it was teaching a girl to play the drums. In theory, it seemed amazing. He would guide you patiently, correct your posture, and in the end, you'd share a perfect moment together. But in practice, it was turning into a real nightmare. He rested his chin on his hand, watching with a mix of despair and fascination as you almost destroyed the drumheads, threw the cymbals like frisbees, and hit the toms with no sense of rhythm whatsoever.

The moment you dropped the drumsticks and clapped for yourself, a proud smile lit up your face. “That transition was everything. I looked amazing in that rockstar girlfriend vibe.” You turned to him, tossing your hair back. “It sounded so good this time, don’t you think?”

Rodrick blinked a few times, still processing what he had just witnessed. “Well... it had... a lot of personality.” He tried to soften it, hoping it wouldn’t sound as bad as it did. But by the way your expression shifted, he realized he had failed miserably.

“A lot of personality?” You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes. “Rod, we only say that when a guy is hideously stinky ugly and we don’t want to be mean when we reject them.”

Rodrick opened and closed his mouth a few times, desperately searching for an escape. “No... you were good, it was... he just doesn’t know how to take pictures?” He raised his eyebrows, as if that could somehow fix the situation.

You widened your eyes, indignant, and jumped to your feet. Rodrick widened his as well, feeling his heart race.

“No, wait!” He chased after you, grabbing your arm before you could escape. “I was just kidding. You were... great?”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was being serious. Your eyes lit up and a smile started forming on your lips.

“Really?” Your voice came out in a hopeful tone, and you held his hands near your chest.

Rodrick felt warmth rise to his face. He looked away for a second, swallowed, and then met your gaze again.

“Yeah…” He licked his lips, flashing a shy smile.

The next second, you let out an excited squeal and jumped into his arms, slightly knocking him back. Rodrick laughed, pulling you into a tight hug. Your perfume mixed with the scent of his shampoo, making your presence even more addictive. He closed his eyes for a moment, rolling them in delight. God, he wanted to get lost in your hair and never be found again.

“You think I can pull off that drum fill from the rock version of Baby One More Time?” You asked, pulling back a little to look at him. 

Rodrick tilted his head to the side, analyzing the question as if it were something very serious. “With all due respect, my sweet, pookie, heart...” He bit his lip to hold in his laughter. “I’d prefer you in the audience.”

You huffed, crossing your arms again. “Was that your cute way of calling me a terrible drummer?”

“No… No, baby, no.” Rodrick slid his hands up to your face, holding it gently. “I think your style suits metal much better.”

“But they’re just a bunch of guys screaming with nonsense noises... It’s awful. A total mess.” You pouted, wrinkling your nose.

Rodrick laughed, his eyes shining with amusement. “And you know I love all that mess.” He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your cheek, feeling the warm skin under his lips. “How about we go to the mall so you can clear your head?”

“But you hate going to the mall, Rod.” You frowned, suspicious. 

“Yeah, I do.” He shrugged. “But I hate even more seeing you upset because you can’t play the drums. It’s hard, no one becomes a pro in two days.”

Your face lit up with a mischievous smile. “Are you gonna let me do your makeup?” Your eyes sparkled with excitement.

Rodrick sighed, already knowing he wouldn’t escape unscathed. “Just don’t do those weird things again. I’ll look like David Bowie.”

You let out a laugh and pinched his nose. “No, hon. You can’t look like David Hasselhoff. He’s huge.”

Rodrick blinked a few times, confused, and laughed along, shaking his head. “You’re a real sweetheart. I can’t say no to you.”

[becausebuckley]

michelle's buddie fic recs: week 18!

in which i continue to ignore pretty much any and all 8x14-16 content and spent an impressive amount of time procrastinating. it's been a Week for sure. enjoy the fics!

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

begin, then begin again | walkingthroughwindows | 7.4k | E

a fic about them relaxing enough to give each other what they already know they need. i love how this captures both buck and eddie!! so in character, and such lovely hurt/comfort <3

can't leave me alone | 42hrb/@exhuastedpigeon | 3.4k | E

“The DMV didn’t have a line,” Eddie says again, taking a step into the room instead of turning around like Buck is expecting him too. If Eddie leaves Buck can take the dildo out of his ass and they can maybe pretend this never happened, or at the very least ignore it for 6 to 12 months, until it’s funny to joke about. such a delight!! so hot, so beautifully written, just perfect!!

divide, conquer and propose? | yimooyi | 3k | GA

Eddie proposes to Buck in Stardew Valley co-op. Buck panics. this is so cute!! i love stardew valley and i love buckett and eds and i love this <3

i wanna be tied tied tied to your apron strings | sibylsleaves/@eddiesprius | 3.2k | E

Buck knows, okay. He doesn’t quite understand it, but he knows. Something about him in an apron turns Eddie into some kind of crazed sex fiend, desperate for Buck’s attention the way Buck usually feels desperate for his. buck wearing nothing but an apron is a vision and i'm so here for it!! love how this captures their dynamic!

in pursuit of good health | lightyears/@bisexualbellamyblake | 6.7k | M

Eddie and Buck start platonically kissing. i saw the summary for this fic and just went yeah you know what these are EXACTLY the type of idiots that would decide to kiss for health benefits lmao. such a wonderful premise for a lovely, lovely fic!!

invisible string, tying you to me | Bexism/@bexism | 17.6k | E

the one where buck and eddie's bodies are linked and they end up sharing injuries and... other things. i love a good body linking fic and this one is just brilliant!! i love the descriptions of how buck and eddie are linked, especially for those other things <3

lover, be good to me | midnights/@roosterseresin | 7.7k | E

in which oranges are picked, muffins are made, and lazy morning sex is had. this fic has the hottest smut but it's also so soft and sweet!! it just has that spring morning vibe, you know? just lovely <3

soy una vela prendida por ti | pairofraggedclaws/@pairofraggedclaws | 8.9k | E

“You cannot mean what I think you mean,” Eddie says. “For old time’s sake!” Buck says. “To remember how it all started.” He kisses Eddie’s hand again. this is part two in a series and part one is also excellent!! such hot fun sweet fics, both of them <3

symbiosis | mandolare/@rainscenes | 9k | E

Buck and Eddie get blackout drunk, and then learn something new about themselves. And each other. i LOVE a good tattoo fic and the premise of this one is just <3 so hot, so very them!!

the rush of slumber party kissing | butchdiaz/@butchdiaz | 3.3k | E

“Okay, Uh—“ he racks his brain for something else Buck has done that he hasn’t. “Never have I ever kissed a man.” Buck doesn't put his finger down, just cocks his head curiously. “Damn, six months without even a kiss, no wonder Tommy left.” Eddie mutters half under his breath. It causes Buck to snap out of his daze and give him a half-hearted middle finger. He’s still thinking, though, eyebrows scrunched together in that adorable way they used to whenever he tried to help Chris with his elementary school math homework. “What, Buck?” “Never?” Buck asks. this was a reread! i love how this captures eddie especially and the dialogue feels so true to character!! so good <3

tomorrow i'll be brave (you make me brave) | serenelystrange/@serenelystrange | 16.9k | T

In which Buck’s life in L.A. falls apart before it can even begin. He never expects an orange tree to be the thing that changes it all. oh, the way i DEVOURED this au... i love how the characters are written here and how everyone meets and interacts and it's just so, so wonderful!!