#cough @sips-tea-cutely……..

[cosmicporos]

What would Arcane characters call their partner? What pet/nicknames would they use?

AHHHH THIS IS SO CUTE! Thank you anon :3

Synopsis: A lot of little cut scenarios where arcane characters call you by cute pet names!

Characters: Sevika, Vander, Silco, Caitlyn, Ekko, Viktor

((awkward Ekko x reader, Teasing Viktor x reader (he calls you an airhead…))

Warning: Angst for Silco, called you “Pet” but ends with comfort!

Not proofread

Sevika

Nicknames for you: Darling, Dear, Sweet thing, Babe, Dove.

Okay maybe I’m over sentimental but imagine her calling you Dove because you bring her so much peace in life. So you’re quite literally her little peace dove.

Sevika leaned against the bar, her mechanical arm resting on the counter as she watched you move around the room. It wasn't anything special-just you tidying up after a long day-but to her, it was everything. "You know," she started, her voice low and gravelly, "you've got this way of makin' the world feel... quieter."

You paused, glancing at her with a small smile. "Yeah? That a good thing?"

She smirked, pushing off the bar to walk toward you. "It's a damn miracle, is what it is. You don't know what it's like Dove… how loud it gets up here." She tapped her temple with a finger, her gaze softening. "But then you show up, and it's like everything just... stops."

Your cheeks warmed at the sincerity in her voice, but you kept your focus on folding a stray cloth. "I didn't think I was doing anything special."

Sevika snorted, stepping closer. "That's the thing. You don't even try, and still... you're it for me. My peace. My little Dove."

Vander

Nicknames for you: Peach, Love, Sweet Pea, Darling, Sunshine, Lass/Lad.

The Last Drop was unusually quiet. The usual clatter of mugs and background chatter of conversation was replaced by the occasional cough or sniffle from the makeshift beds spread around the common room. Powder, Mylo, Claggor, and Vi lay bundled in blankets, their fevered faces flushed as they sipped the herbal tea Vander had brewed.

"Peach," Vander called softly, his deep voice cutting through the stillness as he approached you. You were perched on a low stool, dabbing a cool cloth against Powder's forehead. He knelt beside you, resting his broad hand on your shoulder. "You've been fussin' over them all day. Why don't you take a break, huh? Let me handle things for a while."

"I'm fine," you said, though your hands trembled slightly as you wrung out the cloth."They need us."

He tilted his head, giving you that steady, knowing look of his. "And I need you to take care of yourself, Peach. You're no good to anyone if you run yourself into the ground."

Powder stirred, her small hand reaching out to grab yours. "Don't go," she mumbled, her voice weak.

You smoothed her hair back, glancing at Vander. "See? They need me."

Vander sighed, his lips twitching into a faint smile despite himself. "Stubborn as ever," he muttered. "Alright, Peach. We'll do this together, then."

Silco

Nicknames for you: Darling, Precious, lovely, Pet, Beloved.

After Jinx’s fiasco over at Topside it was obvious Silco was more than simply stressed.

In fact tension in the room was palpable, suffocating as it weighed down on your chest. Silco's piercing gaze bore into you, his lips pressed into a thin line. You'd overstepped-at least, in his mind-and now his sharp tongue was letting you know it.

"Stay out of matters you don't understand, pet," he snapped, the word cutting and cold as it left his mouth.

You flinched, the sting of his words settling deep. Your jaw clenched, and you refused to meet his gaze, instead focusing on the cracked edge of the table.

“I was—I was only thinking about Jinx.” You gulped down the bile that burned in your throat. “Temporary keeping her from missions is keeping her safe.” You spoke finally looking up at him with your wet pathetic eyes.

The silence that followed was deafening. Silco's breath hitched as he realized what he'd said, the regret settling in almost immediately. His tone had been cruel, and the look on your face drove a pang of guilt through his chest.

“I apologize…” he said softly, his voice no longer harsh. "That was... uncalled for." He spoke as he stood up, fixing his cuffs as he walks over towards you.

Silco stepped closer until he was within arm's reach. "I shouldn't have said that. You didn't deserve it," he murmured, his voice low and steady. “You mean too much to me for me to speak to you that way."

When you still didn't respond, he hesitated for a moment before tilting your chin up with his gloved fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his mismatched ones.

"Forgive me," he whispered, his tone sincere. "You are not my pet. You are my beloved. The only one who stands beside me, who understands me."

Caitlyn

Nicknames for you: Petal, Cheeky one, Muffin, Trouble, Dearest.

Flour completely dusted the countertop and your face as you tried to knead the dough. Caitlyn stood across from you, her sleeves rolled up, an amused smile playing on her lips.

"Petal," she said, tilting her head, "you're supposed to knead it, not wrestle it."

You huffed, brushing flour from your cheek. “It's sticking to my hands! I’m not sure how else I’m supposed to tackle this.”

Caitlyn chuckled and walked over, gently taking your hands in hers. "Here, let me show you." She guided your movements, her hands warm and steady.

When the dough finally started to cooperate, you couldn't resist smearing a bit of flour on her cheek. She froze, then slowly raised an eyebrow. “Trouble," she murmured, her voice teasing.

You grinned, backing away. "You love it."

Her soft laugh filled the kitchen as she grabbed a handful of flour. "Oh, I do. But you're not getting away with that."

Ekko

Nicknames for you: Firefly, Sugar, babe, baby, Cutie

You sat on a spinning chair in ekko’s workshop mindlessly spinning while watching him work. He was trying to fix a circuit board, but his focus seemed to drift in your direction. You caught him glancing at you a few times, his brow furrowed as though he was thinking of something important.

After a moment of silence, Ekko cleared his throat, his usual confidence wavering slightly. He set down his tools and looked at you with a small smile, hands shoved into his pockets. "Hey, uh... can I tell you something?" he asked, voice a little too casual.

You raised an eyebrow at his sudden and strange behavior. "Sure. What's up?"

He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. "Well, I've been meaning to call you something... I dunno, it's just, uh, you're always so sweet, you know?" He glanced up at you briefly, cheeks turning faintly pink. “So, I was thinking... Sugar?"

There was a long, awkward pause. You blinked, processing the nickname, unsure how to respond. "Sugar?" you repeated, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Really?"

Ekko's face reddened even more. "Yeah, I mean-because, uh, you're sweet... like sugar? You know?" He shrugged, clearly flustered now. "It's not like, weird, right?"

You couldn't help it you laughed, the sound light and teasing, but not unkind. "I don't know, Ekko. It's a bit... unexpected," you said, still grinning.

His gaze shifted, suddenly looking embarrassed. "Okay, okay, I get it. That was dumb, huh? Just trying to be smooth, but I guess it's not my thing." He shifted uncomfortably.

against his arm, your smile softening. "It's cute," you said, voice warm. "But I think you can do better."

He met your eyes, a sheepish grin finally breaking through his awkwardness. "Yeah? You think so?…Well, I'll keep working on it then."

Viktor

Nicknames for you: Beautiful, Trinket, Dearest, Cheeky, Airhead, Sweetling.

You were fiddling with a complicated piece of tech, the gears and wires all tangled in a way that made your focus drift. Viktor stood beside you, watching with a raised eyebrow as you muttered to yourself.

"Careful, darling," he teased with a sly smile, his voice smooth and mature. "An airhead might break something important."

You shot him a playful glare, a little flustered. “I'm not an airhead! Besides…I'm working on it!" you said, trying to hide the embarrassment in your voice.

Viktor chuckled, reaching over and gently fixing the wires with practiced hands. His tone softened as he met your gaze. "I didn't mean it, Sweetling. You're far from an airhead. You just... get a little lost in your thoughts sometimes." He smiled warmly. “And I think it's kind of endearing."

You felt your heart warm at his change in tone, the teasing replaced by something far more tender. "Geez thanks, Viktor." You pouted and sighed out quietly.

He smiled and chuckled softly, his hand now brushing against yours. "Anything for you, Sweetling."

HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED IT<3 thanks so much for all the support on my last post :>

FEEL FREE TO LEAVE A REQUEST AND COMMENT IF YOU ENJOYED IT! (I love reading comments and any feedback!)

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you are nothing short of everything

It started on a Tuesday.

Paige hadn’t meant to stop. She’d only been cutting through the west wing of the student center to get to the library faster. That shortcut had never led her anywhere interesting before—just past a few empty classrooms and the occasional music practice room. But that day, as her sneakers squeaked across the linoleum floor, she caught the faintest sound of singing.

Not the kind you’d hear through a phone or headphones someone forgot to mute. It was live. Pure. Like honey in tea.

She slowed, head tilting. The notes floated through the cracked door, spilling like light onto the floor. A soft voice, low and aching, wrapped around the lyrics like it was holding something close. Paige’s hand paused on the strap of her backpack. Her heartbeat slowed.

She didn’t recognize the words, didn’t even try to. She just listened. Maybe a minute. Maybe three. Long enough for her chest to feel tight in a way she couldn’t explain. And then—just as suddenly—she left. Shaking it off. She had things to do. Conditioning at four. Film at six.

But the voice stayed.

It happened again. Two days later. Same hallway. Different song.

Again. 

And again.

It became routine. Paige would find herself lingering, walking a little slower when she reached that stretch of floor. Sometimes she’d stop completely, standing still like an idiot with her ear tilted just enough toward the door.

She never peeked in. That felt too personal, too much like crossing a line. She didn’t want to know what the singer looked like. Not yet. There was something sacred about the not-knowing.

The voice didn’t just sing—it felt. Like it lived every word.

She started timing her library trips around it.

Azzi nudged her shoulder one day at the dining hall. “You’ve been real quiet this week. What’s going on in that deep brooding brain of yours?”

“Nothing,” Paige mumbled.

“Liar,” KK chimed in, tossing a grape at her.

Aubrey raised a brow but didn’t press. She never did. She just watched Paige like she already knew.

Paige didn’t say it, didn’t want to explain why her chest ached a little every time she walked away from that hallway. Why she kept hearing the same voice when she lay in bed at night, headphones in but volume off, trying to match it in her head.

She didn’t even know the girl’s name.

The open mic night wasn’t her idea.

Azzi found the flyer. “It’s across town. Cute cafe vibe. Candlelight. Coffee. Poetry. Music. Let’s go.”

KK looked at her like she was insane. “You lost me at poetry.”

“You can just sip your overpriced matcha and be hot in the corner,” Azzi said, batting her lashes. “C’mon. It’s Friday. No practice tomorrow.”

Even Aubrey nodded. “Might be fun.”

Paige didn’t argue. She had no reason to. A night out would be good. Distract her. Maybe even help her forget.

The place was packed.

Paige slouched in her seat, hoodie half-zipped, sipping a lukewarm vanilla latte KK swore she’d love. The lights were low, the stage small and intimate. People performed slam poetry, a jazz duet, and someone recited something about the moon and loneliness.

Paige’s attention drifted in and out. Nothing gripped her.

Until she heard it.

The first note.

She straightened. Her latte almost slipped.

There you were.

Stepping onto the stage like you didn’t even know you were changing someone’s life.

A guitar rested in your hands. A simple mic. A shy smile.

“Maybe I came on too strong…”

Paige didn’t breathe.

Her fingers curled tight around the paper sleeve of her cup. The world blurred. The clinking cups, the murmured chatter, the coughs and shifting chairs—they all disappeared. It was you. That voice. That voice. Her voice.

And now you had a face.

Lit soft by the string lights, your lashes low, your expression a mirror of the ache in the song. “Dive” by Ed Sheeran. Paige recognized it now. Had never liked it much before. But you—you made it yours. Every lyric lived in your throat like it belonged there.

When you got to “So don’t call me baby… unless you mean it,” Paige’s chest burned.

You weren’t even looking at anyone in particular, just singing into the dark. But Paige felt like it was only her in that room.

Her mouth went dry.

The song ended too soon.

You strummed the last chord, gave a little smile, and walked off stage like you hadn’t just left someone breathless in the third row.

Paige didn’t move.

Her eyes followed you—wide, stunned, quiet.

Azzi leaned over. “Dude. Are you okay?”

KK squinted. “What happened to her? Her face looks like she just saw God.”

Paige opened her mouth.

No words came out.

Aubrey leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, thoroughly entertained. “She’s in love.”

“I am not,” Paige finally snapped, but it came out too fast. Too defensive.

Azzi laughed. “You’re stuttering.”

KK grinned. “You’ve been bewitched.”

Paige stared across the cafe where you stood by the bar, your guitar now slung across your back, chatting with someone and smiling softly.

“I’ve heard her before,” Paige mumbled, finally. “Like… a bunch of times.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“In the student center. Some music room or whatever. I didn’t know what she looked like. I just—heard her. Singing.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” KK practically shouted.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Paige muttered, eyes still on you.

Azzi elbowed her. “Well, say something now. She’s right there.”

“Nope,” Paige said, panicking a little. “No, no, no. I can’t. What would I even say?”

Aubrey raised a brow. “Hi would be a start.”

“I can’t,” Paige repeated, now looking genuinely distressed.

KK laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone. “Basketball superstar, national icon, but she can’t talk to a girl with a guitar.”

“You don’t get it,” Paige said, still watching you. “I—I’ve been hearing her voice for weeks. I built this whole idea of her in my head and now she’s real and she’s right there and what if she doesn’t live up to it? What if I don’t?”

Azzi softened. “Or what if she’s even better?”

Paige didn’t answer.

She just sat there, pulse racing, legs bouncing under the table, until you turned slightly and your eyes scanned the room, then landed on her.

For one second, just one—you smiled.

Right at her.

And Paige smiled back, dazed, like she forgot how to be cool.

You looked away.

She didn’t.

Paige didn’t move for a full five minutes.

Your smile had burned a hole into her brain, and she sat in that little café chair like someone who had just time-traveled. The lights buzzed. The next performer came and went. The chatter picked up again. But Paige only heard the echo of your voice.

KK, predictably, had pulled out her phone and started typing. “I’m making a list of icebreakers. What about… ‘Are you a magician? Because whenever I hear you, everyone else disappears.’”

Azzi groaned. “Please don’t let her say that.”

Aubrey took a sip of her tea, then muttered, “She won’t say anything. She’s gonna sit here and spiral about it for three months.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Paige muttered, eyes still trained on you as you made your way through the crowd with your guitar case, waving at the barista. “I’m… calculating.”

“Calculating?” Azzi echoed, eyebrows raised.

Paige shrugged. “My odds.”

“Your odds of what? Getting her number?” KK grinned.

“My odds of surviving when I get to say hello.”

She stood up before she could overthink it. Hands slightly clammy, hoodie sleeves tugged down over her knuckles. Her sneakers felt too loud as she crossed the room, weaving through chairs and tables, trying not to trip on someone’s tote bag.

You were alone now, leaning against the far wall near the bathroom hallway, on your phone.

Paige slowed. Stopped. Took one shallow breath.

You looked up.

Eyes met.

You smiled again—so effortlessly kind it made her ribs hurt.

“Hey,” she said, voice softer than usual.

“Hey,” you replied, sliding your phone into your pocket. “You’re Paige Bueckers, right?”

Her stomach flipped. “Uh—yeah. Guilty.”

“I thought you looked familiar. I’ve seen you on the court.” Then, with a playful smirk, “Didn’t expect to see you here, though.”

“I didn’t expect to hear you here,” Paige said, and immediately wanted to smack her forehead. “I mean—I did, obviously, you were on stage, but—what I meant is…”

Your head tilted slightly. “You okay?”

“I’ve heard you before,” she blurted. “In the student center. You sing sometimes—room 205, I think? Every Tuesday. Or Thursday. Or both. I wasn’t… I wasn’t being creepy or anything, I just—your voice—it always stopped me. I didn’t know who you were until tonight.”

The words tumbled out of her like they’d been waiting weeks.

You blinked. “You’ve been listening?”

Paige nodded, sheepish. “Yeah. Every time I walked by.”

Something shifted in your eyes—curiosity, then warmth. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Paige said quickly. “You always looked so into it. Like it was just you and the music.”

“It usually is,” you admitted. “It’s kind of my favorite part of the day.”

“Mine too,” Paige said before she could stop herself.

You smiled again, and this time it lingered.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Y/N.”

Paige repeated it under her breath. Like a secret.

You leaned back against the wall and looked at her, fully now. “So. You like Ed Sheeran?”

“I didn’t,” Paige said honestly. “Until you sang that.”

You laughed, and damn—Paige swore she could live off the sound.

“Well,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thanks for listening. For… noticing.”

Paige rocked on her heels. “Would it be okay if I… came by next time? I mean—on purpose. Not just walking by.”

“Room 205,” you said. “Tuesdays and Thursdays. Four p.m.”

She grinned. “Noted.”

You glanced down at your shoes, then back at her. “You know… if you’re free after this, there’s this late-night taco truck a block away. I always go there after these open mics.”

Paige’s heart flipped. “Really?”

You gave a tiny shrug, smile shy now. “You could come. If you want.”

She nodded—too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I want.”

From the other side of the room, KK spotted her and dramatically mimed fainting. Azzi and Aubrey gave each other knowing looks.

You followed Paige’s glance and laughed again. “Your friends?”

“The very loud ones,” she deadpanned.

You zipped up your guitar case. “Then let’s sneak out the side door.”

Paige blinked. “I love you.”

You froze, eyebrows raised.

Paige turned red instantly. “I mean—I—not love-love. I mean I love that idea. Sneaking. Not… okay, yeah, I’m gonna shut up now.”

You laughed so hard she thought she might combust and reached over, hand brushing her forearm. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

“I’m never nervous,” Paige lied.

You raised a brow. “You are with me.”

Paige opened the door for you, heart pounding, wondering how it was possible to feel this much after a single song and one very overdue hello.

And just like that, she followed you into the night.

The air was colder outside the café than Paige expected.

She stuffed her hands into her hoodie pockets, trying to ignore the way her heart still hadn’t settled since stepping out with you. The sidewalk was mostly empty—just a few people loitering near parked cars and someone locking up a bike. You walked a step ahead, guitar case slung over your shoulder like it was second nature.

“You sure this taco truck is real?” Paige asked, mostly to fill the silence.

You glanced over your shoulder with a grin. “It’s very real. And very good.”

Paige nodded. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You didn’t say anything, just smiled to yourself and kept walking.

The truck was parked on the corner of a quiet intersection, half-lit by a flickering streetlamp. Bright red paint. A little speaker sitting on the counter playing soft reggaeton. The guy running it looked like he’d seen it all and didn’t care anymore.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said without even looking up.

“Hey, Manny.” You stepped up and started reading the chalkboard menu like you didn’t already know what you were getting.

Paige hovered behind you, awkwardly peering over your shoulder. “What’s good?”

“The carnitas,” you said instantly. “Or the lengua. If you’re brave.”

“I’m not brave,” Paige said, then winced. “I mean—like—I could be. If I had to be. But probably not for… tongue.”

You smiled again, but didn’t tease her. “Carnitas it is.”

Manny raised an eyebrow. “For both?”

You glanced at Paige, who nodded. “Yeah.”

Manny scribbled something on the notepad and disappeared inside the truck.

Paige shuffled a little closer to the side of the truck where the heat was spilling out from the open window. “You come here every week?”

“After every open mic,” you said, stepping up beside her. “It’s kind of my thing.”

“That’s cool,” Paige mumbled, unsure of what else to say. “I don’t really… have a thing.”

You looked at her. “Basketball’s not your thing?”

She tilted her head. “I mean—yeah. That’s kind of my whole thing. But it’s… different. It’s not like tacos after singing. That feels more like a… soul thing.”

You were quiet for a second. “Singing is my thing, yeah. But only when no one’s really watching.”

Paige blinked. “You just performed in front of like fifty people.”

“Exactly.” You smirked. “Not enough to feel real. But enough to hide in.”

She didn’t get it—at least not fully—but she liked the way you said it. Like there were layers underneath everything. Paige wasn’t used to layers. Most people just said what they meant. You made her want to ask better questions.

Manny handed you two paper baskets stacked with tacos and napkins.

You walked over to a low brick wall nearby and sat, setting your guitar down beside you. Paige sat a careful foot away. Not too close.

She watched you take a bite and hum in appreciation.

She took a bite too. “Oh, damn.”

You grinned. “Told you.”

The silence wasn’t awkward—but Paige didn’t know how to fill it, either. She picked at her tortilla, chewing slower than usual.

After a while, she asked, “So you majoring in music?”

“Nope,” you said between bites. “Creative writing.”

“Cool. That’s… cool.”

You sipped your drink. “You’re not very good at small talk, huh?”

Paige groaned and flopped backward against the wall. “Is it that obvious?”

“Kinda.”

She covered her face with one hand. “This is why I don’t talk to people.”

“But you walked over,” you said softly.

Paige peeked at you through her fingers. “Yeah. I don’t do that either.”

“Why’d you do it tonight?”

She didn’t have a good answer. Not one that wouldn’t sound stupid.

“I think I just had to,” she said finally. “I heard your voice before I saw you, and it got stuck in my head. Like… really stuck. You made everything else quiet. That’s hard to do.”

You looked down at your basket of tacos. Paige worried she’d overstepped.

But then you said, “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my singing.”

She flushed and went back to chewing.

“You have a really… still energy,” she said out of nowhere.

“Still?”

“Yeah,” Paige shrugged. “Like… not in a boring way. More like—when I’m near you, I feel like I don’t have to rush. Like I can just sit and not be anyone for a second.”

You blinked. “You’re really bad at flirting.”

“I’m not flirting,” Paige said instantly, then looked horrified. “I mean—not that I wouldn’t—if I was! But I’m not! I just meant that like, platonically… your vibe is chill. Not that I only want it to be platonic. Wait. I’m gonna eat this taco now.”

You buried your face in your hands and shook your head, laughing.

Paige took the biggest bite she could manage just to shut herself up.

You let her flail for a moment before nudging her arm with your elbow.

“You’re weird,” you said gently. “But I like it.”

Her face turned red again. “Thanks.”

“Same time next week?” you asked.

She blinked. “Like, here? After the open mic?”

You gave her a look. “Room 205. Tuesday or Thursday. Four p.m. You listen. I sing.”

Paige nodded too fast. “I’ll be there.”

You stood and tossed your napkin into the nearby trash can, guitar swinging easily over your shoulder again.

“I’ll see you around, Bueckers,” you said, walking off into the cold without needing to look back.

Paige sat there, chewing slowly, staring after you, heart thrumming under her hoodie.

Yeah. She’d definitely be there.

It felt strange walking into Room 205.

She wasn’t used to being on the inside of the door.

Every time Paige had passed by before, it was just a fleeting pause in the hallway. A quiet moment stolen between practice or meetings or pretending like she didn’t hear the music. But now—now she was invited.

She arrived early.

Fifteen minutes early, actually.

She stood outside the room for five of them, pacing the hallway like an indecisive freshman, wondering if she was going to seem too eager. Too intense. Too weird. She considered texting you that she couldn’t make it—just to bail before she embarrassed herself.

But then she heard it.

A strum. A single note. The guitar.

You were already in there.

So she slipped inside.

The room was small—barely more than a practice box with beige walls, a dusty upright piano in the corner, and a few mismatched chairs. You were sitting on the little stool with your guitar, hunched over it, tuning quietly.

Your head lifted when you noticed her. “You came.”

“Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “You said four.”

You smiled. “You’re early.”

“I… like to be on time,” she said, awkward as ever.

You nodded, eyes flicking back to your guitar. “You can sit.”

She took the seat closest to the wall. Sat stiffly. Backpack still on.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You played a few chords without singing—simple, steady, like muscle memory. Then your fingers stilled.

“I don’t usually have an audience in here,” you said.

“I don’t usually be the audience,” Paige replied.

You gave her a small look. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No. Please don’t.”

You smirked to yourself. “Alright then.”

And you began.

No microphone. No stage. Just you. Your voice.

It was quieter in this space—more intimate. Like you weren’t performing. Like you were just being. Paige hadn’t realized how different it would feel up close. The way your eyes softened when you got lost in a lyric. The tiny creases between your brows as you focused on your fingers. The breath you took before each new line, like it mattered.

She forgot to breathe sometimes.

You sang something she didn’t recognize—a song you wrote, maybe. Paige didn’t ask. She wouldn’t know how.

She just listened.

And when you finished, you didn’t ask for applause. You just looked over.

Paige was staring.

You tilted your head. “What?”

She blinked. “Nothing.”

You laughed lightly, setting the guitar down against the stool. “You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem.”

“I’m just thinking,” she said.

“Dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice soft this time. The cocky teasing gone. “I don’t usually let people hear this part of me.”

Paige’s smile faded into something more sincere. “That’s kind of how I feel when I play ball.”

You leaned back on your palms. “Is that why you didn’t tell your friends about me? About hearing me sing?”

She shifted in her chair. “Honestly… yeah. It felt… mine.”

Your eyes met hers.

There was a long pause.

Paige suddenly felt like she’d said something too honest, too soon.

But you didn’t flinch.

You nodded. “I get that.”

You didn’t press her. Didn’t make a joke. You just let it be what it was.

And Paige relaxed.

You ended up sitting on the floor, legs crossed, the guitar leaning between you both. The air was still but light. No expectations.

“What kind of music do you usually write?” she asked after a while.

You shrugged. “Sad stuff. Melancholy acoustic girl things.”

Paige laughed. “So you’re the reason people cry in coffee shops.”

You smirked. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

She leaned back against the wall, watching you tap your fingers absentmindedly on your knee like there was always a song playing in your head.

You turned to her suddenly. “Do you sing?”

She choked. “God, no.”

“C’mon,” you nudged. “Just a little?”

“I’m an athlete,” she said defensively. “We don’t do that.”

You smiled. “Tell that to the UConn locker room.”

“Okay, yeah, but that’s different. That’s shouting lyrics in a group of sweaty girls, not—this.”

You gave her a mischievous look. “Afraid I’ll judge you?”

“No,” Paige lied.

You grinned wider, but didn’t push.

Eventually, the sun started to dip through the narrow window, turning the room gold. Paige didn’t realize how much time had passed. She checked her phone—Azzi had texted “where r u???” about 30 minutes ago.

“I should go,” she said, but didn’t move.

You were lying flat on the carpet now, arms spread, eyes closed.

You opened one eye. “Then go.”

She didn’t.

You smirked. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to get attached.”

“I’m not.”

You closed your eyes again. “Mmhm.”

Paige stood slowly. Her legs ached from sitting so long on the hard chair, but she didn’t really mind.

“Same time Thursday?” you asked, eyes still shut.

Paige hesitated. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not,” you said, quiet now. “It’s nice, having someone listen.”

She looked down at you. Your features soft in the fading light. At peace.

“I’ll be here,” she said.

And she meant it.

Two weeks later, Paige didn’t even need to check the time.

It was just automatic now—Tuesday, Room 205, you.

She still pretended like she wasn’t waiting for it every week, but her body gave her away. She’d get antsy around 3:30, check her phone three times, leave whatever gym or classroom she was in by 3:45. No one questioned her anymore.

Not even Azzi.

She didn’t even knock anymore. Just walked in, gave you a soft nod, and sat down while you tuned your guitar like clockwork.

You’d started calling her your “favorite audience.”

She said she preferred “only audience.”

You said, “Still counts.”

On a random Friday afternoon, Paige texted you:

Paige: “You like Mario Kart?”

“I’m not bad at it.”

Paige: “You just said you’re good without saying you’re good.”

“Do you wanna lose or what?”

She didn’t expect how easily you fit into her living room.

You were curled into the corner of her couch in a hoodie she swore used to be hers, holding the controller like it was part of your hand. Your eyes narrowed at the screen. Paige had just blue-shelled you at the finish line. You threw your head back and groaned.

“I hope your joy-cons drift forever,” you muttered.

Paige cackled. “Don’t hate the player.”

“I do, actually.”

“Wow.”

You smirked and tossed a popcorn kernel at her face. She caught it in her mouth. Show-off.

Eventually, the game was paused and forgotten. The controller batteries started dying. Neither of you bothered to fix them.

Instead, you sprawled across the couch, shoes off, half under a blanket. Paige leaned against the opposite armrest, socked feet crossed near your hip.

“What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever believed as a kid?” you asked randomly.

Paige blinked. “Uh… that the moon followed me specifically? Like it was my thing.”

You snorted. “Narcissist.”

“You asked!”

You told her yours was that if you swallowed watermelon seeds, a full vine would grow out your throat.

“You were dramatic from the start,” Paige said.

“Still am,” you agreed.

The night drifted on. You didn’t leave until close to 2 a.m. Neither of you realized how late it had gotten. Paige watched the front door close after you, a little stunned at how easy the silence had felt.

The next night, you invited her over.

“Movie night,” you said. “My pick.”

Paige said, “What are we watching?”

You smirked. “It’s a surprise.”

That was the warning. She should’ve known.

It was The Notebook.

Of course it was The Notebook.

You acted like you didn’t care much about it, even made jokes during the early scenes.

“Wow, nothing says romance like threatening to kill yourself if a girl won’t go on a date,” you quipped.

“Yeah,” Paige muttered, “real healthy.”

But somewhere around the boat scene, you stopped talking.

And when Allie’s mom gave her that box of letters, Paige looked over.

You sniffed. Subtly.

She blinked. “Wait… are you crying?”

“No,” you said immediately. Too fast.

You wiped your cheek with your sleeve and kept your eyes glued to the screen like if you just didn’t look at her, she wouldn’t know.

But Paige was already scooting closer.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“You said this movie was stupid.”

“It is.” Your voice cracked a little. “It’s manipulative. There’s rain and kissing and Alzheimer’s. They’re cheating on people. It’s a mess.”

Paige didn’t say anything. Just watched as another tear slipped down your cheek.

She reached over slowly, gently brushing it away with her thumb.

Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t move away.

“Shut up,” you whispered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Her hand hovered for a second longer. Warm against your skin.

You turned toward her slightly, chin tilted. “You’re enjoying this.”

Paige smirked. “A little.”

You narrowed your eyes, then shifted under the blanket and muttered, “Fine. But I get to pick next time too.”

“And you won’t cry this time?”

You shoved her shoulder lightly. “No promises.”

She stayed until the credits rolled.

You didn’t talk about what happened.

You didn’t need to.

But Paige smiled the entire drive home.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no sudden realization. No thunderclap. No internal monologue screaming oh my god I’m in love with her. Paige kind of wished it had been like that—quick, clean, definite.

But instead, it was slow.

Annoyingly slow.

Like a song that changes keys so gradually you don’t even notice until you’re standing there, listening, heart in your throat, and everything sounds different.

It was the middle of a Wednesday when she noticed it.

Not a moment, really—just a text from you. No punctuation. No context.

“it’s raining”

That’s it.

Not come outside, not listen to this, not I’m sad and need you.

Paige stared at them for way too long before replying.

“window’s already open”

You sent back a voice memo—just a few seconds of rain hitting the windowsill. A soft hum. Your laugh in the background.

And that was it.

Paige had to sit down.

Azzi was the first to say something.

“You’re smiling at your phone again.”

“I always do that.”

“No you don’t.”

KK chimed in. “You used to smile like that when you watched highlight reels of yourself.”

Aubrey raised an eyebrow. “Now it’s a girl who plays sad songs in practice rooms.”

“I don’t—” Paige started, but even she didn’t sound convincing anymore.

They didn’t tease her the way they usually would. Azzi just looked at her gently, then asked, “Have you told her?”

Paige blinked. “Told her what?”

Aubrey leaned in. “That you like her.”

Paige went quiet.

“Exactly,” KK mumbled.

It’s not that Paige was afraid of feelings.

She was just… unfamiliar with them.

Romance had never been easy for her. She didn’t like being vulnerable. Didn’t like people seeing her shaken. She was used to control. To focus. To knowing the outcome before she took the shot.

But this?

You?

She didn’t know where it was going. Or if it was even going anywhere.

She just knew that things were changing.

Because she started noticing everything.

The way your voice got quiet when you were tired. The way your hoodie sleeves were always a little too long. The way you never asked for help, but always showed up for everyone else.

The way she missed you on the days she didn’t see you.

That was the scariest part.

On Sunday, you came over again. No Mario Kart this time. No movies.

Just you, barefoot on her couch, eating leftover pasta out of a tupperware like you owned the place.

Paige sat on the floor beside the coffee table, legs stretched out, head tilted lazily against the couch cushions.

“What if,” you said suddenly, “you were born in a world where music didn’t exist?”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“No sound. No songs. Nothing but silence. You’d still play basketball, sure. But no rhythm. No hype songs. Just… empty air.”

“That’s depressing,” she muttered.

You nodded. “I think I’d lose my mind.”

“Yeah,” Paige said after a moment. “You would.”

You glanced down at her. “Would you miss music?”

“I’d miss you,” she said.

Then froze.

You looked at her.

And smiled.

But didn’t say anything.

Didn’t tease her. Didn’t make it weird.

Just said, “Good.”

And kept eating your pasta.

That night, Paige laid in bed and stared at the ceiling.

She tried not to think too hard. Tried not to name it.

But every time she blinked, it was you.

Laughing on her couch.

Crying during The Notebook.

Singing in Room 205.

And suddenly… Paige wasn’t so sure if just being friends would ever feel like enough.

Room 205 felt different today.

It wasn’t the weather—though the windows were foggy from the spring drizzle. And it wasn’t the time—4 p.m. sharp, like always. Paige walked in with the same hoodie, the same messy bun, the same slightly anxious energy she always brought when she didn’t know what you were about to play.

But the air felt heavier. Like something was hanging in the corner, waiting.

You sat cross-legged on top of the piano bench, strumming a quiet chord progression you hadn’t played before. Paige closed the door gently behind her, dropped her backpack in the usual spot, and slid into the chair by the wall.

You didn’t look up. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said, slower than usual.

She watched your fingers move. You were quieter today too—not in a bad way. Just… focused. Like your mind was somewhere far away and also nowhere at all.

“You okay?” she asked, voice soft.

You nodded. “Just… thinking.”

She didn’t press. Just let the silence settle between you.

After a few minutes, you finally looked up. “Can I play you something?”

Paige sat up straighter. “You always play me something.”

“No, I mean—something I haven’t shown anyone. Ever.”

That made her heart beat a little faster.

She nodded.

You exhaled, fingers settling into place.

Then you began.

We'll play Nintendo though I always lose

‘Cause you watch the TV while I'm watching you

There's not many people I'd honestly say I don't mind losing to

But there's nothing like doing nothing with you

The first line hit Paige like a whisper to the chest.

She froze. Eyes fixed on you. Your voice was soft—not performed, just spoken in melody. You weren’t doing anything fancy with the chords. It didn’t need it.

Paige heard every word.

Dumb conversation, we lose track of time

Have I told you lately I'm grateful you're mine

We watch "The Notebook" for the 17th time

I'll say it's stupid, then you catch me crying

Paige’s expression shifts as the song continues. The lyrics are simple, but the meaning is clear. The way the words flow feels like a quiet confession. Each line hits a little harder than the last. Paige, who’s been so used to guarding herself, begins to feel something stir in her chest. Her heartbeat quickens, the truth behind the words sinking in.

You’re not just singing about love, about waiting for something you want but can’t have. You’re singing about her. The way you feel when you’re around her, the longing, the quiet frustration that she’s been unaware of, or maybe avoiding.

She barely noticed when the song ended. You let the last note linger like it didn’t want to leave either.

Then there was silence. A thick, full silence.

You finally looked at her.

“I know it’s not flashy,” you murmured. “But it’s real. For me, at least.”

Paige didn’t speak right away.

Because something had snapped into place.

All this time, she thought maybe she was imagining it. That maybe she wanted it too much to see it clearly. But this song—your song—was proof.

Not a maybe.

Not a coincidence.

It was her.

It was you seeing her.

And loving her in your quiet, unspoken way.

Her chest felt too full. She didn’t know how to hold everything you’d just given her.

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Sorry. I probably made it weird.”

Paige shook her head fast, voice low. “No. You didn’t.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “It’s just… I didn’t expect to hear myself in it. In your words.”

You smiled, finally letting yourself look directly at her.

“Well,” you said quietly, “you’ve been in my head for weeks now. Felt fair to put you somewhere else too.”

Paige didn’t know what to say to that.

Her brain was screaming: Say something. Do something.

But she just stared at you, heart pounding, realizing…

This isn’t nothing.

The walk back was quieter than usual.

Not awkward. Just... full.

Like something sacred had been left unspoken between them after you played her that song. The words still clung to Paige’s ribs. They echoed every time your hand brushed against hers as you walked side by side on the sidewalk, neither of you talking, both pretending not to notice.

Your guitar case was slung behind you. Paige carried your notebook. She didn’t ask—you just handed it to her like you trusted her not to drop what was inside.

The sky was dark now, the streets humming with distant traffic and warm porch lights.

“Paige,” you said softly as you reached the last block before your building.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t stop walking, but your voice dropped. “You haven’t said much since the song.”

She looked over. You weren’t anxious, just… open. Waiting. You’d handed her something vulnerable, and now you were giving her the space to either hold it or step away.

Paige took a breath.

“I haven’t said much because I’m scared I’m gonna say the wrong thing,” she admitted. Your lips quirked. “You already told me I’m your favorite audience. I think the bar’s pretty low.”

She smiled with you, but then quieted again.

“I meant what I said,” she continued. “Every line of that song—it was like watching us from the outside. It was weird. And beautiful. And a little terrifying.”

You turned toward her slightly, walking slower now.

“Terrifying?”

She nodded. “Because I didn’t know you were seeing me like that. I thought I was the only one…” Her voice softened. “...feeling all this.”

You stopped walking.

So did she.

The streetlamp above you buzzed faintly. The wind picked up. The moment cracked open.

Your voice was quiet. “You’re not the only one.”

Paige looked at you.

And this time, she didn’t flinch from it.

She took one slow step closer. Her voice barely above a whisper. “You make everything quieter, Y/N. And I didn’t know how much I needed that until you.”

You tilted your head, eyes full and soft. “Are you sure?”

Paige nodded, closer now.

“I’m sure.”

Your breath caught.

She looked at your mouth for just a second.

Then she said, like a confession. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t answer with words. You leaned in first.

So she did too.

It was soft. Barely even a press at first. Just the meeting of two people who had spent weeks circling something sacred.

Paige moved slowly, gently, like she didn’t want to startle whatever this was. Your hand came up to rest on her wrist, anchoring her.

She deepened the kiss—just a little—and it felt like everything she’d been holding in finally exhaled.

You pulled away first, barely.

Paige kept her forehead resting against yours.

“I was scared,” you whispered. “That if we crossed this line, it’d stop feeling easy.”

Paige smiled. “It still feels easy.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

You stayed like that for a while. No rush. No pressure.

Just breathing in the space that had finally, finally opened.

Then you said, “Wanna come upstairs?”

Paige blinked.

You grinned. “Just to hang. I wanna write more. You could help.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

She followed you inside, heart steady, hand brushing yours.

This wasn’t nothing. This never had been.

[ruinix]

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

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

Breakfast & Tattoos

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

Count: 3544 words | Masterlist | Taglist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somebody, help him.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, after he cools the fuck down.

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

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

He knows.

But he hears your tummy rumble.

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

Someone needs to bash his head until he gets amnesia.

He’s digging himself a deeper grave. Seriously.

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

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

You turn and hug him from his side.

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

“I have a surprise for you.”

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

And he’s back to being a horny fucker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He coaxes, “What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Open your eyes for me, handsome.”

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

“I love it,” he says with satisfaction.

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit.

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

A tattoo. A fucking tattoo on your left hip.

‘QH43’, it says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I want it.”

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

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

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

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

He’s losing it. “Did it hurt?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please.”

Something snaps.

It’s his control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So happy that you did.

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

Fuck, he’s still so hard.

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

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

He loves that and he needs to fuck you again.

“Another?” he pleads.

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

You don’t need to say anything else.

[satellite-evans]

told you so

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: it's your turn to take care of lando <3

Word count: 1.2k+

Warnings: fluff, lando is sick

A/N:

this is a part 2 for lovesick, but can be read individually, happy reading xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

It started three days after you started feeling better.

You’d just gotten over the flu—a brutal week of hacking coughs, relentless fevers, and being completely wiped out while Lando stepped into full-time caretaker mode. He’d fluffed your pillows, ordered weirdly specific soup combinations (chicken noodle with a side of toast and a single gherkin, why?), and insisted on playing your favorite comfort movies even when he dozed off halfway through them.

Every day, without fail, in between sneezes and sips of hot tea, you’d warned him like a broken record: “Don’t kiss me, you’ll get sick. Seriously, Lando. I’m a walking biohazard.” And every day, like clockwork, he’d give you that crooked smile that made your heart do stupid things and lean down anyway, pressing a kiss to your lips like he was immune to common sense.

“Worth it,” he’d say, all cocky and smug, even as you scowled at him.

Now, three days after your fever broke and you were finally starting to feel like a functioning human again, Lando was sprawled across the couch like a Victorian widow in mourning. A pile of blankets engulfed him like a nest, only the top of his curls and the tip of his red nose visible.

“Baaaabe,” he croaked, voice hoarse and pathetic, as if he'd swallowed gravel and regret. “I think this is it. Tell McLaren I love them. Tell Oscar to win for me.”

You leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and unimpressed. “You have the flu. The same flu I had. The one I explicitly told you not to kiss me during.”

Lando peeked out from under the blanket fort with glassy, betrayed eyes. “You kissed me back! That makes it a mutual decision! This was a joint operation.”

You let out a long sigh and walked over, pressing the back of your hand gently to his forehead. Sure enough, it was burning up.

“Yeah, well. Congratulations, genius. You’ve got a fever.”

“I knew it,” he groaned, flopping dramatically like his soul was leaving his body. “My organs are shutting down. I can feel it. This is the end. Cold, miserable, and betrayed… by the love of my life.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, even as you shook your head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I need soup,” he sniffled pitifully, burrowing deeper into the mound of fleece and flannel. “And cuddles. And maybe a foot massage. And definitely another blanket. Possibly two.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”

“An eulogy,” he replied weakly. “Something tasteful. Maybe mention that I was brave and beautiful, taken too soon…”

You turned on your heel, heading toward the kitchen with an eye roll so powerful it could’ve shifted tectonic plates. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Norris.”

His voice trailed after you, small and pathetic. “I’m dying! Is this how you treat your dying boyfriend? Where’s the Florence Nightingale energy?”

“Florence didn’t have to deal with whiny F1 drivers,” you called back. “Count yourself lucky I’m making you soup and not letting you waste away on the pit lane.”

“Wait, do we have ginger tea? I read online that’s good for the immune system. And maybe some honey? Or lemon? Or both? And a warm compress for my eyes, I think I saw one on TikTok—”

“Oh my God, Lando.”

“—and maybe like... one of those heated plushies. You know the ones? That look like cats but smell like lavender?”

You grabbed the kettle and let it boil as his voice carried on from the living room, dramatic and ever-demanding, while you secretly smiled to yourself. He was miserable, yes—but so were you, just a few days ago. And just like he’d cared for you, now it was your turn to return the favor.

With soup, cuddles, and maybe, just maybe, one of those lavender-scented cat plushies.

Ten minutes later, you returned with a tray balanced carefully in your hands—a steaming bowl of homemade soup (the good kind, not the sad instant packet), a cold compress folded just right, and a bottle of flu medicine with the dosage already measured out. You’d even grabbed a spoon that didn’t clank annoyingly against the bowl, because yes, you were that considerate. The tray clinked softly as you set it on the coffee table, the smell of garlic and herbs immediately cutting through the stuffy air of the living room.

Lando stirred beneath his fortress of blankets, blinking up at you like a very sad, very sick kitten.

Without a word, you began rearranging the pillows behind him—fluffing one, stacking another for support, gently nudging him upright with a hand on his shoulder.

“Sit up. Time to eat.”

He sniffled pitifully and looked at you with the most dramatic pout you’d seen all week. “Will you feed me? I’m too weak. My arms don’t work anymore. I think they’ve stopped functioning.”

You gave him a flat look that screamed seriously?, but the sight of his flushed cheeks, red nose, and those glassy, pleading eyes—ugh. Damn him and his boyish charm.

“Fine,” you relented with a sigh, picking up the spoon. “But if you fake gag for sympathy, I’m pouring this soup right on your hoodie.”

“You wound me,” he gasped, clutching his chest like a scandalized Victorian noble. “My Florence Nightingale turned cold-hearted nurse. Where is the compassion?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop, gently blowing on each spoonful before guiding it to his lips. He opened his mouth obediently, chewing slowly, and making these over-exaggerated “mmm” sounds like he was in a food commercial.

You let him have his moment.

Every now and then, your fingers would drift to his curls, brushing them back from his sweaty forehead, or you’d adjust the blanket when it started to slip from his shoulder. And each time, he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing grounding him. Dramatic as he was, you knew the truth—he just wanted to be taken care of the same way he had taken care of you. With quiet patience, and a lot of love.

And honestly? You didn’t mind at all. Even if he had brought this on himself.

After the soup and a reluctant but necessary dose of flu meds, Lando let out a long, theatrical sigh like he’d just completed a marathon. He sank back into the couch, curling up with his head in your lap, one arm loosely around your waist as if anchoring himself there. He sniffled again, softer this time, like a puppy trying not to be too obvious about how much it needed cuddles.

You smiled, running your fingers gently through his messy curls, letting the silence stretch between you for a moment before speaking.

“Next time,” you murmured, voice low and warm, “you’re actually going to listen when I say no kissing the plague-ridden girlfriend.”

Lando didn’t open his eyes, just smiled faintly against your thigh. “Next time… I’m still gonna kiss you.”

You sighed, part exasperation, part affection. “You’re impossible.”

“Worth it,” he breathed, already drifting into sleep.

You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his temple, lingering there for a second longer than you meant to. “Idiot,” you whispered.

He didn’t reply. His breathing had already evened out, the medicine kicking in, the warmth of your lap and the quiet room lulling him into sleep. But even in rest, the corners of his mouth were still tilted up in the faintest smile.

You shook your head and smiled, adjusting the blanket over him once more.

Yeah. He was definitely worth it.

[magicalbats]

Soft Edges (Harumasa x Reader)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 3756

Warnings: afab!reader, chronic illness, piv, condoms, angst with porn

⭐

Spring rains bring summer flowers, and the clawing death rattle at the end of the world.

The moisture in the air bothers his lungs. 

You spend some time puttering around in his small kitchenette, preparing a herbal infused tea to help soothe the ache in his throat while he coughs and hacks incessantly in the other room. It makes the one bedroom apartment smell vaguely like an apothecary rather than a hospital bed. 

That seems to come as a relief almost as much as the warm drink does when he sips on it, humming a low sound of appreciation before thanking you for the thoughtful gesture. 

Sitting on the edge of the mattress with him, you study Harumasa for any signs of further deterioration in his condition. There were good days and there were bad days, and today was just unfortunate enough to be one of the latter. The hot tea and its medicinal properties seem to do him some good though. He doesn’t look like he’s in the process of actively dying on you, at least. 

Noticing your lingering stare on him, he lifts his attention to peer over at you. “What? Is there something on my face?” His voice is still a bit raspy. Weak. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Oh, come on. Tell me where it is so I can get it.” His unoccupied hand, the one not currently wrapped around the cup he’s got braced against his knee, comes up to swipe at the corner of his mouth, his cheek. But the knowing twinkle in his eye belies his sincerity and gives him away. 

Laughing despite your best attempt not to, you reach out to gently tug his arm back down. “Stop that. You know I’m just worried about you. It’s not nice to tease me.” 

“But I told you I’m fine, sweetheart. There’s nothing to worry about.” He assures you, his fingers snatching at yours before you can pull them out of his reach. 

Successfully snagging them, he makes quick work of sliding his palm over yours and fitting the digits together like they were a perfectly aligned puzzle snapping into place. 

And beyond the sterile sanctity of his apartment, the pelting rain buffets at the windows, an incessant staccato played to the tune of the howling wind.  

His skin feels clammy, you notice, and you wonder if you should go get the space heater out of the closet in the hallway. It was almost summer in New Eridu but the rain had brought with it an unseasonable chill that had even made you opt for a hoodie before venturing outside. He was probably feeling it worse than you were. 

“Haru - -“ 

“You don’t need to fret over me so much every time you come over,” He tells you gently, his thumb idly brushing over the back of your knuckles. “No matter how much you may want to be, you’re not actually a nurse you know. And for the better, really.” 

“Why is that?” You ask, earning yourself a softly husking laugh from him. 

“You’re way too cute, for starters. I’d never be able to control myself and I’d get into all sorts of trouble. Can you imagine your patient popping a hard on in the middle of you trying to help them get dressed? You’d hate it too, don’t lie.” 

Rolling your eyes at that, you start to pull away but he holds fast to your hand. The way he snickers, low and quiet, like his lungs couldn’t take anything more than that, almost pulls at your heartstrings enough to distract you from his real angle. But at the same time it’s also an intimately familiar sound that you don’t associate with his illness at all, in so much as you could separate one from the other. He often laughed like that when he was in the process of turning your own body utterly against you. 

Warming at the thought, you shoot him a halfhearted look of warning. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not incapable of dressing yourself then.”

“Mm, perhaps. But I’m afraid that’s not gonna’ stop me from getting a hard on though.”

He throws you a playful wink to go with it and you draw a quick breath to chide him for not taking his health more seriously, for always downplaying his own mysterious maladies. But the words catch in your throat when he suddenly tugs your captured hand across his lap. 

Right into the center is where he presses it, making sure you feel the stirring outline of him through his cozy pajama bottoms. That he’d managed to change into them at all before knocking out under the medicated lull of myriad sleep aids and nervous system suppressing narcotics the night before was likely a small miracle. Sometimes the looming possibility of Harumasa needing help with basic everyday functions like dressing himself did not seem like such a far off what-if.  

It was not yet that day though and he was still in control of his body, at least for the time being. 

Lifting your gaze, you find his eyes underneath the attractively tousled fringe of his bangs where it was slipping forward without the usual headband in place to keep his hair back. He’s smiling at you, a barely there upward curl of his mouth that almost reads of fatigue rather than sly intent. The ghostly suggestion of tension lines on his otherwise blemish free face further solidifies that impression. 

But the way he looks at you speaks volumes, loudly conveying the message of the young man he might have been if he were not so plagued by ill health. He was sickly, yes. There was no getting around that uncomfortable truth no matter how much he tried to write off the severity of it. 

Yet he was by all accounts in the prime of his life, or he should have been anyway. Just a headstrong twenty something with the libido to match. He wanted to live, to experience. You could certainly give him that. 

“Are you sure?” At his nod, you carefully adjust your hand to close your fingers around the slowly stiffening length of him. He breathes a quiet sigh when you squeeze it through the thin layer of his bottoms. Keen and perfectly eager, but as always you were wary about going into it too hard and too fast. Especially after that coughing fit he had earlier … 

“Don’t make that face,” He murmurs. Stretching his arm out to the side, he sets the nearly empty cup on the bedside table right next to the menagerie of prescription pill bottles left out in disarray. “You’re not going to break me or kill me. Promise. I said I’m fine, didn’t I?” 

You think the two of you must have drastically different ideas of what it means to be fine but you don’t say that to him or push the topic any further than that. For his sake as much as for your own. 

And when Harumasa reaches for you, pulling you in against him, you willingly relent and sink happily into the familiar warmth of his lean, athletic frame. He feels sturdy enough that you don’t let your mind linger on it any longer than necessary and instead give yourself over to the searing kiss he presses into your mouth. You trust him to know his own limits, to recognize when something was actually wrong versus when he was just going through a bad flare up or having a shitty day. If he was feeling well enough to initiate this then you were happy to oblige. 

Which was the real crux of it, wasn’t it? The problem with a casual hookup turned long term relationship through some inexplicable means that you still weren’t entirely clear on even to this very day. What should have been a one time exchange somehow became months spent together, and now these sorts of physical exchanges were one of the rare comforts you still had that everything was going to be okay. Somehow, someway, it would all work out in the end. 

Because he certainly doesn’t seem frail and prone to illness when he bodily hauls you up further onto the bed so he can toss you down next to him with an expert flip. Your weight bounces against the mattress once from the momentum and then he’s on top of you, pinning you in place underneath him. The Harumasa you’d met that very first night and the one you make herbal tea for to soothe his throat were sometimes difficult to reconcile in your mind. But there was no mistaking that they were indeed one and the same in moments like this. 

Leaning over you, his mouth meets yours in a slow motion crash, hungry and eager to taste, eliciting a low moan of wanting from you. Kissing him back, you lift your arms to twine them around his neck while his hands slip under your hoodie to feel along your front. The shirt underneath is quickly rucked up to give him access to your chest where he hooks his fingers into the band of your bra, inching it down while his tongue tangles with yours.  

You gladly arch into his touch and your tits slip free to brush against the interior of your sweatshirt unimpeded. The sensation makes you full on shudder. Tearing your mouth away from his, you loose a quaking exhale into the still apartment which he responds to with a soft groan. The sound makes your socked toes curl as he shoves a hard kiss into the soft swell of your cheek, your jaw, then your neck. 

Unable to go any further past the bulk of the hood gathered around your throat, Harumasa pushes back just enough to give himself room to work. Grabbing the hem and shoving it up to bunch under your chin, he quickly brings his hands back down to slip them into your stretchy leggings next. Your achingly stiff nipples strain in the open air now, making the growing knot in your lower stomach tighten even more. 

A new buzzing thrum of anticipation runs through you as you lift your hips up off the bed, allowing him the space needed to yank them down your legs. They’re immediately discarded as soon as he’s got them off, carelessly tossed to the floor before he crawls back up to cover your body with his again. 

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, lowering himself to his elbows so he can fully cage you in. His mouth finds its way to yours as if pulled by some invisible string and you drag your hands down his lithe frame while you exchange another heated kiss. 

Sliding underneath the rumpled back of his long sleeved shirt, your fingers quickly locate the top band of his pants and tug. The two of you are pressed too tight together in a tangle of limbs, slowly grinding against one another, for you to pull them more than half of the way down. That’s decidedly fine though, and you take to gently kneading over the exposed strip of his ass with encouraging squeezes that just make him press into you even harder. 

The outline of his cock is rigid and unrelenting where it digs against you, moulding your panties to the shape of your labia. You’re eager for the friction of his cock moving inside you, flesh sliding against warm, sticky flesh, and you can tell he is too. Yet he doesn’t rush it and instead takes his time savoringly rolling his hips as if to drag it out and make it last just that little bit longer. 

Or, an unhelpful voice in the back of your mind suggests, maybe this slow tempoed pace is all he can handle right now. 

That chilling thought curbs any impulse you might have to speed things up and take your pleasure from him, allowing Harumasa to set the pace while you simply follow his lead. The first night you’d met after a brief exchange of text messages you’d wrestled with him for dominance in this very bed to see who would come out on top. Now, however, you’re pliant and perfectly in tune with the signals of his body, lessening the demanding pressure of your hands when his breath starts to become a bit too labored. 

Groaning a shuddering noise of appreciation, he nudges himself down to your chest where he covers one pert nipple with his mouth. A roughly calloused palm comes up to grab and pinch at the other while he suckles your teat to aching attention, using his lips and his tongue to lave at the bud. His pulse soon seems to even out again and the shallow contractions of his chest become not quite so dramatic. Still, you worry about him. 

“You should switch me spots, Haru.” You tell him gently as you thread your fingers through his soft, silken hair, cradling him to your breast. “Let me be on top this time.” 

Harumasa comes up off your tit to shoot you an overly confident smirk, one you’re not quite sure he can back up right now. But you don’t protest or tell him to stop when he reaches between you to fist at his pants, shoving them down in the front to let his cock spring loose. “That won’t be necessary. Really, I had no idea I was dating such a mother hen. I’m not made of glass, babe.” 

A mournful chord curls through you, dousing the knotted heat in your stomach by some small margin. 

At the same time the rain picks up outside as if mirroring the tumultuous rising current of emotion in your chest. It smacks at the windows so hard they begin to rattle in their frames, thunder booming loudly somewhere in the not far off distance. The storm was getting worse. You hope the electricity doesn’t go out. 

“I know you’re not.” 

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Keeping his tone light and playful, Harumasa stretches over you to pull open the bedside table drawer. A condom is quickly located and pulled out, the foil wrapper crinkling lightly when he starts to rip it open. “Even if I was on my deathbed I think I could still make you scream. I wouldn’t underestimate me if I were you.” 

“Please don’t joke like that.” You snip back at him, not finding it even remotely funny. But he just laughs another low snickering sound as rolls the flesh colored rubber over his stiff cock almost down to the base. Feeling a mild pang of remorse, you draw a careful breath and say much more gently, “You don’t have to wear those if you don’t want to, Haru. I told you I’m taking birth control.” 

Humming a quiet sound, he gives himself a brief pump of his hand over the latex before settling between your legs once again, his hips nudging close to line up with yours. “Don’t worry about it. This is just fine.” 

You’re not so sure you believe that. But for as long as you've known him he’s always been adamant about using protection and you don’t understand his reasons enough to really argue against it. He’d said once he just didn’t want to take any risks or run the chance of leaving you worse off than when you’d met him. You hadn’t been sure what to make of that then and you still don’t know what to make of it now.

There were a great many things about Harumasa that remained a mystery to you though, like what exactly was wrong with him, what his diagnosis was. No matter how you posed the question he was never outright or forthcoming about that either. And while it bothered you sometimes, undeniably so, you’d found that your feelings for him were much too tender for you to push him on such topics. He’d tell you when and if he was ever ready. 

So you reach up and take him into your arms, pulling him against your chest while he tugs your panties to the side with his thumb. His mouth angles towards yours on a steady, unfaltering trajectory and he kisses you deeply, sinking into you with a stilted sigh of relief. 

The weight of his body coming to rest on top of you prods the head of his cock at your entrance, pushing in on clinging, sticky viscous arousal. You’re keenly aware of the heat of him even through the barrier of the condom and you issue a faint moan against his lips as your legs come up to lock around his waist. The careful squeeze you give him has Harumasa sinking inside you, slowly stretching your inner sleeve to the now familiar shape and size of him. 

Another teeth rattling peel of thunder sounds right overhead, as if the very center of the storm was hovering directly above the building. Perhaps it was watching the scene play out, its destructive energy growing and cresting in time with your pleasure while the two of you move in tandem with each other. Or maybe it had taken offense to the measly little ants getting it on first thing in the morning instead of bowing down and cowering in the face of its mighty wrath. 

Or maybe — just maybe, it was trying to warn you. One of you, both of you. You or him. It was impossible to say when the notion itself was so ludicrous but you can’t quite shake the feeling of existential uncertainty that sits like a lead weight in your gut now. 

It feels good having him thrust inside of you, just like you’d known it would. If you were only a bit more naive, in fact, you might have almost thought Harumasa had been made for you, and you him, given the way he seems to rub against every single pleasure inducing nerve ending along the way. You can’t help but grow wetter for him, tightening for him when your muscles eagerly clench down on the steel of his galvanized length. And you freely moan into his mouth where he’s still kissing you between soft rattling groans but … 

Why was he so dead set on using condoms even at this casually crucial junction of the relationship, after all these months spent together in sickness and in health? Did he not trust you? Did he think you were lying about the birth control and he simply wanted to avoid being stuck with you indefinitely? 

Or — could it actually be that the problem lies with him, resting squarely on his shoulders rather than yours? Did he fear what taking that final step would mean, what the end result of it might manifest when he was always prone to bad bouts of illness? 

Was the looming possibility of the existential end really so close that he needed to worry about such things? 

This was no way for a twenty something to live, and you cling to him all the more fervently for it, desperately clutching him to you like a lifeline. You wanted to save him but you don’t know how, so you open your body to him instead. Shelter, comfort and peace; the safe haven of flesh and blood, and heated breaths swapped back and forth between two locked mouths. 

And Harumasa gladly loses himself in you as if in chasing his release he could also escape the cold, bony fingers that hover just out of reach behind him. His flexing hips quicken, smacking into you with abandon now, and he sobs a frantic moan that you greedily swallow, taking it into yourself before feeding it back to him. 

His skin is so clammy under your hands. Like even the flush of arousal couldn’t completely disperse the chill that’s taken up root in him, and your heart skips a harrowing beat when his labored breaths suddenly turn thick with choking little gasps. His chest positively heaves against yours as your hands fly up to take his cheeks between your palms, carefully pushing him back just enough to look into his face. 

Expression wretched, Harumasa whimpers a low sound as if in apology while his pace slows to a weak crawl, almost a total standstill. He doesn’t completely stop fucking into you though, his cock stiffly nudging through your slick inner sleeve at such a stilted, uneven rhythm you know finishing like this will be impossible for you. But that doesn’t really matter now. It’s the very least of your concerns as you softly shush him, cooing gentle reassurances that make him screw his eyes shut as if he were in pain. 

He barely manages to reach his peak before the coughing takes hold of him again. It doubles him over and makes him collapse on top of you where he proceeds to shove his face into the pillow next to your head. You’re only distantly aware of his cock flexing within you and filling the tip of the condom with impotent seed, the vast majority of your attention fixed on the way he hacks and wheezes through the fit that assails him. It bows his spine into a dramatic, worrying hunch which you gently try to smooth out with your hand. It’s no use though. He can’t seem to get it under control. 

“Harumasa, let me help you.” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He croaks, very clearly not fine. 

Sucking in a sharp, clawing breath that seems to rip his throat on the way down, he slowly manages to rouse himself enough to pull out and roll off of you. You’re quick to follow him though, pushing up to your elbow so you can look down at him while your hand continues to ineffectively rub over his shuddering back. He sounds like he’s going to cough out a lung. The thought of calling for an ambulance momentarily crosses your mind but you know how he feels about the hospital. Only if it’s an actual emergency, he’d once told you. 

But how the hell were you supposed to know when that line had been crossed? 

Unsure what else to do, you lean further over him so you can reach down and carefully help him take the used condom off. It’s a difficult task in this position, when he’s half curled over on his side like this, still struggling to get his breathing under control, but you manage, somehow. Just like with everything else, you try to make it work. 

And outside the unsympathetic storm rages on. 

⭐

Crossposted: here

[lyn31]

My baby serena is truly the cutest 🥹 and a jealous daddy zayne! Now imagine if serena announced that she wants to marry uncle greyson 🤣 all hell will break lose and zayne is ready to have a meltdown while mc is just cackling in the back enjoying the drama and she definitely would’ve to console a very upset zayne after 🤣

Right??? Gosh she doesn't know the power she weilded yet ahahahahaha Oh no, I can imagine it now ahahahahaha ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emergency Matchmaker

Summary

When a cartoon wedding sparks Serena’s curiosity, an innocent question spirals into a surprise proposal—sending Zayne into full dad-mode panic over her choice of future groom: Greyson.

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Pure fluff and silly. I was not expecting to write this actually, I was just like "oh this is cute, let me write down their dialogue, make it a cute little drabble." Big mistake. Now it's a one shot instead ahahahaha Well big mistake or a blessing? 😂 This is quite random but hopefully y'all enjoy it!

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Serena is stacking her blocks in that careful, concentrated way of hers, half-distracted by the cartoon playing on the TV. Every so often, she glances at the screen and then at you, pointing at something that just happened, waiting for your commentary. You give her simple answers—most of it is about friendship and kindness, nothing too complicated.

But then, the cartoon shifts into a dramatic wedding scene, complete with sparkly outfits and a flower arch. The characters are declaring their love, holding hands as music swells.

Serena looks at you again, this time with a question already forming behind her eyes.

You smile. “That’s a marriage ceremony,” you explain gently, shifting closer to sit beside her. “It’s one of the ways people show they love each other and want to spend their whole lives together.”

She blinks slowly, absorbing the idea.

“Like how Mommy and Daddy got married. And Aunty Rose and Uncle Caleb too.”

She tilts her head. “Do I need to get married too?”

“Only if you want to, sweetie. You don’t have to. There’s lots of ways to tell someone you love them and want to stay with them forever.”

Serena nods thoughtfully. As she stacks her blocks, she starts asking more general questions about marriage. Then, after a while, she starts listing things off like she’s building a checklist for her future.

“So... you marry someone you want to spend more time with?”

“Yes.”

“They’re usually kind or cool so you want to know them better?”

“Yes?”

“You only do it if you want to. And if you or the other person asks.”

“...Yes,” you say again, smiling, while her question is not wrong but it's not quite right either.

She frowns, deep in thought. “Do I have to marry Mommy and Daddy?”

You chuckle. “No, baby. We’re already family. One of the things marriage does is make you family with someone. But you’re already ours.”

Something about that answer seems to click in her head. She nods solemnly, then returns to her blocks. A moment later, Zayne steps into the room, tea mug in hand, the scent of jasmine following him as he lowers himself onto the sofa.

He’s just taken his first sip when Serena perks up and declares, “I’ll ask Uncle Greyson to marry me then!”

Zayne freezes mid-sip. If he had been drinking just a second longer, you’re sure the tea would’ve gone flying. He lowers the mug and coughs once.

“You’re too young for that, sweetheart,” he says, voice as calm as ever, though the slight wideness in his eyes betrays him.

Serena just blinks at him, gives a little shrug, and turns back to her blocks as if it’s no big deal. Just a passing thought. Zayne turns his gaze to you slowly, wordlessly, What does that even mean?

You burst out laughing.

Serena doesn’t even flinch. By now, your sudden laughter doesn’t faze her.

Meanwhile, Zayne is pulling his phone out of his pocket, frowning slightly as he unlocks it.

You watch him, still smiling. “Are you... calling someone?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but as he lifts the phone to his ear, he glances at you with that same neutral expression. “We need to find you a wife,” he says into the phone, like he’s making a very rational decision.

You blink. You can’t hear the other side, but you can sense the confusion through the static silence.

Then it hits you.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, watching your very serious husband continue his very serious call.

“Don’t you always complain about it?” Zayne adds. “This is a good time.”

You shake your head in disbelief, biting your lip to keep from laughing again. “No—but if you’re busy, I can call Caleb for you instead. Listen—”

That’s your cue. You pluck the phone from his hand before things get worse, as much as you’d love to see him rope Caleb into this very serious plan, you’d rather not bother Greyson too much. Zayne’s brows furrow as he watches you place the phone to your ear—one hand on your waist, the other curled loosely around your wrist.

“Hey, Greyson, sorry,” you say, still smiling. “Just a mild dad panic moment, no big deal.”

“Huh?” Greyson sounds genuinely baffled. “What did I do?”

“Oh, nothing. Serena just announced she wants to marry you, that’s all.”

There’s a beat before Greyson laughs, genuinely amused.

Zayne scowls. His arm slips around your waist, tugging you closer as he glances at Serena—still stacking her blocks like the future of the universe depends on it.

“That’s hilarious,” Greyson says through the speaker.

“It really is,” you reply, running your fingers through Zayne’s hair, which only makes him pout. Well, not really, but close enough.

“Anyway, sorry for the surprise proposal. Have a good day, okay?” You exchange a few quick goodbyes before handing the phone back to Zayne.

He takes it with visible reluctance, muttering, “I was handling it.”

“Of course you were, darling,” you murmur, kissing the top of his head before settling beside him on the couch.

He shifts slightly and then leans in, resting his head against your neck. You laugh softly, fingers carding through his hair again.

“It’s still a long way off,” you whisper, “but we’ll be fine.”

He just hums. Serena hums too, softly mimicking the tune from her cartoon, and the room settles into that peaceful rhythm that belongs only to your little family.

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Notes

You know the drill at this point 😂 Just me getting carried away like usual. Alright! Starting now, no more distraction! 🫡😂

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: Parenthood AU Masterlist ✨

Although if you missed the Newlyweds series! Here How it all happen And also the Pregnancy series, starting with Try For Baby

[powerfultenderness]

You're not as sneaky with your "secret relationship" as you thought. Gaz caught you and Soap kissing a few times, saw Soap's hand "discreetly" roam your backside, saw the way you looked at each other. It was kind of cute how terrible you two were at keeping the relationship private, so Gaz didn't say anything beyond rolling his eyes at your antics.

You're not as sneaky with your "secret relationship" as you thought. Price noticed the way Ghost softened up around you, saw the way your hands lingered on him whenever you passed by him and the way he leaned into your touch. It had to be love, there was no other explanation for why you laughed so much as Ghost's stupid little jokes.

- (Soap x (f)Reader x Ghost, but Gaz and Price think you're cheating on them)

When Soap excused himself, leaving the break room a little too quickly, Gaz scoffed and muttered about how he was probably going to go find you.

"Why's that?" Price asked, just as he brought his tea up for a sip.

"You're kidding, right? Her and Soap haven't exactly been discreet."

Price coughed, narrowly avoiding choking on his tea and whipped his head towards Gaz. "You saying she's with Soap?"

"Yea? Thought it was obvious..."

"No," Price shook his head. "It's obvious her and Ghost have something going on."

No, couldn't be. It was Gaz turn to shake his head. "Nah, I caught her and Soap snogging on more than one occasion."

Price crossed his arms, fingers tapping, as he looked at the younger man. "I've caught her and Ghost..."

And suddenly, angry protective instincts flare up in the both men.

They resolve to confront you, to demand that you tell Soap and Ghost what you're doing.

-

"One of the private's just said she was headed to the armory."

"Good." A private, quiet, place to bring up something so sensitive. Even if you didn't deserve that kind of consideration, Soap's and Ghost's names would be dragged up, and they did.

The hinges were well oiled, and out of habit, Price and Gaz try to keep their footsteps light. So when they walked in, when they hear a breathy "Johnny!", their sudden appearance spooked you and Soap...and Ghost?

You and Soap had scrambled to make yourselves decent, but...they saw. Not even bleach could wipe away the image of you pressed between both men, one leg hitched over Soap's waist while he lapped at your neck. Meanwhile Ghost kept you stable, one hand rucked up your shirt, as the other held your chin, pulling your head back so he could kiss you.

"..The fuck?!"

"C-captain!" You and Soap coughed and tried to pretend you weren't just caught about to fuck in the armory.

Ghost hadn't moved, even as he nodded at Price and Gaz. Though his obvious hard on tenting his pants gave lie to his nonchalance. "Cap'n. Sergeant."

Price, finally over the shock of stumbling onto a threesome, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "All three of you, my office, first thing tomorrow."

A round of "yes sir"s followed before Gaz and Price left, muttering non to nice things under their breaths.

"Shit." You groaned and leaned against Ghost again, "I think we're in trouble."

He looked down at you with a cocky smirk, one mirrored by Soap. "We're no' in trouble till tomorrow. You're about to be in trouble now."

[novvabee]

ruler of all things jegulily x reader can we pls have some more🙏

I must feed my children! it may be short but I think it is so sugar sweet and wholesome. 💗

Pepperup Buttercup 🥮❤️

summary: poly!jegulily x reader, you are sick and Mrs. Potter bakes for you.

word count: 1.7k

warning: none except the reader has a cold

Regulus was the first to notice.

He woke up early, just as he did every morning, slipping out of James’s vice like grip and shimmying out of the bed. James just rolled over and captured Lily instead. That's when he noticed a body missing from the headcount. You weren’t there.

He made his way down the stairs to find you curled up on the couch, under a thick blanket you stole from the linen closet. From the bottom step, he could see you shaking despite the heat of the blanket. You sat in almost a trance-like state, staring at your phone and scrolling mindlessly, trying to think about anything other than how awful you felt.

“My love?” Regulus said softly, gaining your attention. You managed your best smile to greet him. “What are you doing down here? You should be in bed.”

You shook your head, the action making the room around you spin, you groaned in response to it.

“I know,” you replied, “but I started coughing and I didn’t wanna wake you up.”

Regulus hummed and made his way over to you, stopping in front of you and touching your forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re burning up.”

You groaned again, unable to stop the shiver that crawled up your spine and through your bones. “Really? I feel like I'm in Antarctica.” you should steal another blanket from the closet.

“Let me make you some tea, yeah?” He said, smiling down with pity at you, leaning down and kissing your burning forehead. You liked that he was being so attentive, you just hated that you felt like this.

Regulus disappeared into the kitchen and you reopened your phone, continuing to scroll to distract yourself. That was until you heard a patter of footsteps coming down the stairs. You looked up to see Lily rubbing her eyes and yawning, looking so cute and tired.

“Goodmorning sweetheart,” she smiled groggily at you, “why are you down here instead of in bed with us, huh?” she asked.

“She’s sick.” Regulus called out from the kitchen.

“Sick?” She asked you, furrowing her brows and checking your face over.

You nodded, pouting up at her.

“Oh, my baby,” she cooed, “Come here.” She sat down next to you, lifting the blanket over herself and opened her arms for you to fill.

You shook your head, a wave of pain again. “No, I don’t wanna get you sick.” you said.

“Come. Here.” She repeated, looking as if she was not going to back down on this. You obeyed and nuzzled into her. She provided you with more warmth, but you still shook. She ran her hand up and down your arm in a soothing and warming attempt.

Regulus returned, offering you a cup of hot brown liquid, prepared just the way you like. You took it gratefully and took a small sip.

Regulus sighed, still taking in your sick state, your drained complexion and tired eyes. “How about I run down to the apothecary and grab you a potion-”

“No!” you whined, surprising both Lily and Regulus. “I don’t want Pepperup!”

“Love, you obviously need it,” Lily said, still attempting to warm you up. 

“But I hate the way it tastes!” you complained, the whole thing a little childish, yes, but you felt awful and didn’t want to drink something that made your taste buds feel awful as well. “You know they add too much syrup, it’s nauseating.”

Regulus gave you a fake pout. “I know, but you've gotta take some to feel better.”

You shook your head and gave him a sad look, “Please don’t make me take it.” you whined, making him drop the subject for now. You cozied up further into Lily as a sleepy James emerged downstairs, still yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Why did I wake up alone?” he said sadly. He did genuinely sound sad, not used to waking up with at least one of you still in bed with him, to which he would spend all morning pulling you back into bed to continue cuddling.

“Y/N is feeling a bit sick,” Lily replied. James showed instant concern, frowning and walking straight to you, feeling your head for a fever as well.

“Oh sweetheart,are you ok?” he asked you, worry lacing through his tone.

You gave him your best nod. “I’m ok.”

“She’s not,” Regulus mumbled from across the room, no doubt preparing James a cup of tea now that he was awake as well.

James looked like an idea crossed his mind, opening his mouth to say, “How about I run out and grab you a Pepp-”

“If you suggest Pepperup I’m going to sneeze in your tea and give you this sickness.” you snapped in a playful way. You knew you shouldn’t be upset about your loved ones trying to take care of you, but you just can’t stand the potion, even if it helps.

James held up his hands in surrender, accepting the cup of tea that Regulus was handing him and settling in next to you on the couch, Regulus right beside him.

For a while, you all sat and watched some TV together, taking a lazy morning for yourselves. You dozed off after a while and they let you, figuring you needed the rest to help you fight off the sickness.

You woke a little later, noting another thick, warm blanket covering your body. You sat up a little, noticing that Lily wasn’t beneath you anymore.

“How you feeling?” James asked, his hair wet, presumably from a shower he took while you were out. 

Your brain felt foggy and slow but you groaned out a small “ok.” to answer him.

James didn’t look like he believed you, but gave you a nod anyway. The TV was still playing so you half paid attention to it as Regulus made his way in from the Kitchen, holding a glass out for you.

“Here,” he offered. You examined it closely, taking it from him. It looked like water and you were parched now that you were awake , so you lifted it up to your mouth. Before the liquid could touch your lips, the overwhelming smell of sugary sweet cherry and vanilla wafted into your nose. Medicine scented water or Pepperup potion charmed to look like water.

You looked up at Reggie, slightly annoyed and handed the glass back to him.

“You didn’t even drink any.” he said.

“And I’m not gonna.” you replied, albeit childish, but holding your ground on not taking the awful potion, you’d rather ride this out than take that horrid thing.

“You were getting worse, love. You were shaking in your sleep.” He tried to argue with you, but you again just gave him that sad look and he let out an exasperated sigh and trudged back into the kitchen where Lily was no doubt waiting, helping him concoct the charmed brew. 

She emerged from the kitchen, just as exasperated and defeated that her plan didn’t work, as she took up her spot again, allowing you to curl up in her lap.

You felt yourself dozing off again, the TV running and the slight chat among your loves making it easy for you. Lily rubbing your back and Regulus pulling your legs to rest over his own.

This comfortable position had you asleep in no time.

When you woke again, it was mid afternoon, the TV playing the sitcom that Lily loved. You yawned and sat up from where your head rested on her thighs, her arms snaking around you and pulling you close.

“Good nap?” she asked. You hummed an affirmative and noticed Regulus asleep as well, resting his his on the armrest of the couch.

“Where’s Jamesie?” you asked Lily.

“Oh, he just went out to pick up a few things.” she said, playing with the ends of your hair.

“Pepperup?” you asked, suspicious. 

“No,” She giggled, the sound filling you with the same warmth that she was providing with her hand rubbing up and down your arms in soothing motions.

“Good,” you purred, settling down and enjoying the sitcom with Lily.

A couple episodes later, the front door swung open and James waltzed in, holding a covered plate, a mountain of baked goods piled atop. He smiled seeing that you were awake and made his way to where you and Lily were curled up. He set the plate down on the coffee table in front of the couch, the smell of freshly baked buttercup cookies, Euphemia Potter’s signature bake.

You jumped from Lily’s arms to get a closer look, to make sure that’s what they actually were. Sure enough the peanut buttery goodness was the real thing. You looked up at James to ask if you could have one.

He nodded to you. “Go on, They’re for you.”

You smiled and took the one on the top of the mountain, smelling the cookie before taking a bite. You moaned out, the taste just as wonderful as you remember. These cookies were your absolute favorite thing that James’s mom made, she made them for your birthday and Christmas, always making an extra batch for you to take home with you.

“I told her you weren’t feeling very well,” James explained, all the commotion rousing Regulus out of his nap. “She said that some good home baking is the best medicine.” Regulus snagged another of the cookies.

“Well,” you laughed, “you’ll have to thank her for me.”

“Thank her yourself,” He said. You scrunched your brows together in confusion. “She invited us all over for dinner this weekend.” he smiled proudly.

You smiled back, excited to see Euphemia and Fleamont, you loved his parents, especially when they looked after you like this. “Can’t wait.” you beamed.

You felt better, your head wasn’t as fuzzy and you weren’t as exhausted. Maybe that nap let you rest up and your body heal a bit. Maybe some good home baking really is the best medicine. 

You sat up from Lily, stretched, and felt like a shower to warm you up and wash off the rest of the gross sick feeling from your body. “I’m gonna go shower quickly, then we can think about dinner for tonight, yeah?” you said cheerily to them then zipping up the stairs.

“Your mom baked Pepperup into the cookies didn’t she?” Lily asked James once you were out of earshot.

James picked up a cookie for himself and took a bite. “Oh, absolutely.”

Both Regulus and Lily laughed at this, knowing that the potion would make you feel instantly better, but you being stubborn and not wanting it only prolonged you feeling sick and awful. 

“Give me that recipe, we’ll need it for when she gets sick again,” Regulus smiled.

[silent-stories]

𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

The moment you stepped into your apartment, you knew something was off. Normally, Noah was either working on music, gaming, or sprawled out on the couch watching a movie or some anime. But today, there was silence.

You set your bag down, toeing off your shoes as you glanced around. It didn’t take long to find him, bundled up on the couch under a heavy blanket, his hair a mess, his face turned into the pillow.

“Noah?” you called gently, stepping closer.

He barely stirred, only shifting slightly. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, but when he exhaled, it turned into a rough, scratchy cough that made you wince.

It had been a couple of days since Noah first mentioned that his throat was hurting a bit, but he insisted it wasn’t too bad and told you not to worry.

“Oh, babe…” you murmured, kneeling beside him. You brushed his hair back from his face, and his bleary eyes cracked open just enough to see you.

“Hey,” he rasped, his voice almost nonexistent.

Your brows knitted together in concern. “Your throat sounds awful.”

He nodded, swallowing thickly, before coughing again. You pressed your palm lightly to his forehead, expecting warmth, but he felt normal. No fever, at least.

“Been like this all day?” you asked, and he just nodded again, clearly too tired to answer properly. His eyes drifted shut, and your heart squeezed at how miserable he looked.

“Alright,” you sighed, standing up. “I’m taking care of you. Did you eat today?”

Noah barely reacted, only shaking his head and curling deeper into the blanket. You let him rest while you headed to the kitchen, quickly gathering ingredients for soup. Warm broth, soft vegetables, a little bit of chicken—it would be easy on his throat. As you chopped and stirred, the quiet in the apartment felt almost weird, and you realized how much you missed his usual teasing comments, his random hums of melodies, his arms around your waist, his chin resting on your head, his presence.

Once the soup was simmering, you returned to the couch with a cup of warm tea. Noah was half-awake, his eyes fluttering open when he heard you approach.

“Here, drink a little,” you coaxed, kneeling beside him again. He sighed but slowly pushed himself up, wincing as he swallowed. You helped him hold the cup, guiding it to his lips. He took a careful sip, his throat working as he swallowed.

A quiet groan left him. “Hurts,” he croaked.

“I know,” you whispered, kissing his forehead. “But this will help. And you need to eat.”

He leaned against you as he sipped. Once he’d had enough, you set the cup aside and gently eased him back onto the couch.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

You were supposed to spend the evening working on a project on your computer but now you had something more important to take care of.

You shook your head, slipping onto the couch beside him. “Nope. Gonna cuddle you all day.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as he pulled you close, burying his face against your neck. His body was warm against yours, his breath slow and steady despite the occasional cough. You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing him as he relaxed.

He sighed deeply, his head tilting slightly, exposing more of his neck to you. The tattoos inked into his skin peeked out from under his hoodie, and without thinking, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, pressing a soft kiss there.

Then another.

And another.

Your lips ghosted over the inked skin and you felt the way he shivered slightly beneath you, his breath hitching, probably more from the fact that you were tickling him than anything else.

“What are you doing?” he murmured, his voice rough.

You smiled against his skin, pressing one more kiss right at the edge of his jaw. “Kissing where it hurts.”

He let out a low chuckle, though it quickly turned into a cough. You rubbed slow circles on his back as he recovered, his hand squeezing your waist in appreciation.

“That’s cute,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smirked. “I know.”

You stayed tucked against him as he drifted in and out of sleep, his arms holding you close.

At some point, his fingers lazily traced patterns against your arm. His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke.

“Love you.”

Your heart melted. “I love you too.”

His grip tightened, and you knew he was grateful, even if he couldn’t say much.

And so you stayed there, tangled together, letting him rest. Because if there was one thing you were sure of, it was that you’d always take care of him.

[caitified]

Hi queen!

i am not sure if your taking requests but I was thinking about a little valentines paige fic where the reader goes to see her but ends up getting sick and ruins their valentines plans and it’s just sweet and fluffy comfort of paige taking care of the reader just trying to make the most of it.💓(this is also shamelessly self insert because I got sick and can’t see my girlfriend tomorrow😭)

TAKE CARE

PAIGE BUECKERS X READER

notes: sorry this is late!! i hope you got to see her.

warnings: sick

you had been looking forward to this trip for weeks.

valentine’s day with paige—finally. after all the long-distance calls, the facetimes where she swore she could almost feel you through the screen, the endless countdowns—it was finally here.

you had booked the flight, planned the perfect surprise, even packed the cute little outfit you knew she loved. and as soon as you landed, the excitement bubbled in your chest.

but by the time you reached her apartment, something felt… off.

your head was pounding. your body ached. your throat was scratchy.

no. not today. you refused.

so you pushed through it. when paige swung open the door, her signature grin lighting up her face, you tried to match her energy.

“baby!” she beamed, pulling you into her arms.

and normally? being wrapped up in paige’s arms made everything better. but this time, you felt exhausted just from standing.

she pulled back, studying your face. “you okay?”

you forced a smile. “yeah, just a little tired.”

but paige was paige. which meant she saw right through you.

her eyes narrowed, hand pressing to your forehead before you could even protest.

“you’re burning up.”

you groaned. “i’m fine—”

“nope.” she shut the door behind you, already steering you toward the couch. “you’re not fine. why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“because we had plans,” you whined, collapsing onto the cushions. “i didn’t wanna ruin them.”

paige’s face softened as she knelt in front of you, brushing your hair back.

“baby,” she murmured, “the only thing that would ruin today is if you don’t let me take care of you.”

you sighed, pouting. “this isn’t how today was supposed to go.”

paige just kissed your forehead. “well, new plan: you stay right here, and i take care of my valentine.”

you rolled your eyes but secretly melted at her words. “you don’t have to—”

“shhh,” she hushed, standing up. “you know i’m going to.”

you watched, helpless but adoring, as she disappeared into the kitchen, mumbling something about making tea and finding medicine.

a few minutes later, she returned, balancing a tray with tea, soup, and a bottle of cold medicine.

you raised an eyebrow. “where did the soup come from?”

paige looked very pleased with herself. “door dash.”

you laughed, but the sound came out more like a weak cough.

paige frowned. “okay, nope, that’s it. you’re officially banned from speaking.”

you gave her a look. “that’s dumb.”

“and yet, i’m still right,” she teased, sitting beside you. she tucked a blanket around your shoulders, pulling you close. “now, drink your tea.”

you sighed but obeyed, taking a sip.

paige watched you, one arm around you, her other hand resting over your knee.

“i know this sucks,” she said softly, “but i really don’t mind. i just wanted to spend the day with you, no matter what.”

your heart swelled despite your pounding headache.

you squeezed her hand. “happy valentine’s day, paige.”

she kissed your temple. “happy valentine’s day, baby.”

[holylulusworld]

Breakfast for sweethearts

Summary: You only want to have a good time.

Pairing: Jax Teller x Short!Reader

Warnings: angst, bitchy people, fluff, protective Jax

Follow-up to this blurb: Blurb

Looking around the busy diner, you sigh. Your date is ten minutes late, and you are getting antsy. While you sip your tea, hoping he won’t stand you up, someone watches you angrily.

“Miss, could you hurry up and drink out your tea?” A girl asks. She’s dressed to impress, with too much make-up and a dress short enough to leave nothing to anyone’s imagination if she bends over.

You don’t mind. Sometimes you envy girls like her. They are brave enough to wear something you’d never dare to even dream of.

“Why?” You ask, wondering why she wants you to finish your tea. She’s not working at the diner, and you’re not slurping.

“My boyfriend and I want your table. We’ve been waiting for a free table for half an hour,” she snaps at you. “You can’t block a whole table to slurp tea.”

“Excuse me?” You can’t believe she’s yelling at you for drinking tea at a diner. “I’m waiting for someone. You can’t have the table.”

“Listen, Missy,” her boyfriend steps next to her to glare at you. He snatches the cup out of your hands and empties it on the floor. “Now you are done. Make space.”

You feel like someone pulled the rug out from under your feet. It’s the first time you’re completely and utterly speechless.

“Get up and leave,” the girl snarls. She snaps her fingers in your face. You are about to get up and just leave when someone behind them clears his throat.

“Do we have a problem here?” Jax watches you shrink into yourself. You look like you’re about to cry as the girl and her boyfriend turn around.

“Listen, buddy, stay out of—” the boy chokes on his words, facing a furious Jax. Everyone in town knows the Sons of Anarchy, and everyone stays out of their way. “Uh, she wanted to leave. So if you want the table.” He splutters.

“I don't think she wanted to leave.” Jax narrows his eyes at the boy. “She’s waiting for me.” The girl whimpers when Jax sizes her up. “I think you harassed my girl.” He says, nodding to himself. “What do you think I should do with someone harassing her?”

“Nothing, sir,” they stammer. “We didn’t…we wouldn’t.”

Jax puffs on his cigarette. He looks at the boy, and then the girl.

“Jax,” you murmur his name. It’s all too much. You don't want him to make a scene.

“I’ll be right there for you, Y/N,” he blows smoke in their faces, smirking darkly when they cough. “I give you ten seconds, and then you are out of my sight. But first, you’ll apologize to my girl.”

“Sorry, we are sorry.” They stammer before running off faster than you can blink.

"Now, I'm all yours."

“You’re late,” you say, watching Jax sit next to you.

“You’re cute,” he says and dips his head to look you in the eyes. “I assume the tea must be bad if they pour it on the floor. How about I invite you for breakfast at my place? I cleaned only for you, promised.”

“You smoked again too,” you tut. “I told you it’s bad for your health.”

“I drove too fast to get here,” he chuckles, watching your face contort in anger. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Sir, I’ll keep a close eye on you from now on,” you mutter under your breath. “I can’t let you drive too fast or smoke all the time. Last week, you were coughing at the grocery store.”

“You watched me?” Jax grins. “That’s very nice of you.”

“I’m nice,” you nod. “Now, let’s go to your home. Maybe I can help you with breakfast. I bet you only have unhealthy food at home.”

Jax slides out of the booth, holding out his hand. “How about you tell me about all the bad things I do?” He looks down at you, smirking again. “I love it when you care for me.”

Part 3

Tags in reblog.

[kittenan2]

This Could Be Us

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Tone: Chaotic comedy, emotional undercurrent, smut-heavy, revenge-flavored Genre: Smut, Humor, fluff, drama, rom-com, Arranged Marriage AU, Enemies-to-Lovers, Pining Idiot Taehyung Rating: Explicit (18+), Minors DNI Word Count: ~5k

The living room smells like jasmine tea and misplaced optimism. Your parents have gone all out—freshly pressed hanboks, a tray of dainty rice cakes, and a nervous energy that could power a small city. Across from you, Taehyung’s parents sit, all smiles and practiced elegance, chatting about family traditions and “what a lovely match” this could be. They’re old friends with your parents, their bond forged over decades of shared vacations, business deals, and late-night soju sessions. This marriage proposal isn’t just a whim—it’s their dream of uniting their families, a plan they’ve whispered about since you and Taehyung were kids chasing each other around their summer villa. You’re in a soft pink hanbok, hair pinned neatly, legs crossed so tightly your knees might fuse together. You’re the picture of demure perfection, or so your mother insists.

Then he walks in.

Kim Taehyung. Late, naturally, because why would he respect anyone’s time? He’s wearing a tailored blazer, dark jeans, and sunglasses—sunglasses, indoors, like he’s auditioning for a K-drama villain. He’s holding an iced Americano, the condensation dripping onto your mother’s pristine rug. He doesn’t sit. He just stands there, leans against the wall, and gives you a once-over that lasts all of five seconds.

“Sorry,” he says, voice flat as a pancake. “She’s not my type.”

The room freezes. His mother gasps like she’s been personally attacked. Your father coughs into his tea. Your mother’s smile cracks like cheap porcelain. You? You’re staring at him, jaw slack, because what the actual hell, Kim Taehyung?

His father stammers, “Taehyung-ah, you can’t just—”

“I said what I said,” Taehyung cuts in, shrugging. He takes a loud sip of his Americano, turns, and struts out like he didn’t just detonate a social bomb.

Your cheeks burn. Humiliation claws at your chest. Not his type? You’re not vain, but you know you’re cute—big eyes, soft lips, a smile that’s gotten you free coffee more than once. And this art-boy wannabe with his pretentious coffee and designer sunglasses just dismissed you like you’re a clearance-rack sweater?

Oh, he’s going to regret this.

You’re Y/N, but to the world, you’re VixenVows, the bestselling author of steamy erotic novels that make readers blush and clutch their Kindles. Your latest, Thighs and Lies, sold out faster than a boyband reunion tour. Taehyung’s rejection stings, but you channel it into something deliciously chaotic. Revenge is a dish best served with words.

It takes ten minutes to find his Instagram. Aesthetic posts of strawberry fields, shirtless gym selfies, captions like “Chasing strawberry skies 🍓.” Poetic gym bro energy. Then you spot it: his alt account, @TaeberryVibes, and oh ho ho, jackpot, liking every single one of your book announcements. You cross-reference the accounts. Same vibe, same strawberries. It’s him. He’s been reading your books for years, obsessed with VixenVows, but he has no idea you’re the same Y/N he just rejected. This man is obsessed with steamy novels. Specifically, your steamy novels. He’s left reviews like, “Page 147 had me questioning my life choices. 10/10, need a cold shower.” He’s even got a highlight reel of your book quotes, the filthiest ones.

You lean back, smirking. Kim Taehyung, you basic bitch, you thought I was too innocent? You, who jerks off to my words every night? Game on.

Your grin is feral. You open your laptop and write a 1,000-word smut POV fic, starring you and Taehyung, dripping with filth and defiance. You write:

His hands pinned my wrists above my head, the kitchen counter cold against my back. He tasted like strawberries and ego, lips grazing my throat as he growled, “Beg for it.” So I did, voice dripping with honey and defiance, “Make me.” His fingers slid down my thigh, teasing the edge of my lace panties, and I arched into him, whispering, “You’re not ready for me, Taehyung.”

You paste it into his DMs, signing it VixenVows (aka Y/N), with the caption: “This could be us, but you don’t want to marry me. Poor you. 😘”

Send.

Taehyung’s at a café, sipping a strawberry shake, exuding his usual dominant aura—legs spread, phone propped casually, like he owns the place. His phone pings, and he opens Instagram, expecting a meme from Jimin. Instead, it’s you. The first line of your message hits like a sucker punch. He chokes, strawberry shake spraying across the table. His eyes widen as he scrolls through paragraphs of pure, unfiltered sin. Then he sees it: VixenVows (aka Y/N).

His brain short-circuits. You’re her. The innocent girl in the pastel hanbok, the one he dismissed as too soft, is the author whose books he’s devoured in secret, jerking off to her words under the covers. You’re not soft—you’re a fucking wildfire. And you just called him out.

He re-reads the fic, adjusting his pants, cheeks burning. The barista glares as he coughs again. He’s supposed to be dominant, in control, but your words have him unraveling. He types, deletes, types again. Finally:

“…Chapter 2?”

He hits send, heart pounding, knowing he’s in way over his head.

Your book signing is a circus, the bookstore packed with fans screaming for VixenVows. You’re in your element—red lipstick, leather skirt, all sharp wit and confidence. Then you see him. Taehyung, in a black turtleneck and glasses, clutching a copy of Thighs and Lies like it’s his lifeline. He’s trying to play it cool, exuding that dominant energy he thinks defines him. He’s failing miserably. You rarely organize book signing events, only for most selling novels, and it's his first time at this event.

You lock eyes, and his facade cracks. You beckon him forward, the crowd parting. He shuffles up, book extended, muttering, “Big fan.”

“Oh, I know, Mr. Not My Type” you purr, signing his copy with a flourish. You lean closer, voice low. “He pushed me against the counter, tasting like strawberries and ego. Recognize that?”

His glasses fog up. He stammers, “I—I didn’t know it was you. You looked so… innocent.”

You laugh, sharp and wicked. “You thought I wasn’t your type? Baby, I’m everybody’s type.”

An hour later, you’re in the bookstore’s back office, door locked, air thick with tension. He’s pacing, running a hand through his hair, trying to reclaim his dominant edge. “You’re VixenVows,” he says. “You’re too… big for someone like me.”

You step closer, smirking. “You’re an idiot.”

He grabs your waist, pulling you against him, his voice low and rough. “A pining idiot,” he corrects, lips crashing into yours. It’s messy, desperate, all teeth and strawberry chapstick. You straddle him on a chair, skirt riding up, his hands gripping your hips like you’re his anchor.

“Still think I’m too innocent?” you tease, grinding against him.

He groans, head tipping back. “Shut up and ride my face, author-nim.”

You don’t. Not yet. Instead, you slide off, grab a pen, and edit a printed copy of your fic on the desk. “Your grammar’s shit in my DMs,” you say, smirking. He laughs, then yanks you back, kissing you until you’re breathless.

That night, your phone pings. It’s him: Okay, you win. That was… wow. Can we talk?

You grin, typing back: Talk? Baby, I’m just getting started.

He’s hooked. He starts flirting. You play along. “Love your reviews,” you write. “Especially the one about page 147. Sounded personal.” He sends a string of flustered emojis.

His parents, oblivious to the chaos, arrange an “apology dinner” to smooth things over. You show up in a black dress that hugs every curve, neckline plunging just enough to make a statement. Taehyung’s in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking like he stepped out of a cologne ad. He takes one look at you and chokes on his water.

You sit across from him, smirking. “Something wrong, Taehyung-ssi?”

He coughs, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “You, uh… look different.”

“Oh?” You lean forward, letting a strap slip off your shoulder. “Not too innocent for you now?”

His eyes lock on your bare shoulder, then snap to your face. He’s sweating. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You sip your wine, slow and deliberate. “Baby, you haven’t seen what I can do on purpose yet.”

Dinner is a disaster. He can’t stop staring at your legs. You quote a line in his ears from Thighs and Lies: “His fingers traced her thigh, teasing the edge of her lace, promising ruin.” Taehyung spills his water again. His mother thinks he’s having a stroke.

Days later, he is back at your bookstore. The bookstore office is a cramped, overheated cocoon, the air thick with the scent of old paper, your jasmine perfume, and the faint sweetness of strawberries. The desk is a mess—scattered manuscripts, a half-eaten strawberry rolling precariously near the edge, and your book merch scarf, black silk with VixenVows in gold lettering, now tied tightly around your eyes as a blindfold. The silk is cool against your flushed skin, amplifying every sound, every touch, every breath. Your skirt is bunched around your waist, panties long gone, and you’re perched on the desk’s edge, thighs spread, heart pounding as Taehyung’s presence looms before you.

He’s on his knees, his rough hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your flesh with a possessiveness that makes you shiver. His breath is hot against your inner thigh, teasingly close to where you’re already aching. “You wrote about this,” he growls, voice low and gravelly, his dominant facade cracking with raw need. “This exact fucking moment. You put me on my knees, Y/N, and now I’m gonna make you regret it.”

He drags a halved strawberry across your thigh, the juice dripping in a slow, sticky trail that feels like a brand against your skin. You gasp, the sensation sharp and cool, your body arching instinctively. His tongue follows, licking the juice with agonizing precision, each stroke deliberate, his lips brushing so close to your core you can feel the heat of his breath. “‘He tasted like strawberries and ego,’” he quotes, voice muffled against your skin, “‘unraveling me with every flick of his tongue.’ Fuck, you’re a genius, but I’m about to outdo your words.”

His oral fixation is a goddamn revelation. He doesn’t just lick—he devours, lips closing around the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. The strawberry’s juice mixes with his saliva, slick and sweet, and you’re trembling, fingers clutching the desk so tightly your knuckles ache. He teases higher, tongue tracing the crease where your thigh meets your core, and you whimper, hips bucking despite yourself.

“Taehyung,” you breathe, voice shaky, “stop fucking teasing.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin, low and wicked. “Teasing’s my favorite part, author-nim. You wrote me like this—cocky, in control. Let’s see how long you last.” His fingers slide up, rough calluses grazing your hips as he hooks your legs over his shoulders, spreading you wider. You’re exposed, vulnerable, the blindfold making every touch a thousand times more intense. He blows a cool breath against your clit, and you jolt, a desperate sound escaping your throat.

“Beg for it,” he demands, echoing your fic, his voice a mix of command and desperation. He thinks he’s in charge, but you hear the tremor, the way he’s unraveling just as much as you are.

You laugh, defiant even as your body betrays you. “Make me.”

He growls, primal and feral, and then his mouth is on you, no more games. His tongue flattens against your core, licking a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, and you cry out, the sound echoing in the tiny office. He’s relentless, alternating between soft, teasing flicks and deep, hungry strokes, his lips wrapping around your clit with a suction that makes your toes curl. His oral fixation is obscene—every lick, every suck, every nip calculated to drive you insane. He’s quoting your fic again, murmuring against your skin, “‘He unraveled me, tongue painting stories I’d never write.’ You’re gonna write this, Y/N. You’re gonna write how I fucking wrecked you.”

Your hands find his hair, tugging hard, and he moans, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through you. “Fuck, you taste better than I imagined,” he groans, pulling back just enough to squeeze another strawberry, letting the juice drip onto your folds. The cool liquid makes you gasp, but then his tongue is there, licking it up, mixing sweetness with your own heat. He’s messy, unhinged, lips and chin slick as he buries his face deeper, like he’s starving for you.

“You’re so wet,” he says, voice dripping with smug pride. “Didn’t even need the strawberry to make you drip like this.” His fingers join in, two sliding inside you with ease, curling against that spot that makes your vision white out behind the blindfold. “Tight as fuck,” he mutters, pumping slowly, stretching you as his tongue flicks your clit in perfect rhythm. “You wrote about me fucking you on a counter. This desk is gonna have to do.”

You’re a writhing mess, thighs trembling, blindfold amplifying every sensation—his rough fingers pumping, his lips sucking, the sticky strawberry juice he keeps dripping onto you just to lick it off. You’re begging now, despite your earlier defiance, words spilling out in a desperate chant. “Tae, please—fuck, I need more, need you—”

He stands abruptly, and you whimper at the loss, but then his lips crash into yours, the kiss filthy and urgent, all tongue and teeth. You taste yourself, the strawberries, his ego, and it’s intoxicating. His hands yank your shirt up, shoving your bra down to expose your breasts. His mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you hiss. “You’re gonna come on my tongue first,” he says, voice rough, “then I’m fucking you until you can’t walk.”

He drops back to his knees, and you’re done for. His tongue is a weapon, circling your clit with precision, his fingers curling faster, harder, hitting that spot with every thrust. He adds a third finger, the stretch making you gasp, and when he sucks your clit hard, you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, thighs clamping around his head, hands clawing at his hair as you scream his name, loud enough to rattle the office walls. The bookstore’s music is no match for you, and you’re vaguely aware that the staff probably heard everything.

He doesn’t stop, licking you through the aftershocks until you’re oversensitive, pushing at his shoulders. “Tae, fuck, enough—”

“Not enough,” he growls, standing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His glasses are fogged, hair a mess, and he’s already unzipping his pants, rolling on a condom with practiced ease. You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your hips, pulling you off the desk and spinning you around. “Hands on the desk,” he orders, and you obey, still blindfolded, ass up, legs shaking.

He doesn’t make you wait. He slides into you in one smooth thrust, thick and deep, filling you so perfectly you both groan. “Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, hands gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. “You feel—fuck, so good.” You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and he curses, his dominant facade crumbling as he loses himself in you.

You grab his phone, still open to your fic, where he was adding his own imagination. You start editing, smirking even as he fucks you senseless. “Comma here,” you say, voice breathy, rolling your hips to take him deeper.

“Fuck your commas,” he snaps, but he’s grinning, thrusting harder, the desk creaking under you. You whisper lines from your fic, voice dripping with filth: “‘He fucked me like he was rewriting my story, every thrust a new chapter.’” He groans, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple, the other gripping your ass as he pounds into you.

“Say it,” he demands, voice hoarse. “Say you’re mine.”

You laugh, defiant even now. “Make me.”

He does. He reaches around, fingers circling your clit with the same precision as his tongue, and you’re gone again, your second orgasm hitting harder than the first, your walls clenching around him. He follows, thrusting deep, groaning your name like a prayer as he comes, his hands shaking on your hips.

You’re sprawled on the table, dress ruined, lips swollen. Taehyung’s beside you, hair a mess, shirt half-unbuttoned. “Marry me,” he says, breathless.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t act shy now.” He grins, lazy and sated. “You broke me. You win. I want to wake up next to my favorite writer every morning.”

You cackle, shoving him. “We’ll see if you survive Chapter 24 first.”

He pulls you close, kissing your forehead. “Deal.”

“No more fiction,” he says, stepping closer, voice low enough that only you can hear. “I want the real thing. Marry me. Then destroy me, slowly, every night for the rest of my life.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Only if you say ‘I do’ in bed first.”

He grins, that cocky, dominant edge creeping back. “Deal.”

The next few weeks are a whirlwind of awkward small talk, your mom and Mrs. Kim debating color schemes (pastel pink or ivory?) while Mr. Kim grills Taehyung about his art career and “when he’s going to settle down properly.” You and Taehyung keep stealing glances, your foot brushing his under the table, his hand grazing your thigh when no one’s looking. The tension is electric, your body still buzzing from the bookstore office, his touch a promise of more. When your parents start discussing guest lists, Taehyung leans over, whispering, “I’m gonna fuck you in that pink hanbok later,” and you nearly choke on your tea.

The door barely closes behind the both of your parents—going market for wedding preparation—before Taehyung’s on you, backing you against the wall. His lips crash into yours, hungry and desperate, tasting of the mint gum he was chewing to stay calm. “You’re trouble,” he murmurs, hands sliding under your sweatpants, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear. “Fucking lethal.”

You laugh, tugging his hair. “You love it.”

He lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to the couch. The hanbok fantasy doesn’t happen—yet—but he’s already pulling your sweatpants off, kissing down your neck, muttering, “I’ve been hard since you opened the door looking like a hot mess.” You’re both laughing, then moaning, as he makes good on his promise, fucking you slow and deep, whispering filthy praise about how you’re his favorite author, his favorite everything. The living room smells like jasmine tea and sex by the time you’re done.

The wedding planning is chaos—strawberry-themed cocktails, your mom insisting on a five-tier cake with edible flowers, Taehyung’s parents pushing for a traditional hanbok ceremony to honor their friendship with your family. Your fans catch wind of the engagement when you post a cryptic Instagram story: a strawberry with the caption “He said yes 🍓.” Twitter explodes, theories flying that Taehyung’s your muse. You neither confirm nor deny, but when Strawberry Mistakes drops, a novel dripping with scenes inspired by your own story, it breaks sales records. Taehyung reads it to you in bed, his voice husky, pausing to reenact your favorite parts until you’re both a sweaty, satisfied mess.

Years later, you’re married, sprawled on a plush velvet couch in Taehyung’s apartment—now yours too. The walls are a chaotic gallery of your worlds: your books, spines worn from his constant rereading, sit beside his vibrant paintings, abstract strawberries and soft pinks blending into raw, emotional strokes. You’re editing your next novel, laptop balanced on your thighs, red pen tucked behind your ear, while Taehyung kneels between your legs, painting strawberries on your skin with a fine-tipped brush. The edible paint is sweet, sticky, and he takes his time, dragging the brush in slow, teasing strokes across your inner thigh, then up to your navel, drawing a heart that makes you roll your eyes.

“Still think I’m too innocent?” you tease, tapping your pen against the laptop, smirking as you catch him staring at the curve of your hips.

He laughs, low and warm, licking a stripe of paint off your thigh, his tongue deliberate and teasing. “Innocent? You’re a fucking menace, Mrs. Kim.” He pauses, dipping the brush in more paint, tracing a spiral around your hipbone. “And I’m obsessed. Always have been. Your books, your mouth, this—” He presses a kiss to the painted heart, then bites gently, making you gasp. “I’m fucked for anyone else.”

You set the laptop aside, pulling him up for a kiss. It’s slow, deep, tasting of strawberries and forever. His hands slide under your shirt, rough and warm, tugging it off so he can paint more, his brush dancing across your collarbone, spelling out Vixen in delicate strokes. “You’re my everything,” he murmurs, kissing the word, his lips soft but his eyes dark with that dominant edge you love. “Every painting, every fucking thought—it’s you.”

The world outside doesn’t exist—just you, him, and the life you’ve built. Your novels keep breaking records, your fans screaming at every signing, especially when Taehyung shows up, looking at you like you hung the moon. He’s your partner, your critic, your favorite reader—especially when he’s reading your smut aloud, his voice husky, pausing to add his own filthy commentary. “This part,” he’ll say, flipping to a scene where the hero fucks the heroine against a window, “we’re doing this tonight. Non-negotiable.”

Later, you’re tangled in bed, sheets sticky with paint and sweat. He’s got Strawberry Mistakes in one hand, reading a particularly filthy passage—“He fucked her like she was his last breath, desperate and reverent, her moans a symphony he’d never tire of.”—while his other hand traces lazy circles on your back. “You wrote this about us,” he says, voice rough, tossing the book aside to pull you on top of him. “Let’s give your readers something new to scream about.”

You grin, straddling him, teasing him with a slow grind. “Only if you say ‘I love you’ first.”

He flips you onto your back, pinning your wrists, his lips brushing yours as he whispers, “I love you, you chaotic, brilliant, lethal woman.” The world fades to strawberry skies, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Taehyung’s now your biggest stan, posting your books with captions like, “My wife’s words will ruin you. Read at your own risk.”

His mom texts you: “I always knew you two were perfect together.”

You reply: “He took some convincing.”

Taehyung, reading over your shoulder, smirks. “Lies. You seduced me with literature.” You roll your eyes, but your heart’s full. Plot twist, baby—he’s all yours.

A/n: Thanks to my insta, which keeps dropping this weird POVs in my feed, forcing me turn them into whole dame oneshots. 😈

P.S.: I know so many reqquests are pending, I will work on them soon. Love y'all. 💜

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog

[wlwsoccerfics]

SickDay(KimLittleXLittleReader)

Summary:you and your sister are both sick.

You woke up in the middle of the night, feeling really sick. Your head was hurting, your eyes were burning and your nose was stuffed. You managed to make it into the kitchen to make yourself a tea. On your way there you ran into Kim, your older sister. She was older by three years. She was wrapped in her blanket just like you were.

"you feeling sick as well?" She asked you. You nodded your head softly. Which you did regret right away.

"yes, feel like i have been hit by a brick Wall!" You admitted and coughed into your own blanket. Breathing heavy.

You two walk into the kitchen together. Kim made both of you some tea while you grabbed some cold meds for the two of you.

"want to stay in my room with me? At least we don't have to be sick on our own!" You asked her.

"yes sure, sounds like a plan!" Kim replied.

You both took a bottle of water and your Cups of tea to your bedroom and put it on the nightstand. Taking the cold medication, sipping on your Tea before you cuddled up to one another, closing your eyes.

You two actually managed to get some sleep. Before your girlfriend Leah came to check on you because you haven't replied to any of her Texts. Cause you had your Phone on silent. She had a Key for emergencies and this felt like one.

"Babe?" She asked when she walked into your room, seeing both you and Kim wrapped up like burritos.

"Le, hey...sorry i didn't call!" You told her.

"it's fine! The two of you Look terrible! I am gonna make you Guys some soup! Cause there is no way i am leaving you two like this." She told you.

"thanks le!" Kim replied to her friend. Which also happened to be your girlfriend.

"is there anything else i can do for you?" She asked.

"No i am good!" Kim told her.

"i am good as well! But i worry that we might get you sick!" You admitted.

"Babe! I don't care if you get me sick! I just want you to feel better!" Leah told you and kissed your head.

"love, i am all sweaty!" You told her.

"don't care about that either! You are my girlfriend and you don't feel well. It's my Duty as your girlfriend to make you feel better!" She let you know.

"even when one of you Guys is sick you still manage to be cute with one another! How annoying!" Kim said jokingly and you let out a soft chuckle with ended in you having a coughing fit.

Leah quickly patted your back gently until you calmed down.

"thanks Baby! It's better now!" You told Leah.

Leah made some soup for the two of you while letting Renée know that you & Kim won't be going into Training today because you were sick.

You both got handed a Bowl of soup before Leah had to leave for practice. She would return afterwards.

You and Kim ate your soup before watching a movie on the tv in your room. You decided on watching one of many Adam Sandler movies.

"the movie is so funny!" You said.

"it's one of my favorites! Honestly!" Your sister answered.

"i can see why!" You admitted.

You two ended up falling asleep before Leah returned. She helped both you and Kim to freshen up. Before helping you back to bed. Leah slept on the Couch that night to make sure the two of you were fine. Which thankfully you were. When you woke up the next day almost all symptoms were gone and you only had a little cough left. You still needed to take things easy for a few days but it was nothing serious. Which was a relief cause national Camp was coming up and you didn't want to miss that.

[neuvilette-tea-party]

Can I request fanfic where Steb reacts to his gn human crush telling him that your first impression of him was you thinking of how you have never seen a Vastaya before but he's stunning to you please?

Flushy, embarrassed Steb ahead ! ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა

꧁Steb x GN!reader꧂

Tags : short, fluff, sweet, early relationship, Steb is a cutie patootie

You fidget your fingers with a big, dumb smile, unable to remain still on your seat. 

Steb finishes his sip, putting his fuming tea down, looking at you with careful attention. He smiles back at you, always polite and elegant. 

You cannot help but bite your lower lip for a split second as you almost chuckle behind your hand. 

Steb raises an eyebrow and turns to look behind him at the park edging the small coffee he invited you in for your first official date as a couple. 

“It’s you I am looking at.” You tell him joyfully, kicking your feet under the table, simply too happy to be here with him. 

How did you manage to pull this man will forever be a mystery to you, but you’re not letting this chance pass! 

He turns back to you, tilting his head as he points at himself, questions in his ocean eyes. 

“Yes, you.” You confirm. 

He raises an eyebrow, his lips stretching into a thin line. 

“And why not? You are a very handsome man, it would be a waste to look elsewhere!” You tell him joyfully. 

His sip takes the wrong way, and he starts coughing. You hand him a paper towel that he uses to pat his lips with, recovering his usual sterness. 

“You know... I never saw a Vastaya before you.” You admit, leaning forward a bit, “It was quite a first for me!” 

He blinks and tilts his head again, his cheek scales waving once in a new question. 

“I found you... Absolutely stunning!” You reveal, “I must say I was not listening to a single thing Miss Kiramman said, I was so enthranced by you, I was somewhere else entirely. And then you agreed to come take a coffee with me? I was in heaven! That you, among everyone else, accepted to date me, it’s incredible, I was so happy, I-” 

You stop. 

Steb is strangely still, hands wrapped around his mug, back straight and stiff, head low and hidden under the edge of his helmet, you cannot see his expression. 

“Steb?” You call gently 

Oh no... Did you say something you should not have? 

Slowly 

So slowly 

He raises his head, revealing his deeply red blush and scales undulating like crazy, his lips almost in a pout. 

He is so embarrassed by all your compliments, he is flushing red! 

He gulps, looking at you shyly, silently praying you won’t mock him and his strange reaction. 

But you cannot help but smile. 

This reaction... Is just so gosh darn cute! 

“I did not know you were sensitive to compliments, Steb. You are always so serious and calm, how could I know you had a marshmallow heart under that cold mask?” 

His ears flap around as he flushes deeper, clearly embarrassed with himself. He readjusts his helmet, trying to put on a front. 

“Aaaaaaaaaaaw! Are you adorable while being stunning? I could eat you up!” You tease mercilessly. 

He clears his throat, his hand slightly shaking, his ears and cheek scales dancing an emotion he cannot put into words. 

You extend your leg and start playing footsie with him under the table, humming a tune while he tries to recover his hardened mask of the conscientious enforcer in public. 

“You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I am humbled you accepted to date me.” You confess, grabbing his trembling hand to squeeze it. 

Slowly, he squeezes back, his thumb caressing the side of your hand gently. 

You love that man to death. 

And you will spend the rest of your life complimenting him so that he knows and never forgets how precious he is...

@dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @brandy-and-bane @sp-the-fae-queen @aeeliy @sanktastuff @telephoneonawire @daichisito @sofiyathelast-blog @luv.della @daichisito @snickerduu @brandy-and-bane

[bunnieneedsacarrot]

I want to be a maid. Pretty frilly dress and apron. Dressed all cute and pretty. My collar on. My nipples placed securely in their loop clamps.

You come home and need to relax. I make you tea. You pull me in after I've set down the tray. In my mouth you place a gummy. Then you have me take a few hits of your dab pen. I'm to take a hit every few minutes after that. Your hands move to your belt. Then your cock it out.

I take a hit.

You move me so that I sit on your semi hardness. You slip in easily. I hold in a moan as I am just the help. My pleasure doesn't matter. You settle inside of me. A few thrusts to harden you up a bit, but that's not the point. Oh no. I am to cock work you as you relax.

Another hit.

My head feels fuzzy and my body buzzed from the weed. My vaginal walls clench around your member as they adjust for yours and my comfort. Two more thrusts before you lean me into the crook of your neck. You've begun sipping your tea and scrolling on your ipad.

Another hit.

It's hard to tell how long has past between hits. I do my best to stay still, not to let my vaginal walls move too much. Just trying to let you relax. You tap me on the butt.

I take hit.

Your hand idly moves down to my ass. You rub and knead. My breathing picks up. My hardened nipples rub against your chest and the fabric of my dress. You tap my rose bud. I nod solemnly.

I take a hit. One too big for me.

I cough. You laugh. The edible hits and my brain goes numb. I can feel you pour lube on my ass. I can feel the cold metal of my anal toy being pressed in. I can feel my vaginal walls contract and release around your member.

I groan. You tap me. I take a hit conditioned to.

Your fucking me. I wake up to it. I'm hazy. My hips are rolling, and I can feel an orgasm coming on. Instincts have kicked in, and I'm ready to be bred.

"Please, please, please..." I beg grinding harder and harder into your lap.

You laugh. Something in my brain freaks out at that laugh. I don't have time to process because I cum hard. All of my muscles spasm. And you keep going until you release within me.

We both take a moment to catch our breaths.

Once we have, you say something low and slow in my ear. "You've forgotten your place, Maid."

I return to reality for just a moment before you pull me off of your cock. I stand before you an absolute mess, almost out of my mind, and you take me in.

"Turn around and open your legs," you command.

I whimper yet do as I'm told. I even spread open my cheeks for easier access.

"How does twenty pussy slaps sound?" Your finger reaches forward and plays with my slit dripping with your cum.

"It would be my pleasure Master."

[flwerswrld]

relationship headcannons ୨୧ | hsr men

cw: lowercase intended, tooth rottingly fluffy, slight crack if u squint, gender neutral!reader, established relationship for all characters, grumpy x sunshine if you squint (caelus), sick!reader (dan heng), dan heng being a worrywart, marriage #4lifers >_< (welt), flustered geppie, ooc for probably all of them...😞 whoopsies i haven't written fanfic in like 4-5 yrs

character/s included: caelus, dan heng, welt, gepard landau

caelus ♡

- biiiiig cuddler :3

- like this man is ON YOU.

- march has multiple photos of you two attached to the hip (one where u guys were literally HANDCUFFED to each other. caelus wanted to try the idea out, might write a whole other fic just on that)

- literally anything could remind him of you

- he sees a bag of chips? oh, they're y/n's fav, oh i'm thinking of my partner now, oh how i love my partner :3

- ^ literally his thought process

- adding to the last point, he'll find or buy random things to give to you because he thought you'd like it/it reminded him of you

"caelus, are these... cat keychains?" you ask, the gift random, but definitely not unwelcomed, conveyed by the growing smile on your face. "they reminded me of us." he replies, his shoulders moving up and down in a noncommittal shrug. "i'm the orange cat, and you're the black cat."

well... now that you look at it, the keychains do remind you of you and caelus' relationship dynamic. the ginger cat— a tabby, it seems, is laying on the black cat's belly affectionately, the aforementioned feline having an annoyed frown on its face.

"it's cute." pressing a kiss to his cheek, your then soft smile grows into something more joyful. "thank you for the sweet gift, caelus."

and caelus swore to the aeons themselves that he was having heart palpitations from the feeling of your lips on his cheek.

dan heng ♡

- way less affectionate compared to how caelus is, not because he doesn't love you, but because he's more reserved

- doesn't mean he doesn't cuddle, he loves it when you and him have a nice snuggle sesh after a stressful day (but shhhh don't tell him i told you, it's supposed to be a secret 🤫)

"you're sure you don't need more tea?"

- prefers to show you his affections through acts of service rather than words or physical touch

- he's so dorky ugh i want him so bad

"dan heng, i'll be fine—" another coughing fit ensued, the hacking so intense dan heng backs away. "yep, more tea for you." he mumbles under his breath. "and more soup."

he reminds me of a mother hen... you think, sipping on your mug of tea that your lovely boyfriend had made for you. the beverage is hot and relaxing, feeling like a smoldering fire was in your belly whenever you swallow it.

"you know..." you start when he comes back inside your room, looking at your boyfriend with a hint of a smirk on your face. "you remind me of a mother hen, sometimes."

and you almost laugh at the disgruntled expression that appears on his stupidly handsome face. "i do not act like a mother hen—"

"oh, come on! you know you do, babe!"

with his cheeks turning a shade of light pink at the nickname, he sighs. "you can call me whatever you want, just drink your tea, for the love of aeons." he replied begrudgingly. "then give me a kiss!" you shoot back, weakly puckering your lips. "then i'll drink my tea, eat my soup, and then take a niiiiiice long nap."

dan heng stands there for a second, weighing his options. on one hand, he gets to kiss his partner — whom he loves very dearly he might add — to get them to eat their soup and drink the tea he had prepared for them. the only problem is that they're sick.

oh, fuck it.

pressing a kiss to your lips, he sighs into it, pulling away after a few seconds. "there. better now?" he asks.

he got sick two days later, but to him it was worth it.

welt ♡

- this man KNOWS how to treat someone right. i just know it in the deepest parts of my soul.

- shows you the animations that he made when he worked as an animator (it probably has 12 episodes, only 1 season, and ended on a cliffhanger 😞)

- HE DRAWS YOU. IDC. his sketchbook is full of drawings of you, random things he sees while out on his travels with you and the express, and other random doodles

- loves sightseeing with you. every time you go to a new planet you guys take pictures together at every tourist spot

- slow dancing w/ him to frank sinatra... it'd be so cute??? STOP STOP EVERYONE SHUT UP FOR 2 SECONDS. ☹️☹️

you felt like life was perfect right now.

with all the drama on penacony being over, you and welt finally had some free time to just chill out and take a breather.

"this is so nice..." you mumble to yourself, the metal of your ring softly pressing against the skin of your finger as your hands rest on welt's shoulders. "slow dancing is so romantic, don't you think?" welt asks, smiling down at you as frank sinatra records play in the background.

"are you trying to seduce me, mr. yang? even after years of marriage?" you ask, smiling when he spins you around slowly to the soft voice of frank sinatra, and the romantic melodies of the instruments. "and what if i am, mx yang?" he leans down in your ear to mumble, his tone teasing, maybe a bit... mischievous?

when the record stops spinning, welt holds you close to him, heat radiating off of him like a radiator. "hm, you're warm." you mumble, letting out a yawn. "like a heater."

hearing your husband let out a little chuckle, he smiles down at you. "you say this every time we hug."

"is it romantic, though?"

there was a pregnant pause, as if welt was deciding on what to say.

"do you want me to be honest or nice...?"

"welt!"

gepard landau ♡

- he's soooo protective ik it :[ like he's always keeping an eye on you while he's on patrol to make sure you're safe (not in a stalker way, just looking out for you bc he cares (⁠◕⁠દ⁠◕⁠))

- gets you something on every holiday, even if it doesn't count as a ‘holiday’. for every valentine's day he buys you chocolates and a cute little teddy bear 🥹🥹 he's so cute

- bc he's so busy with belobog duties(??), he doesn't have much time for dates

- so for the time he does have off, he'll spend with you!! (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

- serval is also you and gepard's biggest supporter, and lowkey played matchmaker with you two so you guys could get together

"aww, geppie! this is so cute!" you say, smiling at the rose bouquet and chocolates he had gotten you for valentine's day.

"serval actually suggested for me to buy you them..." the blonde replied, a mixed pile of mush and flustered mumblings underneath his breath. "she said your favourite flowers are roses, so i tried to find the best ones in belobog for you."

you actually think your heart is going to explode. or that you're going to squeeze your boyfriend to death from his cuteness.

and that's exactly what you do, making a mental note to thank serval the next time you see her.

"gepard, you're the best!" you exclaim, leaning your head onto his chest.

"don't mention it, y/n..." he mumbles, praying to qilpoth that you can't hear the relentless beating of his heart, the thumpity thump of it so profound he can feel it in his ears. "it's my duty as your boyfriend to give you gifts."

you also make another mental note: to wife this man up as soon as possible.