#Doing Nothing at Work (Without Getting Fired

[vasito-de-leche]

I love, LOVE your characterization of the Saja Boys, and while I know you’ve only written complete dating hcs for Baby and Abs, I was hoping if it was okay if I could request something with the Saja Boys (separately) where it follows the prompt “you're about to argue but you're so pretty that his brain short circuits”? If you don’t want to write for all of them, then maybe you could do Baby and Abs (separately)?

;KPOP DEMON HUNTERS SAJA BOYS - "Too Pretty"

Saja Boys (separate) x Reader 2.5k words silly, fluff Being a demon's soft spot has its benefits. Who would've thought?

i'm so glad you like the way I write them!! this prompt sounded so fun, I just had to try my hand at it, thank you!

this also served as a way for me to slowly figure out how I'd like to characterize the other members o7 I tried to keep the relationship vague enough to be read as whatever people want, so hope that comes across well enough. also also, dont let these dramatic edgy idols fool you, all drabbles end up being silly and cute

JINU

"Are you even listening, Jinu?"

He is, of course. But he'd rather not, especially when you're getting worked up over nothing; so much for escaping an endless cycle of torture in the underworld, he now has to deal with a brand new mess, pacing behind him like a madman. By now, you've probably noticed the monotonous and non-committal answers he's been giving on loop.

"Uh-huh," Jinu's eyes never stray from the notebook in front of him, attempting to come up with a better verse for an upcoming song. And he knows he's fucked up when he hears you groan, stomping towards him.

"Okay, okay. Maybe I stopped listening abooout ... five or ten minutes ago, who's counting, but--"

Your hand comes into view, fast as lighting, and he can only look as you snatch the notebook away from him. Great, awesome.

There goes the perfect verse in his head. He remains frozen for a moment, the hand holding a pen still hovering over the now empty spot on his desk until your voice reaches him once more.

"If you're not going to listen, at least tell me so I don't waste my time talking to you."

Jinu slouches in his seat, raising both hands to cover his face, before sliding them upwards to slick back his hair in a feeble attempt at regaining his composure. You can't even see him from this angle, his back turned to you, but he still rolls his eyes.

You want to argue? Get it out of your system? Fine, he can give you the fight you want.

In one swift motion, his position changes; now he's straddling the chair, a powerplay he's come to master after bickering with his own band for so long, eyes closed as he prepares to deliver a devastating comeback to rile you up. But when he looks up, the golden glow in his eyes wavers--you're standing so close in front of him, looking down at his seated form with your arms crossed, as if daring him to speak.

He doesn't, and you tilt forwards, hair cascading over him so that the only thing he can focus is your face in this one-sided glaring contest.

Jinu has seen you at your best and your worst, but this is the first time he's found himself at the other end of your undivided attention and anger. It is as intimidating as it is alluring. What are you doing to him? Is this allowed? His neck feels hot, his face feels hot. The room feels like it's on fire, but not the same type of hellfire he's grown used to; it's a different sort of warmth, equal parts shame and pleasure as he takes in the sight. His lips part without him noticing, whispering ever so gently.

"Pretty ..."

"What was that?" Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

"Shitty. I said you look. Shitty. As in, you look like shit. Being angry isn't doing you any favors, you know? You should get some rest, okay. Byeee."

Without giving you any time to react, Jinu fumbles over his words, trips over your furniture and he stumbles out of your apartment in a rush, almost breaking into a sprint for the elevator. It's only when the doors close that he allows himself to breathe in and out, finally noticing the extra passenger inside with him. His bird companion chirps smugly, and Jinu groans into his palms.

"I don't want to talk about it."

ROMANCE

"I didn't mean it like that!"

Romance scoffs at your words, still refusing to leave his room. All the heart shaped decorations seem to mock him as he leans his full weight against the door, easily preventing you from entering no matter how hard you try to rattle the doorknob.

Both of you find yourself at the edge of an argument, and the decision to escalate things lies solely on his hands. He knows this because he can practically hear the affection in your words, even as you whine and tell him to get over himself to talk to you, face to face. That alone is enough to make Romance's chest tighten--no matter how many times he does this, this game of push and pull, you still make sure to chase after him time and time again.

Surely you must be reaching your breaking point; nobody is strong enough to withstand this much heartbreak. Maybe if he tries a little harder, you'll realize that there's nothing good in a future with him.

All he has to do is stay silent and wait for you to leave.

"Then what did you mean?" His voice is whiny, it always is. But you always insist that you love that about him, the way he feels so deeply about everything.

"You really want to argue about something like this?" You're right, you usually are--he's making things difficult when he's not even officially yours. "Well, I don't. So you can call me once you've cooled off."

And just like that, it's quiet; there's no more pressure pushing against him from the other side of the door, no more cutesy nicknames and attempts at coercing him out. Romance's heart drops, and he practically claws his way out, torn between cursing you out for proving him right and leaving, or begging you to take him back and sort everything out as if he hadn't been the one to start this. He's taken only a single step out of the threshold of his sanctuary when your smile greets him--you're leaning casually against the door frame, pretending to inspect your nails.

"So, are you done brooding all by yourself, handsome?"

That playful grin renders Romance speechless; the contrast of your casual attitude against his frenzied panic is impossible to ignore, he's gone through all five stages of grief in under a minute while your trust in him never wavered. Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder because there's a glint in your eyes that tugs at his heartstrings, wild strands of hair that he'd love to twirl in his fingers and kiss ever so gently. Romance knows that you'll let him if he asks for permission, and a knot forms in his throat, face flushed bright pink.

"No." It's all he manages to squeak out before closing the door once more.

"Rommie! Are you mad at me or not?!"

"I don't??? Know??? I need a moment! Just stay there!"

ABBY

"That's the last time I take you anywhere. You can't just pick a fight like that, Abby!" Abby sinks even deeper into the plush cushions of the couch as you continue to scold him, as if his sulking and his silence could single-handedly help him win this argument.

He's already found himself a comfortable spot, but you're still fussing about the living room, throwing your shoes to the side, sending your jacket flying onto the backrest of the sofa, pausing to drink and slamming the glass on the counter a little harder than necessary. Abby knows better than to try and stop you, so he stays put, waiting for his opening.

"What if anyone saw? Did you even think about that? The amount of trouble you'd be in?"

Those are all very good questions that he never bothered to consider; in fact, he still refuses to think about the consequences. There's no point in doing so when you managed to pull him away before he could do any damage to anyone, or to his own reputation as an idol.

"Like they'd even care," Abby huffs, trying to blow a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Just catching a glimpse of us outside is enough to make everyone turn a blind eye, it's almost too easy to work the crowd. One flex of these guns and any broken noses will be totally forgotten."

He makes an attempt to flex said guns, but he finds you looming over him from behind the couch, your grasp on his wrists as steady as death. There is a wild look in your expression, one he can't quite understand, but he finds it impossible to tear his eyes away from you. Getting to play the part of guard dog for you comes as easy as breathing, Abby can't get enough of the little tells that give you away, letting him know that you enjoy his antics--but it never crossed his mind that the tables could be reversed like this.

"Fine, let me put it this way! What if you got in trouble or worse, what if you got hurt? Ever thought of that one? Just because you're an all mighty demon doesn't mean you're--"

"You're hot when you're mad." He blurts out.

"I--What?"

A chance to rectify his mistake is presented to him, and he immediately pivots away from it when you blink your pretty eyes at him in confusion. "I said that you're hot when you're--"

"I heard you the first time, Abby. It's just--were you listening to what I was saying?" Okay, this is his chance to steer the conversation back on track. It's very easy, he just has to--

"If I say no, will you scold me some more?"

"Oh my God. Abby. Nevermind."

MYSTERY

Arguing with you is a rare occurrence.

But so is speaking to you, or engaging in any sort of conversation at all with anyone. This is one of the many perks that came with his role as the cool, mysterious and aloof member of the Saja Boys; anything he didn't feel like addressing could be easily swept under the rug and left ignored for centuries. This had been Mystery's modus operandi for years, and he wasn't planning on changing it any time soon.

You, on the other hand, were the opposite, filling the silence he often sought so desperately, until your voice became background noise in his life, a constant, confusing and somewhat comforting presence that simply followed him around.

Mystery still remembers the first time he deigned himself to reply, something off-handed that didn't matter at all, and yet you clung to his every word and went the extra mile to include him in your one-sided talks. It took a long time for the demon to get used to this, and an even longer time to acknowledge the fact that he enjoys the sound of your laughter, way better than the miserable voices crawling in the back of his mind.

Which is why the claustrophobic and oppressive silence lingering in the room irks him to no end. You're supposed to be talking, not playing hard to get or ignoring him over a stupid argument; the way you brush past him, barely acknowledging his existence as you go about your day is getting under his skin in ways he never knew were possible.

And then, for a fleeting second, you meet his gaze--this moment lasts for an eternity in his eyes, and he opens his mouth to speak, to seize the opportunity and break the ice, but before he can get a single word out, you turn around and begin to scroll through your phone. That's the last straw.

Mystery stands up and forces himself into your peripheral, hands firmly planted on the wall, trapping you in.

For the first time in forever, he wants to scream, to bark, to growl and give you a piece of his mind. But when he sees the way you awkwardly avoid his gaze, fiddling with your hands and standing at your tiptoes, Mystery relents and his frustration is replaced with something else; endearment. You're still wearing his merch, one of the very first shirts the Saja Boys released long ago with his name written on it, you're still attempting to hide from him despite knowing there's nowhere in the world you could go without him finding you.

Slowly, Mystery raises a hand towards you, enjoying your half-hearted attempt at shaking him off, pretending to bite the air near him.

And then he pinches your nose. "Cute."

After that, he leaves. You'll come around when you feel like it.

BABY

"You went too far this time, there was no need to get so personal back there."

"That's the entire point of dissing someone, duh. So, was it good? Did you like it?" Baby kicks his feet, hands cupping his cheeks to make himself look as innocent as possible. "I didn't know I could rhyme that many words with 'cunt' but it was soooo fun! Right, right?"

"Baby!"

Tsk. Guess it's the hard way today. That cute expression quickly turns into a scowl and he makes a bee-line for the fridge, if only to find something to drink and distract himself with.

He blows bubbles into the silly straw, sulking in the kitchen. "What? They got what they deserved. What kind of idiot would challenge me to a rap battle if they can't take the heat? Hellooooo, it's Baby Saja we're talking about."

"But it was a friendly thing, you turned it into a massacre for no reason."

"Heh," he knows he shouldn't, but he snickers to himself anyway. "Guess I did, huh? What, do you wanna have a go in their place?"

This is how Baby likes to play, to earn a reaction and entertain himself if only for a little--but you always know better than to play into his shenanigans. And you also know how to get a message through his thick skull, something that continues to astonish him to this day.

Baby continues to sip away on his drink as you busy yourself, fully believing himself to be the victor of this round. But dread starts to make its presence known deep in his chest as he sees you slowly gathering your things--this isn't how things usually go, you always stay the night at his place to keep him company, watching horrible romcoms, eating snacks and falling asleep at 5 a.m.

So why were you leaving?

"Hey, hey. Woaaah! Are you really going to ditch me because I got a little mean to some rando? That's so unfair." The look you give him is enough for his act to crumble, and Baby groans dramatically before hurrying to your side, tugging onto the hem of your sleeves. "Stay here! Pleeeeeeaase? I'll behave next time!"

It doesn't work; you pinch his cheeks and pull, stretching them like mochi. Your voice is stern, even after you let go. "You're old enough to know that what you have to say is 'sorry,' Baby. But if you want to beg for forgiveness, you'll have to try a little harder than that."

Shit. So much for being unfair, the tone of your voice and that look in your eye are more than enough to get all the thoughts in his mind twisted up--Baby hates when you don't indulge him, but even he has to admit that he loves that stubborn streak in you.

"What? Cat got your tongue? I know you well enough by now, there's no way you have nothing to say."

You never waver, meeting his eyes with the same intensity, running a hand through your hair. Baby's mouth turns into a fine line, followed by a pout. If he says anything right now, he'll most likely end up digging his own grave. You look SUPER hot right now, is that good enough to make up and get you to stay? Something like that would most likely earn him the silent treatment for a week.

"Sssssssorry ..."

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it--"

"...for being soooo damn good at my job. Like it's my fault?"

"I'll see you tomorrow Baby."

"Aw, c'mon!"

[saoney]

Ocean's Fire

𖠋 Incubus! Rafayel ♡ Fem! Reader 𖠋

After two weeks apart, you return home to find your boyfriend missing and unresponsive. When you track him down, you discover he's been transformed by an experimental aphrodisiac—complete with horns, glowing red eyes, and an insatiable supernatural hunger that only you can satisfy.

⚠️ Please read responsibly - This story contains themes of dubious consent and penetrative sex, m → f that may be triggering for some readers.

🐚 Author’s Note: My smut debut!!! I’m so happy that I finally get to experience writing a proper smut with my beloved Sea God 🥹🎉 props to all of the smut writers because I almost went bald writing this fic (ﾉ´ｰ`)ﾉ

🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated ‹𝟹

The past two weeks had been torture disguised as duty.

Your field training assignment had you stationed in the wilderness, grinding through Wanderer combat simulations from dawn to dusk. Every muscle ached, every nerve was frayed, but the moment you collapsed into your cot each night, there was Rafayel—bathed in the warm glow from the studio lights, violet eyes heavy with longing as he asked about your day in that honeyed voice that made your chest tight with missing him.

"Did my sweet darling miss me today?" he'd purr into the camera, artistic fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Tell me what you're wearing. Better yet, show me."

Those late-night video calls were your lifeline. Even with his own hectic schedule—flying across the country with Thomas for his upcoming exhibition, managing interviews and gallery visits—Rafayel always made time for you. He'd prop his phone against his easel during breaks, painting with one hand while the other traced suggestive patterns in the air, describing in exquisite detail what he planned to do to you when you returned.

"I've been sketching you from memory," he'd whisper during one particularly heated call, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that made your thighs clench. "Want to see how I imagine you spread out on my silk sheets? How I remember the way you arch when I—"

"Rafayel," you'd breathe, already reaching for yourself.

"That's my good girl. Let me watch you come undone for me."

But on day ten, the calls stopped.

Your phone sat silent. Messages went unread. The absence of his teasing voice, his ridiculous pet names, his constant digital affection—it carved a hollow ache in your chest that grew deeper with each passing hour.

By day twelve, worry had transformed into hurt. By day fourteen, hurt had crystallized into anger.

Your transport touched down in Linkon City under gray skies, and finally—finally—your phone buzzed.

[Rafayel 📱: Welcome home, cutie.]

[Rafayel 📱: Still away for work. Don't wait up.]

The message was ice-cold. Clinical. Nothing like the man who usually greeted your returns with paragraphs of purple prose about how the city had been colorless without you.

Your fingers moved to Find My before you could stop them.

His location pulsed steadily: Mo Art Studio.

Home.

The betrayal hit like a physical blow. He was lying to you. After two weeks of radio silence, he was lying to your face.

Twenty minutes later, you stood before his door, keycard trembling in your grip. The evening air should have been cool, but heat seemed to radiate from behind the entrance like a furnace.

You knocked. Waited. Knocked harder.

Nothing.

Your keycard beeped softly as the lock disengaged.

The moment you stepped inside, the heat hit you like a wall. Suffocating, humid, wrong. Rafayel's home was always perfectly climate-controlled—he claimed his Lemurian blood made him sensitive to temperature fluctuations, though you suspected he just liked giving you excuses to warm him up.

"Rafayel!" Your voice echoed in the dim space. Curtains drawn, lights off, the air thick enough to taste. "I know you're here!"

Silence.

You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, following the oppressive heat to its source. His bedroom door stood ajar, and through the gap, you could see a figure curled on the bed.

The room was an oven. Dark as a cave. And there he was—shirtless, trembling, breath coming in sharp gasps like he was drowning on dry land.

"Rafayel." All your anger dissolved into concern. "Why haven't you answered me? Why did you lie about being away?"

He didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge your presence.

You reached for his shoulder, and the moment your fingers made contact, you jerked back with a gasp. His skin was burning—not fever-hot, but scalding, like touching a heated stone.

"Jesus, you're sick—we need to get you to a hospital—"

"Don't." His voice was barely a rasp. "Please, cutie. Don't touch me. You need to leave."

He tried to roll away from you, but the movement was weak, uncoordinated. When he finally turned to face you, your heart stopped.

His eyes—those beautiful amethyst eyes that sparkled with mischief and adoration—were nearly crimson. Glowing like embers in the darkness.

"What happened to you?" You knelt beside the bed, hands hovering over him, afraid to cause more pain. "Rafayel, talk to me. Please."

He squeezed his eyes shut, whole body shuddering. "Thomas's colleague. New bar opening in the arts district. They served us some experimental cocktail—said it was a prototype aphrodisiac for Valentine's Day. I thought it was just marketing nonsense."

Understanding crashed over you like cold water. "How long?"

"Three days." His laugh was bitter, broken. "Three days of hell. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't think about anything but you. Every nerve in my body is on fire, and the only thing that helps is—" He cut himself off with a groan.

You reached for his hand instinctively, and his fingers latched onto yours with desperate strength.

The contact seemed to send electricity through him. His breathing hitched, back arching off the bed.

"You have to go," he gasped, but his grip on your hand tightened. "I'm barely holding on. If you stay, I don't know if I can control myself. I don't want to hurt you, don't want to scare you—"

His words dissolved into a tortured moan, his whole body convulsing as if he were fighting a war within himself—and losing. "No, no, no," he gasped, clawing at his own chest as the transformation began to consume him. Dark markings erupted across his skin like living shadows, spreading from his heart outward in intricate, pulsing patterns that seemed to writhe and breathe with malevolent life. The black ink-like designs carved themselves deeper into his flesh, glowing faintly with each ragged breath he took.

His canines stretched into razor-sharp fangs with an audible crack, and you watched in horrified fascination as two elegant horns tore through the skin of his temples, curving back through his disheveled hair like a dark crown. Blood trickled down his face from where they emerged.

Then he laughed—a low, dangerous sound that was nothing like his usual warm chuckle. It was predatory, unhinged, utterly inhuman. When his eyes snapped open, they blazed with primal hunger, all traces of your gentle artist boyfriend buried beneath the creature that now possessed him.

His grip on your hand, which had been weak and trembling moments before, suddenly tightened like a vice, fingers digging into your skin with supernatural strength.

"Too late to run now, cutie," he whispered, voice layered with dark promise.

Then he yanked you down onto the bed with him, his strength making it effortless as he dragged you against his burning body. His lips crashed against yours with desperate hunger, hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you like a man drowning. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, scalding even through your clothes, his body trembling with barely restrained need. Despite the transformation, his touch was still reverent, still unmistakably him beneath the hunger that consumed him.

When he finally pulled back, you were gasping, vision blurred, completely at his mercy on the rumpled sheets beneath him.

"I'm sorry," he purred against your lips, voice dripping with dark amusement. "I'm not gonna stop until this fire burns itself out, and you're gonna take everything I give you right, cutie? Don't worry—I'll be gentle… mostly. Now why don't you be a good little hunter for me, yeah?"

His mouth found your throat, pressing hot kisses to your pulse point while his hands worked at your clothes with precision. Each piece of fabric that fell away earned you praise whispered against your skin.

"Perfect," he murmured, mouth trailing down to worship your exposed chest. "I've been dreaming of this. Sketching these curves from memory until my fingers cramped."

He took his time despite the urgency thrumming through him—lavishing attention on every inch of skin, building you up with touches and kisses until you were arching beneath him, completely pliant.

His hands smoothly unclasped your bra, fingers reverent as they traced your curves. Without wasting a moment, his mouth was on your breasts, tongue swirling around your nipples before he sucked them into his mouth, drawing desperate whimpers from your lips.

"Rafayel," you gasped, back arching as he lavished attention on your chest. "Please—"

"Shh, cutie," he murmured against your skin, mouth trailing hot kisses down your belly. "Let me worship you properly."

His hands urgently undid your pants, sliding them down your legs with agonizing slowness. When he finally settled between your thighs, he inhaled deeply, eyes rolling back in bliss.

"I can smell your arousal," he growled, voice rough with need. "So sweet, so perfect. I've been through hell trying to control myself. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? How many sketches I've ruined thinking about eating you?"

"Rafayel, please," you whimpered, hips bucking toward his face. "I need—"

"I know exactly what you need," he whispered, voice dropping to a dangerous octave as those burning red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His expression was beautifully terrifying—tender love warring with predatory hunger. "Now I'm going to worship this beautiful cunt until you forget everything but my name."

He dove in with feral hunger, tongue dragging broad, possessive strokes up your slit before attacking your clit with relentless precision. His mouth devoured you—lapping, sucking, biting gently at your most sensitive flesh with desperate, animalistic need. Every sound he made was pure worship, muffled moans of satisfaction vibrating against you.

"Oh god, oh god," you cried, hands fisting in his hair as he pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with wet, sinful strokes. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"

He moaned against your core like a starving man at a feast, the vibrations resonating through your bones and setting every nerve ending ablaze. Each desperate movement of his tongue was calculated to feed the supernatural hunger clawing at his insides while simultaneously destroying every defense you had left.

"Christ, you taste like heaven," he groaned between ravenous licks, pulling back just enough to watch your face contort with pleasure. "You're so addicting. I could spend eternity right here, drinking every drop you give me."

Your first orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, spine bowing impossibly as you screamed his name with raw, broken desperation. But he was merciless—couldn't be anything else—his mouth never leaving you as he lapped up every tremor, every aftershock, prolonging your climax until you were sobbing from the intensity.

"Too much," you gasped, trying to push his head away, but he caught your wrists.

"No such thing," he purred, and dove back in, making you cum again on his tongue until you were sobbing with oversensitivity.

When he finally pulled away, face glistening with your arousal, he cupped your tear-stained cheeks lovingly. "Look at you, already crying for me. We're far from finished, Y/N."

Rafayel rose to his knees, hands moving to unzip his pants with desperate urgency. When he finally freed his cock, it was flushed and angry, precum beading at the tip from hours of torment and anticipation. His burning red eyes locked onto you—taking in the sight of you panting and sprawled beneath him, eyes half-lidded and completely wrecked from his mouth. The vision alone made his cock twitch violently, demanding immediate relief.

"So beautiful," he breathed, voice thick with reverence and lust. "So ready for me."

He wrapped his hand around his lenght, stroking slowly edging himself while his gaze devoured every inch of your trembling form. The sight of you, so perfectly wrecked and waiting, had him practically salivating with anticipation.

With deliberate, torturous slowness, he dragged the head of his cock from your entrance up to your clit, collecting your arousal along the way. The teasing made you mewl desperately beneath him, hips bucking for more contact.

"Please," you whimpered, but he just smirked, slapping his cock against your sensitive cunt with wet, obscene sounds.

The heat radiating from your core, the slick wetness coating him, the way you clenched around nothing—it all made him hiss in pure pleasure.

"So wet for me," he groaned, continuing his torturous teasing.

"Think you can take me, cutie?" His voice was low and teasing as you felt him playing at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. The stretch was burning and delicious—until he pulled out completely, leaving you feeling empty and desperate.

"I don't think so," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your skin.

You almost felt like crying from his relentless teasing. Without a second thought, you abandoned all pride and begged for his mercy. "Please, Rafayel... I want it. I want you so badly."

"Yeah?" He was still teasing, pressing soft kisses to your tear-dampened eyes with surprising tenderness.

"Yeah," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

For a moment he held your gaze, studying your face as you gave him the most pleading look you could muster, hoping your puppy eyes would finally make him cave. Something shifted in his expression—desire winning over his need to torment you.

Finally, he positioned himself at your entrance again, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. Both of you moaned in unison as he began to slide into you slowly, savoring every inch as he filled you completely. The stretch was overwhelming after your orgasms, making you whimper and claw at his shoulders.

"That's it, take all of me," he breathed, bottoming out with a groan. "You're gripping me so tight. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."

"I don't," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Never want you to leave me again."

He began to move, thrusts deep and reverent, hands mapping every curve of your body like he was committing you to memory for his next masterpiece. His own moans and whimpers filled the air, the desperate sounds making you even wetter.

"You're taking me so perfectly," he praised, voice breaking with emotion. "Like you were made for this cock. Gods, I missed how warm you are inside, how you flutter around me when you're close."

"Rafayel," you moaned, already feeling another orgasm building. "You feel so good, so deep—"

"That's my girl," he groaned, angling his hips to hit that spot that made you see stars. "Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You were cock-drunk fast, lost in the rhythm of his hips and the filthy praise spilling from his lips. When you came again, clenching around him, he nearly lost control.

"More," you gasped against his lips. "Need more of you."

Something primal flashed in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your hands and knees, the sudden change making you cry out.

"You want more?" he growled, hands gripping your hips as he drove into you from behind. "I-ah-can't refuse you."

This angle was devastating—each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you while his hands roamed your body possessively. You could feel yourself getting wetter soaking the bed sheet underneath you, the obscene sounds of your coupling filling the room.

"Listen to how wet you are," he panted, one hand sliding up to cup your breast. "So fucking beautiful like this, taking my cock so well. You're mine, aren't you? Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you sobbed, face pressed into the pillows. "Always yours, Raf— Rafayel!"

"That's right," he groaned, thrusts becoming more demanding. "My petite artiste, so messy and desperate for me."

But he needed more. Needed to see you fall apart in every way possible.

"On your back," he commanded, and when you complied on shaking legs, he pulled your legs up into a mating press, folding you nearly in half. The new angle made you scream, overwhelmed by how deep he could go.

"Look at me," he demanded, his glowing eyes boring into yours. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you cum for me again. Want to watch you fall apart."

The intensity was too much—the way he watched every expression cross your face, the desperate love and lust warring in his gaze. Your eyes rolled back as he hit that perfect spot over and over, tears streaming down your cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure.

"There you are," he whispered, voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Look at you, so beautiful when you're completely gone for me."

When your orgasm crashed over you, it was earth-shattering. You came with a broken scream, body convulsing around him as he moaned your name like a prayer. The intensity of watching you fall apart, of feeling you clench around him so perfectly, made blood drip from his nose onto your chest, the incubus potion overwhelming even his supernatural constitution.

"I can't cum anymore," you sobbed, thighs shaking from overstimulation, mascara running down your cheeks. "Please, Rafayel, I can't—"

But your pleas only seemed to spur him on. The sadistic part of the incubus potion loved seeing you so wrecked, so desperate, so perfectly ruined.

"Of course you can, cutie," he purred, pulling out only to maneuver you into his lap. "Look at this tear-stained face—so pitiful, so drunk on my cock. Makes me wanna fuck you even more."

"Please," you whimpered, but whether you were begging him to stop or continue, neither of you knew.

"One more," he coaxed, guiding you down onto his cock. "You have no idea what you do to me"

Face to face now, you could see every expression cross his beautiful, dangerous features. His hands roamed your body possessively while you rocked against him, completely lost in sensation.

"That's my good girl," he whispered against your ear, then bit down gently on your earlobe. "Taking everything I give you, even when you're crying from how good it feels. You're so perfect, so intoxicating when you're falling apart for me."

"Rafayel," you gasped, eyes rolling back again as he hit that spot that made you see white. "I'm going to—"

"I know, baby. Let go for me one last time."

Your final orgasm was devastating, your vision going white as your body convulsed around him. You came with a silent scream, completely overwhelmed by sensation, and watching you reach that peak of pleasure pushed him over the edge.

He came with a broken moan, holding you tight against him as he spilled inside you, nose bleeding more heavily now from the sheer intensity of the moment.

The last thing you remembered was his face above you, handsome and ethereal with his horns and glowing eyes, completely drunk on pleasure as he buried himself deep inside you, whispering your name like a benediction and the satisfaction of finally being able to touch you after days of torment. Your own face was a mess of tears and smeared makeup, eyes glassy and unfocused from being thoroughly claimed by your temporarily-incubus lover.

When consciousness returned, golden morning light was streaming through the curtains, and the softest lips were pressing tender kisses along your cheek like butterfly touches.

"Morning, my sweet darling," Rafayel murmured, his voice back to its familiar warm velvet. The horns had vanished, his eyes returned to that beloved amethyst shade, though delicate traces of the dark markings still lingered like watercolor stains across his skin. "Sleep well?"

You groaned softly, every muscle in your body singing a chorus of pleasant aches as you tried to stretch. "You're absolutely impossible."

He grinned with zero remorse, looking devastatingly handsome in the morning light. "And you love me anyway. Want to take a warm bath? I'll wash your hair and tell you about all the masterpieces I'm going to paint inspired by last night."

Despite your mock indignation, you couldn't suppress the smile tugging at your lips. "You're buying me breakfast first. The fancy kind. And coffee—really good coffee."

"Anything for you," he agreed easily, then leaned down to nuzzle into the curve of your neck, his voice dropping to that achingly familiar teasing whisper. "But first... want to hear about this incredible dream I had about you in my bathtub?"

You were glad Rafayel was back to normal, but if you were being honest with yourself, Incubus Rafayel was kind of hot… You wondered if he'd be willing to be one for Halloween this year.

[somewhatfound]

I read through the email again. The overly positive response with a slight undertone of aggression reading only “You can do it!” stared back at me.

Now I could do many things. I could write some damn good proposals for pitch meetings. I could soothe frazzled investors nerves over coffee. I could design a marketing camping guaranteed to increase sales by a minimum of 38%. I could even hyper focus and eat nothing but microwaved chalupas for days if I was stressed enough. But sell a glorified modern day torture device as ‘kid safe’? They must be shitting me.

The “Trans-plant ©” was a teleportation device meant to move living organic material across a “Unlimit’d (Trademark)” distance, and was also on its 33rd rebrand for a name. I was partial to linking it to a Fey portal fantasy theme but was shot down by investors as it being too feminine a reference. Clearly none of them read spicy fey romance.

So while I had my brain bursting with yet another round of branding ideas, already thinking about hiring influencers that worked in garden trends and #cottagecore to possibly be our first publicity stunt of using the “Trans-plant ©”, I had gotten the official details of the product itself. After 7 months of bureaucratic red tape and 1000s of meetings, today I was finally sent a single password protected pdf… on a locked server that could only be accessed with a 3-step verification log-in involving my personal and work cell phones… and social security number.

Dear God, it’s literally over 2000 pages.

Now despite working for years in advertising, I actually hate it. I hate the clients, I hate the work, and I hate bullshit like expecting me to read engineer notes (and understand them!) when all I wanted to know was how long does it take for teleportation to work? Why couldn’t anyone tell me that, I had to give SOMETHING to graphic designers this week. And the fact that they hired me at all meant they couldn’t pull off an advertising campaign with AI tools alone.

So it was bad. There was something very bad in here that required human ingenuity to spin into a positive.

I fucking hate my job.

I liked paying rent though, so I began a first pass of the reading through the document from hell searching for my turds they expected me to polish into gold. It took 10 minutes of scrolling only looking at pictures to reach the bottom of the document.

It’s fucking giant.

Ok, so it had what could be considered a preppers wet dream of a bunker storage beneath it filled with all sorts of spare parts, so it’ll have to be built by itself in the middle of an open field… not super convenient liked they pitched, but still workable with my current #cottagecore marketing plan. Middle of nature, middle of nowhere construction site, people will love it. I'll make them love it.

A second pass of the document was just the search function trying to find the speed of teleportation itself. No matter my keywords though, I found nothing.

Honestly they should never try to lie to their lawyers or their marketing team. It’s their public image that will be ruined if I pitch something wrong.

I was on my 7th plate of microwaved cheesy sadness when I finally found the bit I was looking for, page 1112:

The distance to which the organic matter must travel is proportional to the time divided by the size of the matter. In practice it has been found for stability reasons that the endoskeleton be targeted for transportation first, followed by soft tissue. For this configuration it is not recommend for living exoskeleton matter, or matter without any endoskeleton.

The highly complicated math problem underneath I had no hope of understanding, and I knew if I plugged it in to a computer it be recorded and I’d be reported and fired in a hot second. But through years of gas lighting I had developed a brilliant skill in translating hot air bullshit, so I read it again:

It takes a while to transport something big. To make sure it gets there, skeletons are transported first, followed by the flesh. Not recommend for crabs or jellyfish.

What. The. Fuck.

Ok so I did a little creative copy pasting that I absolutely should not do, but the only way I was going to get my answers was through the math problem. And What an answer it was.

A cat took 28 seconds. A full grown adult took 42 seconds. Hypothetically you could go the distance to the other side of the planet, but it would take 4 minutes and 17 seconds to get there. Bones first. Conveniently there was no health reports or mention of comfort level. Pretty sure there was comfort level mentioned somewhere. Maybe an email?

But no, there was nothing specific ever mention. More hours spent going through old client emails I discovered the only ones mentioning comfort level, "kid friendly" and "instant arrival" were all other marketing team people. The last and most recent one simply reading: “You can do it!”

I can do what exactly? Record influencers climbing into a pod in the middle of a bulldozed forest to make a space for the underground bunker, slowly melting bones first for 42 seconds? Perhaps a time-lapse…. No, no!

This was bad. The whole thing made my stomach queasy and for once it wasn’t the chalupas. I… I couldn’t work on this. The more I read the worse it got. Tiny foot notes relating to installing and stocking sedatives and other drugs to keep travelers compliant for "exceptionally bad responses to transport".

I had an ex coworker once who had gone full whistle blower on one of the clients. I had still been mulling over what to do, when I got the alert from IT our team was the compromise origin. I did what I could to minimize damage, calm tempers, but I was a grunt back then. Nothing I said could stop the full weight of the corporate law from coming down on them with a 80 year sentence.

I still sent them commissary money to use in jail. Once every few months an email since they were no longer allowed physical mail.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

This could not be allowed though. Every single thing about it was worse and worse and I didn’t even understand the math parts! I went to art school for craps sake. Human psychology was just another hyper focus of mine like my sad melted cheese lunches, that were only getting sadder with my reading companion. And cold.

The thing about my ex-coworker, is that they blabbed to the wrong people. The blabbed to the media, the general populace. But that’s just free publicity. The companies are titans. But you know… Maybe a titian could take down another titian?

It would be a longshot but… What if I it got leaked to their competitor? What if, in the rush to outpace my client, they got sloppy? A few horror stories here and there. Instead of influencers, everyday construction crew reporting live on the scene of the backstage horrors.

We’d need a name though. Something to mock, something to meme…. Bones first…. 28 seconds…

No, no. Wrong angle. People care about themselves first. Think locally!

Bulldozing homes and local markets to build these monstrosities. Underground bunkers holding mass amounts of drugs next to sweet children schools. Straining the resources of the power grid and knocking out hospitals, putting peoples lives in jeopardy. Sad music, rain in the background, night vision filters.

They’d lose every investor and most of the funding. At worst both company’s would install a hack job of a single set of teleporters, and it’d become a novelty no one uses after the first weekend.

I looked one last time at my email: “You can do it!”

Yeah… Yeah I think I can.

The teleporter was supposed to be instant. To your horror, as the one in charge of marketing, it is not. Now you have to find a way to sell this 'miracle machine' that slowly reassembles people, bones first.

[sunshine-lux]

ok ok but established relationship joaquin x stark!reader who’s got a sassy little attitude and whenever she’s in a mood (which is often) joaquin always messes with her in a cute and flirty way and sam is always scared like “she’s gonna kill you man”

imagine the little “stooopppp quino”

grumpy x sunshine core i love them

Birds Of A Feather

summary: just a glimpse into the very lovey and chaotic relationship of y/n and joaquin!

pairings: Stark!reader x joaquin torres

warnings: mentions of death sprinkled here and there but nothing serious! y/n constantly threatening joaquin LOL, f!reader, i think that's it!

word count: 3.1k

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Joaquin Torres loves his girlfriend. He’d do anything for her—no hesitation, no questions asked, no matter how dramatic or unreasonable. He’s obsessed. Helpless. Completely whipped.

But with that love comes the deep, primal urge to annoy her to the ends of the world and back.

And lucky for him?

 Y/N Stark makes it so, so easy.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N slid into the passenger seat of Joaquin’s truck with a huff, slamming the door shut and buckling her seatbelt without so much as a glance in his direction.

Joaquin paused, glancing over at her with an amused lift of his brow. “Hello to you too, sunshine.”

He reached over and poked her arm gently, trying to coax even the tiniest smile out of her.

Y/N didn’t move. Just side eyed him and mumbled, “Whatever. Hi.”

Joaquin bit back a grin. Yep. She was in a mood. He’d seen that look before—usually when someone at work had pissed her off, or her tech wasn’t cooperating, or someone had the audacity to ask her a stupid question in the elevator.

Tonight, apparently, he was the one in the line of fire. Unlucky him. Or lucky, depending on how much he wanted to test her.

“You had one of those days, huh?” he asked lightly, starting the engine.

She didn’t answer. Just crossed her arms and turned to face the window with a sigh.

Joaquin glanced over, still smiling. “Aww, come on. Give me some sugar, sugar.”

He leaned over to kiss her, one arm snaking toward her shoulder to pull her in.

Y/N jerked away instantly, twisting her body toward the door like she was about to open it and jump out mid drive. “I’m so overstimulated right now, get away from me, Joaquin Torres.”

He blinked, hand still suspended mid air. “Damn. Full name and everything.”

“Do not touch me. I mean it. If one more person tries to breathe in my direction, I’m gonna explode.”

He bit his lip to hide a laugh. “Okay, okay. Hands to myself. Got it.” He settled back into his seat, throwing her a sideways glance. “But just for the record, you’re still really hot when you’re grumpy.”

She sighed again, dramatic and sharp. “I know. It’s exhausting.”

Joaquin chuckled, putting the car into gear and pulling out of the driveway. “Want me to cancel the dinner res and just drive around until you’re slightly less homicidal?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering it. “Maybe. Only if you promise to shut up for five minutes.”

“Deal. But I reserve the right to poke you again when I feel like it.”

“Try it and I’ll bite your finger off.”

He grinned wide. “You flirt so weird.”

Y/N turned slowly to look at him, unimpressed. “You are so lucky you’re cute, Quino.”

He beamed. “You say that like it’s not my entire strategy.”

They’d been driving for ten minutes now, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the evening breeze in. Y/N hadn’t said much, but the tension in her shoulders was slowly easing. Her head leaned against the window, eyes closed, fingers tapping gently against her thigh to the beat of whatever lo-fi playlist Joaquin had put on as a peace offering.

Joaquin glanced over at her at the next red light, content to let her decompress.

Which is exactly when she spoke.

“Wow,” she muttered, voice thick with fake betrayal. “You’re not even gonna hold my hand?”

He blinked. “What?”

She turned to him slowly, eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Did you stop loving me or something?”

Joaquin snorted. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to touch you, you cannibalist.”

“That was ten minutes ago,” she said, wiggling her fingers toward him like bait. “Things have changed. Keep up, Torres.”

“You’re actually insane.”

“And yet, you’re obsessed with me.”

He rolled his eyes but reached across the console anyway, threading their fingers together. She immediately curled into it, squeezing his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the planet.

He gave her a sideways glance. “So dramatic.”

“Mm. You like it.”

He kissed the back of her hand at the next red light, then refused to let go for the rest of the drive.

They got back to Joaquin’s place a little later, and by then Y/N’s bad mood had mostly fizzled out, leaving her comfortably tired and… just a little clingy. She kicked off her shoes by the front door and flopped face down onto the couch like she was done existing.

Joaquin laughed as he locked the door behind them. “You okay?”

“No,” came the muffled reply from the cushions. “I want chocolate and a heating pad and maybe to be held like a small, misunderstood Victorian orphan.”

He grinned. “So… a regular night in.”

She lifted one hand and flipped him off without lifting her head.

He crouched down and gently brushed her hair from her face. “You’re gonna knock out here like this?”

“Maybe,” she mumbled. “Couch has less betrayal than the world.”

He smiled, leaned in, and without another word, slid one arm under her legs and the other around her back — lifting her in one smooth, practiced motion.

Y/N blinked, startled. “What are you—?”

“Carrying you to bed, princess-style,” he said matter of factly, already heading down the hall. “Can’t let my misunderstood Victorian orphan sleep in the drawing room.”

She buried her face in his neck with a dramatic sigh. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “here you are. In my arms. As foretold.”

“You’re lucky I’m weak.”

“You’re lucky I’m strong.”

She smiled against his skin. “Shut up and tuck me in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He returned a few minutes later with a heating pad, and a bar of chocolate he had absolutely bought just in case. He laid everything out beside her, then sat next to her and gently coaxed her to roll onto him.

She crawled into his lap like a sleepy cat, settling against his chest with a little sigh as he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

“See?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “All bark, no bite.”

“I bit you last week,” she mumbled.

“And it was hot.”

She snorted against his chest, letting him stroke her hair as she started to melt into the warmth and quiet.

“…Thanks, Quino,” she said softly after a beat.

He smiled against her forehead. “Always, mi amor.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It started innocently. It always started innocently.

They were supposed to be cleaning the kitchen. Keyword: supposed to. Y/N was wiping down the counter. Joaquin was in charge of dishes. Everything was fine. Peaceful, even.

Until he started singing.

Off-key.

Loudly.

And with zero knowledge of the actual lyrics.

“You. Belong. With me—YEAH! You BELONG with meeeeeee,” he howled, doing a little spin with a dirty plate in hand like it was a Grammy.

Y/N froze, rag in hand. “Quino.”

“What?” he asked innocently.

“That’s not even the right melody.”

He grinned. “I’m doing the remix.”

“Please don’t.”

But it was already too late. He launched into the next line, doubling the volume and somehow managing to harmonize with nothing.

“She wears short skirts I WEAR T-SHIRTS—”

“STOPPP,” Y/N shrieked, ducking her head into her hoodie, laughing so hard her stomach hurt. “Quinooo, I swear to god—”

He was cackling, absolutely thriving off her chaos, flicking soap bubbles at her now for extra effect.

“Say you like it,” he teased, chasing her around the island with a sponge. “Say I’m talented. Say I’m the people’s pop star.”

“YOU’RE A MENACE.”

She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, voice cracking as she tried to fight him off with a kitchen towel.

“Stop it,” she gasped, half laughing, half crying now, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m gonna pee. I’m gonna pee my pants. I mean it.”

“Better now than in the truck,” Joaquin said cheerfully, dancing around her like he was in a concert crowd. “This is the exclusive living room performance, babe. Be grateful.”

She collapsed onto the floor, breathless and curled in on herself, still giggling uncontrollably. “I’m going to call Sam and tell him what you’re doing to me.”

“Go ahead. He’ll side with me. He likes my performances.”

“HE DOESN’T.”

He knelt down beside her, smug and glowing with victory. “Admit it. You love me more when I’m annoying.”

“I don’t even like you right now.”

“You’re literally crying from laughter.”

“I’m crying because you’re deranged.”

He beamed. “Same thing.”

She flopped dramatically into his lap. “You’re exhausting. My brain is soup. I am soup now.”

He kissed her forehead like he hadn’t just caused a small emotional breakdown.

“I love you, my little soup.”

“Shut up.”

“Say it back.”

“Not until you promise to never sing Taylor Swift again.”

“...what if I said I have a whole playlist queued?”

“I will commit a crime.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Sam stepped into the apartment cautiously, already suspicious.

The music was loud. Like, walls shaking, windows rattling loud. And it wasn’t Joaquin’s usual feel good playlist—it was full on metal.  The kind of music that made Sam instinctively squint.

He followed the sound into the living room and found Y/N sitting cross legged on the floor, dressed in sweatpants and an oversized AC/DC shirt, hair wild, eyeliner smudged like she’d either had a long night or a very powerful catnap. She was tinkering with some little device in her lap that looked like an arc reactor, because of course.

Joaquin was in the kitchen, squinting dramatically at the Bluetooth speaker like it had personally offended him.

“She’s been playing this for an hour,” he called out when he noticed Sam.

Y/N didn’t look up. “You can leave. Door’s right there.”

Sam held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just here to borrow the air fryer. Don’t involve me in whatever this is.”

“It’s Iron Maiden,” Y/N said proudly. “It’s culture.”

“It’s a cry for help,” Joaquin muttered, scrolling through his phone. “We could be listening to Bad Bunny right now. We could be thriving.”

Y/N shot him a look over her shoulder. “Touch that speaker and I’ll throw this at you.”

Joaquin grinned. Touched the speaker anyway.

Instantly, the music cut off. Replaced by reggaetón.

Y/N froze. Slowly turned around like a horror movie villain.

“Joaquin.”

“Yes, mi amor?”

“What did I just say?”

“That threats of violence are foreplay?”

Before Sam could even process that, Joaquin darted out of the kitchen, sprinting across the room as Y/N launched a pillow at his head. She stood up in one fluid motion, chasing after him.

“I told you not to!”

He laughed, circling the couch. “I’m enhancing the vibe!”

She chased him halfway around the living room before he doubled back, caught her mid-lunge, and threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

“Joaquin!” she screeched, fists pounding against his back. “PUT ME DOWN.”

“I will,” he said cheerfully, “once you admit my music taste is superior.”

“Never! I don’t even understand what they’re saying!”

Sam stood there frozen, holding the air fryer under one arm like a shield. “She’s gonna kill you, man. Actually kill you. Like, she’s got the Stark sass in her bloodline. You are so dead.”

Joaquin just danced around with her still on his shoulder, shaking his hips to the beat, grinning big.

“This is a normal Tuesday, relax,” he said, spinning with her as she screamed bloody murder and maybe—just maybe—was starting to laugh a little.

“I hate you,” Y/N gasped between giggles.

He smacked a kiss to her thigh. “You’re obsessed with me.”

Sam backed slowly toward the door, still holding the air fryer like it might explode. “I’m leaving. Y’all are unwell.”

Joaquin winked at him. “Tell the world our love is powerful.”

Y/N elbowed him in the back. “Tell the world he’s getting buried in the backyard if he plays 'Moscow Mule' again.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N got in a mood when Joaquin didn’t answer her text right away.

So when he finally walked through the door with groceries like a normal person, Y/N was already curled up on the couch in his hoodie looking emotionally unstable.

“You forgot about me,” she said flatly, not even looking up from the blanket she was swaddled in.

Joaquin blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t respond for forty-three minutes,” she said, holding up her phone like it was evidence in a trial. “I timed it.”

“I was driving. For you. To get your snacks.”

She sniffed. “I thought you were dead. Or worse. Ignoring me.”

He set the bags down and walked toward her slowly. “You good?”

“No. I’m feeling very unloved and neglected and fragile.”

“You FaceTimed me from the bathroom while I was still at the store.”

“I was vulnerable.”

He grinned. Oh. Oh. So that’s the game they were playing.

“Mi vida,” he said, kneeling in front of her like she was on her deathbed. “Are you saying I emotionally wounded you by leaving you here for an hour?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re right. I’ve been so cruel.” He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. “But if I leave you again… take me out. I won’t survive the guilt.”

Y/N stared at him. “Don’t. Don’t do the soft voice thing. I’m being dramatic. Let me be dramatic.”

“You want me to be distant to fuel the bit? Okay.” He stood up abruptly. “You’re right. Maybe I have been pulling away.”

Her eyes widened. “What.”

“I just think we’ve gotten too close, you know? Too fast. Maybe we need space.”

“JOAQUIN.”

“I’m worried we’re codependent.”

“STOP. TAKE IT BACK.”

He smirked, circling the couch now, fully committing. “Do you think we lost ourselves in each other?”

She launched a throw pillow at his head. “I will cry on purpose.”

“Good. I like it when you cry. Makes me feel needed.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m yours.”

She screamed into the pillow. “This is NOT how ragebait is supposed to go!”

“You tried to ragebait the ragebait champion. Know your place, princess.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

He flopped down beside her and tugged her into his lap, arms looping around her.

“You’re obsessed with me,” he whispered.

“I am,” she hissed back. “And I hate that for me.”

“Bet you still want forehead kisses.”

“…Shut up and do it already.”

He kissed her forehead three times in a row, obnoxiously loud.

She groaned. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“And I’m only getting hotter.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N had exactly one thing planned for the evening: an uninterrupted candlelit bath. She’d earned it—long day, annoying people. The lights were low, her bath bomb had fizzed and the water was just hot enough to sting a little.

She’d sunk in with a dramatic sigh, bubbles up to her collarbones, a glass of wine perched dangerously close to her phone.

Then, like clockwork, the bathroom door creaked open.

“I swear to god,” she muttered, not even opening her eyes. “Joaquin—”

“Heyyy,” he said cheerfully, already strolling in. “Just checking on my girl. You know. Make sure you’re alive and not drowning in your own princess foam.”

She cracked one eye open to glare at him. “I locked that door.”

He sat down fully on the closed toilet seat, grinning. “I picked it. Don’t be mad. I missed you.”

“You saw me ten minutes ago.”

“And yet—here I am. Suffering without you.”

Y/N groaned and sank lower into the water. “You’re such a pest.”

He leaned forward dramatically, elbows on knees, chin in hand. “Tell me about your day, babe.”

“No.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

“I didn’t ask for therapy. I asked for silence.”

He dipped a hand into the water and flicked it gently at her arm.

She didn’t even flinch. “Do it again and I’ll drown you.”

He flicked again. “I like my odds.”

She turned her head, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you seriously just gonna sit there the whole time?”

“I can sit in there, if you want,” he offered innocently.

“You are the worst.”

Another splash.

“I swear—Joaquin, I am so close to—”

She paused mid threat and sighed.

“…Are you gonna get in or what?”

Joaquin lit up. “God, I love you.”

He stood and peeled off his clothes in record time, stepping into the tub behind her like he’d been waiting for that moment all day. He slid into place, wrapping his arms around her waist as she shifted forward to make room.

Now she was sitting between his legs, back against his chest, his stupid heartbeat steady and warm against her spine.

For a long moment, they were both quiet. Then:

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” she muttered. “Annoy me until I invited you in just to shut you up?”

He beamed against the side of her face. “You're so easy to break, princess. I was barely getting started.”

She snorted. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

She turned just enough to flick a bubble at his face.

He gasped. “Betrayal. In my bathtub?”

She grabbed the shampoo bottle and shoved it into his hands. “If you’re gonna invade, you’re doing labor. Wash my hair.”

He took it like it was a sacred task. “Gladly. You have the best hair in the world, by the way. It’s so soft and smells so good.”

“Stop talking.”

“But it’s true.”

“Quino.”

“Yes, mi amor?”

“…Scrub.”

He lathered up her hair, fingers surprisingly gentle. Y/N sighed, melting back into him despite herself. He hummed a dumb little tune while massaging her scalp.

Eventually, she opened one eye. “You do know I’m gonna finish this bath alone after this, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, kissing the back of her shoulder. “Just wanted to be annoying enough to get a cuddle in. Mission accomplished.”

She smiled, tiny and smug. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. A long, quiet one.

Then, softly: “You’re so annoying.”

He grinned against her shoulder. “I’m aware.”

“No, like, you drive me insane.”

“Only the best for my princess.”

She groaned, but it was hopeless. Her head tilted slightly, letting it rest against his. “…And I love you so much all the same.”

His arms tightened just a little, his smile stretching even wider. “I know you do.”

“Quino.”

He laughed, kissed the side of her head, then whispered against her temple, voice lower now. “I love you too, cariño. So much.”

She closed her eyes again, finally at peace—surrounded by bubbles, steam, and the most annoyingly perfect human she’d ever known.

And for once, she let him stay in the bath the whole time.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

author's note: my first joaquin imagine ahhhh!! this is so freaking cute i was giggling and kicking my feet writing it. he's so cute i loveee him.

also ugh, when y/n says she doesn't like bad bunny cause she doesn't understand what he's saying hurt my soul cause i'm latina LMAO

i need to write more for him, and lucky for me, i have another quino request that i'll be starting this week!!

[athenalvss]

Could you write with Wally West being silly and madly in love with a girl Y/N, but every time he tries to confess, something happens (like that cliché scene where the boy is trying to confess in the middle of the hall and he ends up falling, something like this hehe)

WOULD YOU BE MY.... ( wally west! )

Summary: Wally is finally ready to face the girl he likes and tell her how he feels about her, but well, apparently fate doesn't want it that way.

pairing: Wally west x fem!reader

open request - wally west masterlist

Wally West paced the halls of Justice Tower, his heart beating faster than his feet. Every time he thought of you, the world became a little brighter, though also a little more chaotic. His mind kept going over and over in his head: Today is the day. Today I'm going to tell her how I feel.

He'd been rehearsing the speech in his head for days, searching for the perfect words to express what he thought without sounding like a complete mess. But, as always, when the time came, everything fell apart.

He stopped in front of the training room door. You were inside, adjusting the bandages on your wrists, ready for another training session after a mission, although you shouldn't have been doing so given the massive blow you'd taken. Maybe it wasn't the right time, but then again, it wasn't the right time for this kind of situation. Wally ruffled his hair a little, took a deep breath, and approached the door, determined this time would be different.

He'd been rehearsing the speech in his head for days, searching for the perfect words to let you know what he feels without sounding like a complete mess. But, as always, when the time came, everything fell apart.

This time everything would be okay. He'd tell you everything he felt for you, you'd say yes, he'd kiss you, and he'd hug you until you grew tired of him, everything would be okay this time, not like the other four times.

The first time, he'd tried it in the Tower cafeteria. He'd set out a tray of food and drinks, sat right next to you, and started a normal conversation, trying to find the right words to get it all out, but just as he started talking, Beast Boy excitedly entered the room to show off his newfound animal transformation, accidentally knocking a tray of milkshakes over Wally.

The second time, for some reason, he thought it would be a brilliant idea to say it in the middle of a mission, after you saved his life by pulling him out of the way of a giant laser beam. Nothing like a post-near-death love confession, right?

"For the love of god, are you okay, Walls?" you said, on the verge of worry.

"I'm more than fine! Because you... I... actually, there's something I want to tell you..."

And just as you were about to let him go, a ship exploded behind you, and he let out a high pitched scream like a five yeas old. Neither of you spoke of it again, but Wally knew you'd been laughing at him inside.

The third time he tried, he wrote a note, complete with little drawings and hearts; he'd even scented the paper. He discreetly left it in your locker, convinced it was his masterpiece. That was until the fire alarms went off and a large group of students ran down the hallway, sending the letter flying, leaving no chance for you to read it.

The fourth time you two were training together, he was really trying hard, really wanting to impress you, making spectacular dodges, rolling on the floor with a confident smile.

"I have to tell you something…"he began.

And right there, when you were trying to throw a punch, he slipped because he wasn't concentrating and fell backward, hitting his head on a dumbbell. Hours later, he woke up in the infirmary with a bandage on his forehead and a note from you that said: "Rest easy, silly Flash ❤️‍🩹"

He nervously shook his hands against his pants, as if that would take away his fear. This time, this time it was going to work.

He'd seen you from across the hall. You had a makeshift bandage on your forehead and a water bottle in your hand. Despite that, Wally thought you looked like the prettiest girl on the planet with that bandage and that bruise on your face.

There were no explosions. There were no drills. There were no treacherous weights. Just the two of you, and this time, he was going to tell you.

He approached with a clumsy but determined step, without running, even though everything in him told him to flee or at least make a joke to break the tension. But no. This time he was going to be direct. He was going to speak from the heart.

"Hey..." he said, with that smile of his that always appeared when he was around her, that smile accompanied by hearts in his eyes. He ran one of his hands behind his head and rubbed the back of his neck, nervously. "Do you have a second?"

You looked up with a soft smile, tiredness still etched in your eyes. "Sure, Walls. What's up?"

He stopped in front of you, and for once in his life, he managed to hold your gaze. It felt like fireworks were going off in his chest, like his hands were getting wet with anxiety, he felt his words pile up in his throat, and for the first time, they didn't stumble over each other. He was more than ready.

"I've been wanting to tell you something for a while. Something that... well, that scares me a little, but I can't keep it to myself anymore because every time I see you I feel like-"

you blink slowly, once, two, three times.

"You okay, hon?" he asked, confused by the sudden lack of response.

And before he could say or do anything else, you stumbled forward, as if the world were slipping away from under you. Wally caught you in his arms just in time.

—¡Hey! Hey, hey! No, no, no, don't do this to me! —he said, holding you with a mixture of panic and desperation.

You were unconscious. Fainted.

The blow you'd received during the mission, the improvised bandage, the exhaustion. obviously something was going to happen

And he, again, with the words on the tip of his tongue...

Damn fate

[basedimogen]

“being trans is one of the most radically feminist things you can do” oh fucking please.

please tell me how being trans (in ANY CAPACITY) contributes to the liberation of women and girls, who are oppressed based on biological sex? what does being trans do for a palestinian woman right now, having to bleed into tents or old shirts due to lack of any access to medical care, let alone sanitary products?

what does being trans do for an iranian woman right now, her country now under nuclear fire as conditions get worse politically for her and all of her female family members (who are not allowed to show anything other than their face or hands, even in the home)?

what does being trans do for eritrean women right now, being forced to join the “National Union of Eritrean Women”, not to ACTUALLY unionize with other women, but instead to act as propaganda for the state to hide the human rights violations they go through (such as not having the right to vote, being forced to work longer hours than men, being forced to go into the military as children where they face sexual and physical violence, etc.)?

what does being trans do for afghan women right now, who aren’t allowed to go to school past 6th grade, go to a doctor/store/market/government office/even TAKE A TAXI without a male chaperone, aren’t allowed to own hair/beauty salons even from their homes, aren’t allowed to have their own radio stations, are forced into marriages they don’t consent to, and risk being forcibly arrested, shot and killed, injured, or framed whenever they do go outside?

they can’t identify out of that oppression, you know. so what does it do?

nothing? nothing at all?

does it even deconstruct the stereotypes that have caused these women to be horribly oppressed in the first place?

no? it reinforces them? okay.

then you’re just talking out of your ass.

‼️‼️TRANS IDEOLOGY UPHOLDS GENDER NORMS! THEY DO NOT FIGHT THEM‼️‼️

[kaddyssammlung]

The third one is from their US tour in 2023 Fans believe that it's between Vessel and mask. (makes the most sense but was never said)

First part:

Mask: They think you fake it. Vessel: What do you mean? Mask: When you cry on stage, they don't think it's real. Vessel : That's a reasonable assumption Mask : Do you fake it? Vessel : No, I don't. But it is something I do consistently, so if I was a member of the audience I would probably assume that it wasn't real. Mask : Do you ever see them crying? Vessel : No, I can only ever see them smiling. That's good, I want them to smile. Mask : Do you think they want you to cry? Do you think they like it? Vessel : Not as such, I think they just want to know that I am feeling something, feeling what they are feeling, perhaps. Mask : Do you think that this amount of crying is healthy for you? Vessel: I don't know. But at least I feel something, if I don't feel anything than why would I even do this?

Second part:

Mask: Why am I here? What is my purpose in all of this? Vessel: Your purpose is twofold. You protect me, from them, and you also protect them from me. Mask: How is it that I serve to protect anyone from anything, that makes no sense Vessel: In order for all of this to work there has to be a certain boundary in place. They need to be able to project themselves onto this, without anyone else's identity getting in the way. In turn, I need to be able to show my true self to them in a way that does not compromise their ability to connect. Mask: So that's what I am? A boundary? Vessel: Yes. Mask: I don't believe you. I believe there is more to it than that. I believe you are afraid of something. Vessel: We are all afraid of something, are we not? Mask: What is it you are so afraid they will see? Vessel: That I am exactly like everyone else.

Third part:

Mask: Are you afraid of me? Vessel: Sometimes... Mask: Why? Vessel: I think I am afraid of becoming you. Mask: What does that even mean? Vessel: My life is becoming gradually consumed by you. Before long, all that I am will be contained within you. Then, one day, when I no longer wish to wear you, there will be nothing else left. Mask: It seems you have forgotten who you are. Before you had me you were nothing. All of this artifice, all this pathetic conjecture about your identity, it is nothing but a manifestation of how short-sighted and solipsistic you have become. I lifted you from misery and obscurity. You would be better to become me. You are nothing without me. You always were nothing without me.

Last part:

Vessel: You. Are. Wrong. In the end, my fractured sense of self was only another piece of fuel for the fire that burns in the eyes of these people before us. They too are pained. They too not know who they truly are. They are each stood alone on a stage of their own. And yet, they are here. United by that sense of never truly belonging. They see something beyond their own bleak horizons. And they reach for it. Together. So let us join now. to reflect their joy and to serve as a conduit for their anguish. To swallow their fear. To Worship.

[katerinaaqu]

I was reading some of your Odysseus's analysis and I love how you brought up his religious facet because I really think is a big part of who he is as an person and how it affects his decisions, specially during the war. To me Odysseus had always been the king of Compartmentalization; he is the one that is able to push his emotions down in order to act accordingly to whatever he thinks can please the Gods at any given moment, and thus save himself and his allies at the process- the problem is that he is human and Compartmentalization can only bring you so far so ofc it would eventually come to eat on him... that is essentially what a big chunk of the Odessy is for. Particularly when he was with Calypso- like OBVIOUSLY the constant abuse played a huge role on his dumpster fire of an mental health but the fact he was completely stagnant without the capacity to jump from one task to the other couldn't had helped matters either....

☝️☝️☝️ THIS MY DEAR ANON SIMPLY THIS ☝️☝️☝️

For starters I am really honored that you liked my analysis and that you saw exactly what I wanted to convey with that potential of Odysseus and that part of his character that everyone seems to forget; his religious nature and how he is literally living his life in the religious piousness

And I couldn't have said it better myself! Yes he does push his emotions down, suppresses them even, when gods speak. When gods demand, humans should shut the fuck up and respond accordingly, that seems to be Odysseus's motto in life. The gods demanded Iphigenia, the gods should have Iphigenia, no matter how bad Odysseus might feel or not feel so his emotions of sorrow or regret come second before his need to obey the gods. Then the gods demanded that they stop attacking the walls of Troy? Odysseus would turn the heel around and run! It doesn't matter if Diomedes is there. If he chooses to disobey the gods is his problem and his choice. Circe demands this price to set his men free? Yeah he would sell his body to get it. Calypso had to have him in order to secure his survival? Yeah Odysseus would do it. The gods demand from him to do a trip to the ends of the world to repent his hubris? Odysseus will damn well be on a new ship and sail there or walk there for all the world is concerned he has to see that thing through no matter what.

This is why he did what he did in the times before or during the war. This is why he chose to stay behind for retribution sacrifices to the gods and why he came back for Agamemnon even if he desired nothing else than go home with his fleet but is also this blind faith that has him being beloved by the gods like Athena or Zeus.

However like it happens with someone who has way too much religious zeal obviously the results can be catastrophic to yourself and to others in a practical manner. I mean Odysseus too paid the price for he was always hated secretly by his peers for his behavior to please the gods because in the eyes of everyone he did it just to get glory or just because he is who he is. Odysseus might have had some ulterior motive about himself or the others but it seems that his religious beliefs play a huge part in the way he conducts himself in regards to the interactions he has with others which is another reason why I am sad that I do not see more people talk about it or representing in their stories and work or that makes me happy when more people see the potential of!!!

As for the last part I am actually very intrigued by this interpretation indeed!!!! And if I am allowed an addition, it is also why he is desperate. He is paying the price, he is pleasing the goddess...and yet he cannot escape. As you said he remains stagnant. Unlike his case with Circe where he receives her trust and her knowledge and later her help with Calypso he just receives his survival for another day. The price he pays will not get him anywhere and that is definitely NOT a good thing for his already crumbling psyche indeed and it COULD be another reason why death seems his only way out at that point.

Because nothing he used to go by in his life works anymore

His piousness was stained by hubris. His decisions to please the gods did nothing for him (or so it seemed to him) and his unpleasant sacrifices brought the fate upon him. He is desperate and he is alone. If I dare use the parallel "he opened his legs for her" and has nothing in return out of his situation. And he has no way out. His brains, his wisdom, his tactics or even his schemes are not doing anything for him and neither are his prayers or his sacrifices and attempts to please this goddess work! It DEFINITELY has a lot of potential as a line of thought and adds even more confusion to his already confused mind!

Thank you Anon for this great addition!

[polishwoman]

That night.

Warnings: smut, swearing uh idk

Summary:

You're the group's mechanic—a no-nonsense woman who keeps the vehicles running, stays out of the drama, and avoids forming attachments. Daryl’s the same way. You've barely spoken more than a few words to each other despite being in the same camp for months. You both prefer solitude, hunting, working… staying distant.

But everything changes when a storm rolls in during a scavenging run.

You and Daryl take shelter in an abandoned cabin deep in the woods, miles from camp. Rain hammers the roof, thunder shakes the walls, and lightning cuts across the sky. You’re stuck—wet, cold, and alone with a man who smells like leather and pine, and who watches you like he’s been biting his tongue for too long.

As the storm builds, so does the tension.

The heat between you doesn’t come from the fire.

Note from ele: I actually proof read this time 😉

--------

The wind howled like a dying thing, rattling the loose windows of the rotting cabin. Rain came down in sheets, pounding the tin roof so hard it sounded like gunfire. You stood by the fire you barely managed to get going, shivering in your soaked shirt, arms wrapped tight around yourself.

Daryl sat on the other side of the room, kneeling by his crossbow, adjusting the string like it was the only thing holding him together. He hadn’t said much since the storm trapped you both in here. He never said much, really.

You glanced at him. His hair was dripping. His shirt clung to his chest, every line of muscle visible in the flickering firelight. He was chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking to you and away like he didn’t want to look too long.

“What?” you snapped, half from nerves, half from cold.

“Nothin’,” he muttered.

You turned back to the fire, teeth chattering. “We’re gonna be here all night, might as well say something.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then:

“You always got that attitude, or just with me?”

You turned slowly. “You barely talk to me.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, standing now, brushing his wet hair from his face. “Ain’t easy talkin’ when you look at me like you wanna kill me half the damn time.”

You stepped forward without thinking. “Better than you ignoring me like I’m not even here.”

He stopped two feet from you, something sharp behind his eyes.

“I see you,” he said.

You froze. Your breath caught in your throat.

“I see you fixin’ them engines. See you patchin’ up that Jeep even when your hands are bleedin’. See you sittin’ alone at the fire, like you wanna disappear.”

You swallowed. “Then why not say something?”

He took another step forward. “'Cause when I do, I think I might do more than talk.”

The silence cracked louder than the thunder.

You didn’t know who moved first—maybe both of you—but then his hands were in your hair, your fingers clawing at his soaked shirt. Your mouths crashed together, teeth and heat and hunger. He tasted like rain and sweat and something wild.

He pressed you against the wall, lifting you like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and his hands slid under your shirt, gripping your ribs, dragging groans from your throat.

“Say stop,” he growled into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

He carried you to the floor near the fire, laying you down like you were something breakable. But there was nothing soft in the way he kissed you next—rough, claiming, desperate.

Clothes came off fast. Your shirt hit the floor. His followed. You reached between you, fingers finding him hard and ready, and the look he gave you—feral and full of restraint—made you ache.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

“Show me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He slid inside you slowly, letting you feel every inch, forehead pressed to yours. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. He started to move, and it was a rhythm built from tension, from weeks—months—of glances, of almosts, of biting things back that neither of you could say.

Your nails raked down his back. He grunted, hips snapping harder. The sound of skin, the fire crackling, the storm raging outside—it was chaos, but inside the cabin it was heat and movement and need.

When you came, it was with a cry that didn’t sound like your own. He followed with a low groan, burying his face in your neck like he was hiding from the world.

The storm still raged outside, but inside, it was quiet.

His hand found yours without a word.

You didn’t let go.

-------

More note: So bassically I got some words from..cough cough GOOGLE cuz I'm not a smart person with adjectives. Or stuff like that. So sorry...HEHE LOVE U BYEEEE :>>

[edawgz]

ᝰ.ᐟ UNTRUSTWORTHY

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ tommy shelby x fem. reader. ~1.5k words.

❚ ❙ ❘ flirty. implied nsfw. borderline smut. sexual innuendos. rivals.

: ̗̀➛ In a room thick with smoke, sharp glances, and unspoken desire, you challenge each other’s control -- and find yourselves surrendering in ways neither expected. A slow burn of power, wit, and heat, where trust is dangerous and attraction is undeniable.

| masterlist. | peaky blinders masterlist. |

You arrive at the Garrison on a Monday night, dressed like you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to take. Your heels click with intention against the floor, your coat tailored just sharply enough to look like armor, and your chin tilted as if the world should move aside. It usually does.

The pub is a haze of smoke and low murmurs, the kind of place where secrets get traded for whisky and the shadows do most of the talking. You move through it like you belong there -- because you do -- and spot him immediately, seated in the far booth like he was poured into the leather and told to wait for trouble.

Tommy Shelby doesn’t blend in, no matter how quiet the room is. He doesn’t need to. He occupies space the way a fire does -- slow, warm, and slightly dangerous at first glance. The second glance just confirms it.

He catches your eye before you’re halfway across the room, his gaze sliding over you like he’s assessing a fine weapon. He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile. He just waits.

You slip into the seat across from him, ignoring the spot he gestured to beside him. That was a test, and you passed.

“Late,” he says, his voice low and even, a hint of steel beneath the smoke.

“Fashionably,” you reply, sliding your gloves off one finger at a time, making a small performance out of it. “Didn’t think you’d mind. Or are you the sentimental type now?”

He takes a slow sip of whiskey, barely a reaction, but the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth betrays some level of amusement. “I don’t. But you will, if you make a habit of it.”

“Lucky for both of us,” you say as you settle deeper into the seat, legs crossed, “I don’t make habits. I make money.”

Tommy leans back, fingers wrapped around his glass, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to solve a riddle no one else has quite understood. “Same thing.. at least, in this line of work.”

You smile with the kind of sharp edge that’s gotten you into and out of a hundred deals. “So, this is business then?”

He watches you for a moment, completely unreadable. “You said you had a proposition. Thought I’d let you make it in person.”

“And what if I told you I just wanted to see your pretty face in the flesh?” You hummed as your fingers traced the glass he had set out for you.

He doesn’t bite, doesn’t flinch.. just watches you calmly. “Then I’d ask what you’re really after.”

“Maybe I’m after your horses,” you say, lips quirking slightly as you lean forward.

“You’re not,” he replies without hesitation, his eyes narrowing a fraction.

“Your guns, then.”

“Closer.”

Your smile stretches, slow and deliberate, like a slow draw of a knife. “I want in on the north docks. You’ve been circling them. I already have people inside.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even glance at the map you slide across the table. “And what do you want in return?”

“A seat at the table,” you say, the words landing like a coin dropped on marble. You wanted to make sure that this exchange was sharp, clear, nonnegotiable.

Tommy’s gaze darkens with something unreadable, and when he speaks, it’s quieter than before. “You don’t want to marry into it?”

That earns a real laugh from you, low and unrestrained. “Jesus Christ, no. I’d rather slit my wrists with a broken teacup.”

There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth again -- something like approval, or maybe amusement. “Good.”

The word lingers in the air like smoke. “You know... I don’t trust you,” he says, eyes steady.

“And I don’t trust you,” you reply easily, almost fondly. “But I like you.”

He tilts his head slightly with an eyebrow quirked, “You like dangerous things.”

“Only the ones that don’t apologize for it.” You shot back, tilting your head to mimicking him as your eyes met.

That earns something close to a smile from him that was brief, sharp, and gone too soon. “Only the ones that fight back,” he corrected, and it hangs between you like a match waiting to be struck.

You reach for the cigarette he offers without hesitation, and he lights it with the same casual grace he uses to order a killing. His eyes are steady as the flame flickers, the smoke curling around you both like it knows something you don’t yet.

“You always this charming to your 'rivals'?” you ask, taking a long drag.

“Only the pretty ones,” he murmurs, and the way he says it isn’t coy, he just states it like it’s simply true.

You exhale, slow and controlled, watching the smoke drift upward before you speak. “Then I’ll take it as a compliment. Even if it’s manipulative.”

He shrugs, it was the smallest motion, but somehow weighted. “Compliments usually are manipulative... just because they're said doesn’t mean they’re not true.”

“And manipulation’s just conversation,” you say, finishing his thought. “With higher stakes.”

He doesn’t disagree. He just watches you like a man who already knows the next ten minutes and is willing to play them slow.

“You still want a seat at the table?” he asks, voice like gravel rubbed smooth by time.

You tilt your head slightly. “You offering?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He stands instead, slow and smooth, the kind of movement that’s more command than invitation.

You meet his gaze and hold it. And then, without a word, you rise and follow.

The walk upstairs is quiet.. not the awkward kind of silence, it was something heavier, something full. You don’t speak, and neither does he because there’s no need.

When he shuts the door behind you, it’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either... it’s just final. Like a move in chess that ends the game before anyone else realizes it.

You turn to face him, already knowing how this ends.

“This isn’t about business,” you say, though your voice is softer now, there's less armor, more heat.

“No,” he replies, stepping closer until the space between you feels like a fuse. “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t kiss you like he’s unsure.. he kisses you like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling. His hand settles on your waist, thumb dragging upward, and you swear the air in the room bends around the pressure of his mouth on yours.

You respond in a hungry but measured manner, like a woman who’s known want before and never let it conquer her. But Tommy Shelby is not like the others. He doesn’t touch to take, he touches like he’s memorizing, learning, and maybe even earning.

Your coat slips off your shoulders in one clean motion, and you feel his hands on your back, slow and warm and utterly unhurried. He pulls you toward the bed, and when you reach it, he doesn’t throw you down. He just watches as you sit, your blouse half undone, breath shallow, eyes sharp.

“You still don’t trust me,” you whisper again, but the words aren’t a challenge now. They’re something more dangerous.. they're honest.

“I trust this,” he murmurs, and his hand finds your thigh.

The breath you let out is shaky, involuntary. His lips follow the edge of your jaw down your throat like he’s tracing the line of your power. He unbuttons your shirt slower than he has any right to, each one undone with a look that says he’s already undressed you a hundred times in his head.

And somehow, he still wants to take his time.

Your skin is warm under his touch, the kind of warmth that makes you forget yourself. He kisses down your chest, across the slope of your stomach, and when he finally lays you back against the bed, he does it like he’s handling a weapon.. carefully, reverently.

You’re not sure when you stop pretending this is part of the game. Maybe it’s the way his hand slips under your thigh and anchors you to him. Maybe it’s the way he murmurs your name like a secret only he’s meant to keep. Or maybe it’s the way he pauses -- just long enough to make sure you’re still with him -- and then leans in again like he plans to stay there forever.

Later, when the heat has faded and your body hums with something more electric than exhaustion, you rest your head against his chest.

You don’t speak, but neither does he.

His hand strokes slowly along your hip, almost absentminded, like he’s thinking of what comes next. Or maybe he’s thinking about you.

You wonder if this changes anything.

And then he says, voice thick with sleep and smoke and something you don’t dare name, “You’re not walking out of here thinking you’ve won.”

You smirk against his skin. “Like hell I will.”

He laughs, a soft, low sound that rumbles through his chest.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.

“And you,” you say, pressing your mouth to his neck, “like trouble.”

His hand tightens on your hip.

Neither of you sleep quickly. But eventually, the room grows quiet again, the city outside breathes, and for now, that’s enough.

[clumsypuppy]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[itspileofgoodthings]

had a moment today with my seniors that was so tense, I made myself stop, breathe, and say three hail Mary’s under my breath. the moment teetered and then the tension broke. I was so relieved.

[shippingmyworld]

My brother's advice any time I vent to him about my job: "Become a streamer."

[mem1490]

رAD THIS BOOK TO GET NEW WAY TO BE NEW ONE

"The Do Nothing Method: The Science-Backed Art of Achieving More by Doing Less"

In a world obsessed with hustle culture, **"The Do Nothing Method"** flips the script on productivity. Backed by neuroscience, historical examples, and corporate case studies, this book proves that **strategic inaction**—purposeful stillness—is the key to creativity, focus, and sustainable success. 

### **The Science of Strategic Inaction** 

Your brain doesn’t stop working when you do. Neuroscientists call this the **Default Mode Network (DMN)**—a mental state activated during rest that fuels creativity, problem-solving, and emotional balance (*Neuron Journal*). Suppressing it with constant busyness leads to burnout and shallow thinking. 

**Historical Proof:** 

- Einstein’s theory of relativity emerged from "thought experiments" during violin breaks. 

- Newton discovered gravity while sitting under an apple tree. 

- Archimedes shouted "Eureka!" in his bath, not a lab. 

**Key Insight:** Forcing solutions backfires. Breakthroughs happen when you **stop pushing** and let your mind work in the background. 

[magnusbae]

Hello my dears, New day, new horrendous Chrome UI update. 🎉🎉🎉

Fear not, even while they removed the flags from the settings which permitted to disable it in previous waves, and really want you to use their new UI, and really do act like a bully who just doesn't accept the word 'no'— there's still a way to disable it :)

thanks reddit user diegounion 🤍

Basically you right click the icon of the chrome wherever you usually use it, this guide will be for taskbar, under the cut other locations if you need :)

1.CLOSE ALL CHROME WINDOWS!! 2.Right click the chrome icon on the taskbar:

2.right click the chrome line again and click "properties"

3.inside the tab "shortcut" on the target/destination line, you must add the disabling of the new update in the following manner:

You will see this written: "C:\Program Files\Google\Chrome\Application\chrome.exe" you will need to add, with a space, this: --disable-features=CustomizeChromeSidePanel It'll end up like this: "C:\Program Files\Google\Chrome\Application\chrome.exe" --disable-features=CustomizeChromeSidePanel 4.Apply and it's fixed, cheers :)

copy pasted from reddit for the other chrome shortcut locations:

If you have Chrome pinned to the start menu, open Windows Explorer and navigate here: C:\ProgramData\Microsoft\Windows\Start Menu\Programs When you find the Chrome icon, repeat the six steps. If you have Chrome on your desktop, you do the same, repeat the six steps.