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hearts4hughes · 2 days ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/hearts4hughes/786738253259816960/exbf-rafe-is-breaking-me-especially-reader

I hear what this anon is saying

But

I like ex!Rafe 🤷

Ex!Rafe finding out reader’s out with a guy who Rafe sees as a danger to her. Like idk the guy drives his bike without a helmet and Rafe catches reader and this guy going really fast and neither are wearing helmets. So Rafe, rightfully so, loses his shit at how reckless this man is being with reader

he shouldn’t be checking. it’s pathetic—he knows that. it’s the kind of behavior he’d mock if it belonged to anyone else. but rafe’s thumb moves anyway, thoughtless, practiced. tap, scroll, tap. your profile loads like muscle memory, like something god designed to live under his gaze.

you haven’t blocked him. though, you unfollowed him, obviously. but your account’s still public, and tonight you posted. his heart starts racing faster. he prays it’s a photo of you smiling. maybe candid. something to remind him what you look like happy. instead, it’s a video. some shaky clip from someone else’s story, reshared to yours. it’s short, grainy, barely visible. it’s loud with motion…wind…and you—

on the back of a motorcycle.

your bare arms are wrapped around someone else. someone taller, broader, clad in a leather jacket. he’s helmetless. that’s when rafe realizes that you are too. the speed at which the motorcycle moves, it’s not freedom, it’s a death wish. the kind of recklessness rafe is all too familiar with.

the video clicks off and he watches it again, and again. luckily you forgot to turn your location off. his jaw tightens. breath caught like smoke in his chest. he doesn’t think, just grabs his keys and slides into the porsche like it’s an exhale.

you don’t see the headlights at first. you’re smiling too hard, windblown, and dizzy from the ride. everything smells like late june and gasoline, and there’s a part of you that liked pretending you weren’t the kind of girl who used to fall asleep to rafe’s quarterly earnings calls and wake up to his cologne on your sheets.

then he’s there. almost like he never left. he’s pulling up fast, aggressive—like always. his windows are down, engine of the car you used to love purring with a threat. your stomach drops.

“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” rafe says, stepping out of the car like a storm in black sweatpants—gray hoodie, hair wild, eyes darker than you remember. darker than they have any right to be.

the guy on the bike blinks. he looks between the two of you and laughs. “can we help you, bro?”

rafe doesn’t even look at him. his gaze’s locked on you like he’s trying to burn a hole clean through your chest. “get off the bike.”

your heart jumps and your cheeks fill with color. “rafe-“

“now.”

the guy scoffs. “you her dad or something?”

“no,” rafe says flatly. “but i know what her skull looks like on a CT scan. do you?”

the silence that follows his deafening. the guy clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck. you swing your leg off the bike slowly, grounding your heels like it might keep the earth from shaking. “it was just a ride.”

rafe laughs. it’s not a nice sound. “yeah? just a ride on the back of a stranger’s death machine with zero protection while he weaves through traffic like he’s trying to impress you?”

“he’s not a stranger-” you begin. your knees start to buckle, lip quivers.

“you don’t know him,” he snaps. “you don’t know what he drinks, if he takes pills, if he texts while driving,” he inhales deeply. “you don’t know who’s holding your fucking life in their hands and you’re smiling like it’s a goddamn music video.”

you flinch. the guy shifts behind you, arms folding. “hey, man, maybe take it down a-”

rafe rounds on him. “shut the fuck up,” his tone leaves no room for debate. “don’t talk to me. don’t talk to her. don’t look at her.”

you don’t speak. not yet. your teeth dig into the inside of your cheek, adrenaline sharpening everything, the taste of regret already forming behind your tongue.

rafe turns back to you, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to shake sense into you. “what were you thinking?” his voice breaks. not loud, but raw. “you think this proves something? that you’re free? you’re not. you’re just-” he swallows and looks away for half a second. “you’re just lucky i saw it before the morgue did.”

you hate how your throat tightens. how the shame tastes so familiar. how his worry still lives on you like perfume that won’t wash off. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”

“you didn’t scare me,” he lies. then, softer he murmurs, “you gutted me.”

you look down. gravel crunches under your shoes as you shift your weight. “i don’t belong to you anymore, rafe.”

“you never stopped,” he says, almost too quiet. then he opens his passenger door before you can argue. he doesn’t say anything, but the disappointment in his eyes bores through you like a laser. you start to walk forward and the guy behind you scoffs before taking off. tears well in your eyes as you slip onto his leather seat.

the door clicks open as he gets in the driver’s seat. he turns his head, gaze softening now that you’re with him—safe. “if i catch you pulling shit like that again,” he pauses to regain his composure. “i’ll bury whatever asshole you’re with.”

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey

#ex!rafe cameron #ex!rafe #nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader

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me-kume · 1 day ago

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Random SFW/NSFW headcanons w Zayne 📁

zayne x fem!reader, random short headcanons

SFW

• Zayne’s kisses are fire and ice.

Outwardly, he always seems composed and restrained—like every fiber of his body is under strict control, not a single stray thought slipping past the gates. Everything must be precise, calculated. But the moment you wrap your arms around his strong neck, fingers teasing the collar of his expensive shirt with a playful grin, that cold exterior melts away.

Zayne never lets you lead. That’s his role—to be in control. So it’s always his tongue that brushes along your lower lip first, slipping inside with slow, commanding grace. He takes his time, savoring you like it’s the first kiss of his life. And just like that, the chill turns to searing heat.

• A little secret.

You’ll probably never find out, but Zayne keeps a folder on his phone locked tighter than any vault—and it’s filled with candid photos of you. Not the flattering kind you’d proudly post online. No. These are the ones you'd beg him to delete: you, blissful and messy, covered in blue cotton candy; sprawled awkwardly on his couch, nose buried in a book; or fast asleep, face smushed into a crisp white pillow.

They’re clumsy. Real. Alive. And Zayne, more than anyone, treasures those quiet moments most.

• He’s terribly jealous, but never says a word.

You probably wouldn’t even notice. Not a single muscle twitches on his face—he’s carved from marble, a statue of calm. But he sees every glance other men dare to linger on you, and it makes the frozen blood in his veins boil.

He pretends it’s fine. And then he fucks you like he’s staking a claim, until you’re sore and bruised by morning—silent reminders of who you really belong to.

• He can’t say “I love you,” but he shows it.

Tender words don’t come easy to Zayne. But he more than makes up for it in action. There’s always a sweet snack hidden in your bag, a packet of pills tucked in his pocket on the exact day you need them.

And if you ever crave to hear those three little words—just give him time. Zayne will find the right moment.

• He loves when you touch his hair.

He plays it cool. Pretends your fingers slipping through those dark strands don’t faze him in the slightest. But the moment you do, he melts—eyes fluttering shut, head slowly lowering into your lap, allowing himself to let go and surrender.

You calm the storm inside him with nothing but a simple caress.

• His hands are always cold. And he loves touching you with them.

Especially when you’re fresh from a hot shower—warm, soft, skin flushed. Icy fingertips trace your waist, making you yelp and curse, while a rare smile tugs at his lips.

It’s childish, almost out of character. But it brings you closer. So you let it slide.

NSFW

• His control drives you insane.

Zayne is agonizingly patient. Years of buried desire boil over, reshaping your sex life into a before and after. He spends so much time between your thighs, bringing you to the brink—again and again—never letting you fall until you’re begging him for release.

• He takes you apart like a puzzle.

Inch by inch, he studies you like an anatomical atlas—lips, neck, collarbones—mapping every detail like a man obsessed. He leaves behind a constellation of bruises and bite marks, his own secret design painted across your skin, feeding his ego with every dark bloom.

• He doesn’t talk much—but those sounds…

Zayne is quiet by nature, all clipped words and cold logic. Small talk gives him a headache. But in bed... his voice becomes a low, husky rasp—raw and primal, tinged with hunger. He groans into the curve of your neck, nose buried deep as his body trembles against yours.

And when your walls tighten around him, he loses it—biting, growling against your skin, whispering hoarsely into your ear:

“More… show me how much you want me.”

• He has a weakness for oral—but mostly giving, not receiving.

Zayne has no problem spending hours between your legs, content to worship you without asking for anything in return. His focus, his stubborn precision, all turn against you in the most delicious ways.

“Just say the word,” he murmurs. “I’ll give you everything.”

And only when desperation breaks through your breathless pleas does he let go—just enough to let you drown.

• Sometimes, he lets you take control.

Not because he likes submitting—Zayne doesn’t surrender easily. But some nights, he’s tired. He needs comfort, not dominance. So you climb onto his lap with slow confidence, steady hands and soft lips guiding him somewhere gentle.

And when you ride him like that—quietly, lovingly—he forgets how to resist.

• He claims he doesn’t like “sappy affection,” but always holds you after.

You’ve known each other long enough for him to understand how vulnerable you are in the quiet afterglow.

So he doesn’t leave. He stays. Fingers tracing your spine, lips pressing into your hair, arms locking you against his chest.

And in that stillness, he makes you feel completely, utterly loved.

#fanfic #headcanon #headcanons #fem reader #love and deepspace #love and deespace smut #smut #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #lads zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x you #dr zayne #doctor zayne #love and deepspace x reader

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vicsstars · 2 days ago

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so happy to see u back!!

today i was just thinking....like its offseason currently, and lets just pretend no injuries happened 💜💜and we're spending the summer in france with vic😭😭😭like i think it'd be so cute, just domestic bf wemby in his home country!!!! smut or not i'd be really happy if u could elaborate 😭🙏i literally have noone irl or online to talk about him im in so much pain

❝ you ever think about leaving? ❞

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

summary: staying in a cottage during off season brings out the true beauty in both you and victor, making him wish it could never end.

warnings; none!! just fluff, talking about moving during offseason

an: i’m on a roll now that i’m back so THANK YOU for giving a fluff request, ive been a little freaked out so it’s time for me to chill (jk guys you know the next post will probably be be smut again)

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

he didn’t wake you.

he just let you sleep. window cracked open to let in the sound of the wind through the olive trees. it was early. the kind of early that didn’t feel real. pale light, no clocks ticking, the whole room soft and still like the inside of a shell.

he’d been up for a while, padding barefoot through the old cottage, feeding the cat that kept showing up on the back steps, flipping through a worn paperback he found on the shelf. off-season looked good on him. slower. looser. no press, no flights, no bruises blooming beneath his skin.

just france. just home. just him, and you, and the quiet between.

victor stood at the edge of the bed, shirt in hand, curls still wet from the shower. he hadn’t shaved yet. you liked that he didn’t. liked the softness at the edges of him, the slow way he moved when he thought you weren’t watching.

his eyes lingered on your back. bare, turned toward him. you’d kicked off the blanket sometime before dawn, too warm, too soft. your arm curled under your cheek, lips slightly parted, breathing even.

he sat down beside you. careful. weight dipping the mattress just enough to pull you toward him.

you stirred.

“hm?” you barely a sound.

his hand brushed your spine, featherlight. “go back to sleep,” he murmured.

you didn’t.

instead, you turned over, blinking slow, reaching for him like instinct. he let you. let your fingers curl into his shirt where it draped over his thigh, anchoring him there.

“where were you going?” you asked, voice gravelly.

he shrugged. “walk.”

you looked up at him, still half asleep. “without me?”

his lips twitched. not a smile, exactly. but close. “you looked peaceful.”

“i always look peaceful.”

he huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “not always.”

you were both quiet for a second.

then, softer. “will you wait?”

he nodded. leaned down, kissed your temple. let it linger.

“for you i’d wait a lifetime.”

you walked through the village hand in hand, fingers woven loose, like the space between you was already closed. a few locals waved. a baker sweeping his doorway nodded toward victor like he knew him. maybe he did. maybe everyone knew him here. not as the player, the face on tv, but just the boy who came back when the season ended. the tall one with the quiet voice. the one who didn’t need to be seen to be known.

you stopped at the boulangerie (bakery). he ordered in french. you tried, and stumbled. he didn’t correct you, just smiled and said the words again, slower, until they felt like something you could hold in your mouth without dropping.

you took your pastries to go. sat on the low stone wall near the church, feet dangling over the edge. he passed you a pain au chocolat and wiped powdered sugar from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“you always eat slow,” he said.

“you always finish mine,” you replied.

his eyes flicked toward you, heavy lidded, amused. “you want me to stop?”

you didn’t answer. you never did.

back at the cottage, the afternoon slipped into something golden. the air still, cicadas buzzing, laundry lines dancing in the breeze like they had somewhere to be. you laid out on the floor. cool tile under your back, victor beside you, stretched long, his knee brushing yours.

he was tracing something on the inside of your wrist. slow. absentminded.

“what’re you drawing?” you murmured.

“not sure yet.”

you looked over. “is it me?”

he didn’t look up, just gave a light smile like you’d caught him red handed. “always.”

your breath caught. you didn’t say anything.

he finally turned to you, admiring you as if you were a goddess sprawled beneath him.

“i like it here,” he said.

you nodded. “i know.”

“feels like, i could be someone else.”

you watched his face.

“you don’t have to be someone else,” you said. “you just have to be.”

his eyes softened. just barely. he looked down at your hand again.

“still learning how.”

you reached over and laced your fingers with his. squeezed once. “i’ll help.”

and he didn’t say thank you. didn’t say anything, really. just held your hand a little tighter. let the silence stretch between you like something holy.

the tile beneath you was smooth, faintly cool, holding onto the last shadows of morning. the sun hadn’t reached this corner of the room yet, but you could see the way it poured in through the kitchen window, bright and still, like it had nowhere better to be. dust danced in the beams of it, suspended. like even the air knew how to be slow here.

victor hadn’t let go of your hand.

his fingers were long, warm, completely wrapped around yours, thumb brushing rhythmically across the ridge of your knuckle. he was quiet again, but not distant. there was a softness in his stillness this time. like he was thinking of how to say something without saying it.

his body stretched next to yours, broad and long, one arm tucked behind his head. he didn’t shift much, but you could feel the weight of him beside you. not heavy. grounding. like a presence you didn’t have to look at to know it was there.

“you smell like the garden,” you murmured, your voice low, half afraid to break whatever spell was resting in the room.

he turned his head toward you, eyes dark and unreadable, but softened at the edges.

“you’re just saying that because i picked rosemary.”

“hm, no,” you said. “it’s your skin. it holds things.”

he didn’t answer right away. just blinked, slow. you could see the golden flecks in his eyes when the light hit just right. rare, like something you had to earn. his gaze moved across your face, then back to the ceiling.

“you ever think about leaving?” he asked suddenly, voice low. “not permanently. just for a little. no phones. no noise.”

you hesitated. not because you didn’t know, but because you did.

“all the time.”

he nodded once, almost like he expected it.

“sometimes i think, maybe i’ll just stay here after the season,” he said, voice quieter now, like he was afraid the walls might overhear. “no press. no travel. just this. the garden. you.”

the way he said it made your chest pull tight. not romantic, not exactly. something deeper. ache and want and exhaustion, all tangled together and barely spoken aloud. he was yearning for something in his reach, but something that seemed to disappear the moment he touched it.

you turned your head. studied the line of his jaw, the small bump on the bridge of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth. he didn’t look like the version of him the world clung to. didn’t carry that sharpness. that steel.

he looked like someone trying to remember how to be human again.

“what would we do all day?” you asked.

he smiled, faint but real. “make coffee. read. maybe get a dog.”

“what kind of dog?”

“something small,” he said, and you gave him a look. he smirked. “okay, big. ridiculous. taller than you.”

“rude.”

“it’s true.”

you huffed, but your smile was already creeping in. you turned your hand in his, letting your fingers slide up the inside of his wrist, tracing that soft patch of skin where his pulse beat steady and slow.

“i’d stay,” you said, finally.

he didn’t move. didn’t even blink.

“i know.”

there was something fragile in the quiet between you now. not heavy. just full. like it might spill if you let it.

outside, the cicadas started again, humming low like static beneath everything. the light shifted on the wall. you thought maybe it was getting hotter, but you didn’t move. neither of you did.

just the tile, the breath between words, the press of his thumb across your knuckles. just the idea of a world that was only this room. only this morning. only you and him and the sun not quite reaching your bodies yet.

and maybe, if you stayed still long enough, it might stay like this forever.

#vicsstars #victor wembanyama #san antonio spurs #nba imagine #nba #wemby #wemby imagine #victor wembanyama x reader #víctor wembanyama fluff #wemby fluff #france #víctor wembanyama imagine

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stickdoodlefriend · 6 days ago

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Snippet for my Lestappen Harry Potter AU

The dark turrets pierce the thick smog—heavier than the last time Charles had visited—and a passing flickering candlelight in the windows catches Charles's eye. Before he can discern what the luminous blur is, it vanishes out of his viewpoint.

He nudges Sebastian with his elbow, tilting his head towards the office, "Someone's in one of the professor's offices." Considering everyone would be in the Great Hall for breakfast, he doubts there are papers to grade and any professor would want to trudge up five stories to fetch them.

The cold nips his face and he burrows his mouth deeper into the big collar when they hop on to their brooms, the wind picking up the harshness of winter making the whole trip entirely dreadful and there was a murder for them to investigate.

"All studies for the professors are enchanted to keep students out. Are you sure it's not a dormitory and a student slacking off breakfast?"

"No, Max's office is just below it. It has to be a faculty member"

Sebastian raises his eyebrow, and Charles thanks the cold for hiding his flushed cheeks and retorts at Seb's unspoken question, "You know Professor Button's office."

"From the inside, yes. But can I identify it from half a kilometer away from the hundreds of windows and multiple wings and floors of an eight-hundred year old castle?" Sebastian says incredulously, "How many times have you been to the offices?"

"I didn't visit them too often when I studied here," Charles deflects with a half-truth, "only when Max got us both in trouble and lost points for our houses."

To be fair, most hadn't expected Max to get sorted into Ravenclaw instead of Slytherin, whispering about Max breaking records on his O.W.Ls and N.E.W.Ts, slaughtering his way through the other teams in Quidditch, youngest seeker and a champion for the Goblet of fire. Not Charles though—he knows the same hunger that runs deep in Max about the speed and the race of victory but also of the cats back at his mother's house that Vic writes to him about, the numerous dogs, toads and horses that make up the household.

There were whispers about Charles too, Slytherin green unsuitable for someone always running second; loyalty is a Hufflepuff-ridden flaw and maybe that's the hunger within him gnaws at his edges. He's well past it now since graduation, since Max and he parted ways like they've hit the fork in the road and the chasm Charles will not let go.

Now, Max teaches the care for magical creatures at Hogwarts and transmutation, tracking bowtruckles and billiwigs and all sorts of fantastical beasts in his spare time. Charles wonders if the thrill is enough for Max to keep rejecting Charles's offers.

With Sebastian here, no doubt Max will want to seek answers and work with them, be an Auror beside him, wands drawn and fighting with their backs against each other. Charles must be wicked for being excited to visit a crime scene.

#f1 #lestappen #charles leclerc #max verstappen #lestappen hp au #snippets #posting this while pretending to be asleep #so forgive me if this is short

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peppermintslol · 2 months ago

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Basically their interaction

#I drew this while falling asleep if you couldn’t tell #wildberry cookie #pavlova cookie #shitpost #actually pretend this looks bad because it’s a joke post

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drleggman · 5 months ago

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Otoya Eita x reader

summary: Otoya learns that you had sex with his best friend, and the envy he feels isn't towards who he expected

tags: bi/pan!gn!reader, no physical descriptions (character & reader), established relationship (fwb), vague descriptions of sex, 18+ minors don't look or I'm telling your parents

wc: 1.9k

a/n: this is mostly just a convo between Otoya and reader, and the horny bits don't even directly involve him rip. it's very silly and unserious! sorry if you were expecting more

“Curve or no curve?”

Otoya’s question catches you off guard. You’d been sitting in relative silence until now—both reclining on his couch, legs intertwined between you with only the soft sounds of your respective video games filling the otherwise quiet room.

“What?”

“You prefer your cocks with a curve? Or without one?” He asks again like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The music pouring lowly from the console in your hands stops abruptly, your game momentarily paused. “My bad for the confusion? I don’t always have dick on the mind, unlike you apparently.”

“Answer the question, will you?”

You take a moment to consider. And then another. Is one better than the other? This isn’t something you’d really put much thought to until now. “I… don’t think I have a preference.”

“Oh bullshit.” You can tell he's rolling his eyes without even seeing them.

“I don’t! You know what people say, it’s about how you use it or whatever. As long as your stroke game is good, it doesn’t really matter what your dick is like.” You shrug, and just as you’re about to return to your game, he pipes up again.

“Well Karasu said-“

“You talk about dick with Karasu?” You grin. This is more entertaining, you decide: fucking with him. You set your Switch on the coffee table beside you and give him your full attention.

“Will you shut the fuck- Ugh.” You hear a long exhale, and he sets his controller down. "Karasu said," he turns to you, eyes squinted and brows pinched together, “bottoms prefer it with a little curve. To hit all the good spots or whatever. I told him the same thing you told me, that it doesn’t matter.”

You blow air through your nose, grinning to yourself. Oh you know exactly why Karasu said that to him.

“He’s had a big head ever since I told him that,” you murmur.

“What?”

Your brow furrows. “What?”

“Since you told him what?”

“That the way his cock curves feels good…?”

He makes a face at that, pained and something else that you can’t quite place, and you hide behind your hand so he can’t see you snickering.

“Hated that.” He says, but you can’t help but notice that he’s blushing, though just barely. Almost as if he’s flustered. “How do you know what his dick feels like?”

“We’ve… had sex?” What kind of question is that? Is he stupid? “How else would I know that?”

He straightens up, noticeably more invested in the conversation now that you’ve divulged this information to him. “ When did that happen?”

“Why are you interrogating m-“

“When??” His tone is by no means stern, but he’s insistent. You’ve always known this to be true. He’ll pester you til the end of time if you don’t tell him what he wants to hear.

“Like, five months ago?”

You’re not even sure exactly. It happened when you and Karasu were both a little tipsy at a birthday party. Whose it was, you can’t remember. You’d been complaining to him about being pent up, and Otoya had chosen to spend the night with another girl. Karasu offered himself up, cozying up to you and whispering low and raspy into your ear, “How about I take care of you tonight, then?” He’d had his eye on you since you were first introduced to him, seizing the opportunity to finally get a taste of you as Otoya usually doesn’t let you out of his sight when he’s around.

“We were fucking then.” He states plainly. His expression is unreadable, ever the face of indifference even as his words contradict that sentiment.

“Otoya. Since when do you care about the other people I sleep with?”

“I don’t care. I’m just… curious.” You don’t think he’s even trying to be convincing. He won’t even look at you.

“It seems like you care.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve never cared less about anything, actually.”

He does care. Obviously. You’ve talked to him about all of the women you’ve slept with since the two of you had started your relationship, if you can even call it that, and never once has he been this weird about it. It’s something you bonded over, in fact, because of course he’s sleeping around too. Sharing the intimate details of your trysts with other girls is a favorite pastime of yours. At some point Otoya started to wonder if he’s the only guy you’re actively having sex with, so to hear that not only is he not the only guy you’ve fucked recently, but that the other guy was Karasu Tabito, of all people, has him feeling. Feeling what, exactly? He’s not sure.

You know full well about how he likes to fantasize about you with your other partners after you’ve recounted every last detail to him, just as you do with him and his. He’ll let his hand slip between his legs, lazily pleasuring himself as he imagines you with the pretty girl you’d shown him a picture of—sometimes in front of you as you tell him about her, sometimes when he’s alone and too lazy to find a video to jerk off to.

Is it okay for him to think about Karasu like that? What exactly would it mean if he does? God, he has so many questions.

Were you a bit more dominant with him like you are with those girls he hears about? Or did his friend have to put you in your place after you started acting bratty like you do when you're with him? Karasu is a charmer though, and a sweet talker too. Maybe you didn't want to be bratty at all. Karasu has always had that subtle air of dominance about him. He knows how to get his way with people. He’s more than capable of teasing and talking down to you in a way that would lull you into a sense of submission. Otoya has seen it before, both on the field and off, the way that Karasu commands obedience.

He lets his mind wander further. He pictures you with Karasu. You're sweaty and panting, your hips grinding together and hands groping and tongues down each other’s throats. He can hear you so clearly in his mind. Can see the way your face scrunches up in pleasure. If Karasu’s dick really does feel as good as you say it does, it must leave you a whining, overstimulated mess by the time he’s done with you.

The image of Karasu is just as vivid. He can see the cocky smirk he wears as he comes undone underneath him. He can see the sweat beading down his forehead, his neck, and his chest. How he’s glistening with it as he puts more and more force into each thrust. He can hear him too, his honey-slicked words spilling from his lips that are pressed against his neck. And his cock… the ease with which it hits all of the right spots inside of him.

It’s gotta feel so fucking good, Otoya thinks to himself. And I bet he’s hung-

He cuts the thought off immediately once he realizes the gravity of it. He crinkles his nose as he wills away the image of his best friend on top of him.

“What is this?” You say, and suddenly Otoya is reminded of your presence.

He can pretend not to care about Karasu all he wants, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s visibly unsettled by what you’ve said. After knowing each other for as long as you have, you find him easy to read. The way he fidgets with the frayed fabric of his beanie, the way he refuses to meet your gaze. All easy tells. He’s lost in thought, and you think that whatever image he’s conjuring up in that pretty little head of his must be really good to get him to shut up for this long. “Are you… jealous?”

You’ve never seen him react like this to hearing about you fucking someone else. Otoya doesn’t care about exclusivity. He never has. You two sleep with whoever you want, whenever you want. You have a feeling it’s not the fact that it’s a man you slept with that’s getting to him, but rather because it was Karasu specifically.

“Why would I be jealous? I get to fuck you all the time.” You just barely catch the way his voice quivers.

Oh. He doesn’t even know. He’s got that look on his face, the one you’ve only seen a handful of times. It’s the face he makes when he wants something that he thinks is out of reach, and he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His genuine confusion is almost endearing. He’s seemingly blissfully unaware of his own desires.

“I didn’t mean jealous of Karasu.”

He’s stone faced as he finally looks at you now. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

“You are, aren’t y-“

“Shut up.” He doesn’t let you finish. He doesn’t like what you’re implying, and he doesn’t want to unpack that.

You bark out a laugh. “Why were you even thinking about that conversation you two had anyway?”

“Shut. Up.”

You listen, though only for a moment. There’s a pregnant pause, and he’s daring you with his gaze to keep pressing.

“His cock does feel good-“

“Stop that.”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning confusion.

“Stop talking about my friend’s cock.”

Oh, but that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it? You have to push his buttons some more. “It’s not like it only feels good because it’s curved, though it does help.”

He says nothing, giving you one last opportunity to drop the topic before he turns his attention elsewhere.

“He just knows how to fuck, I think.”

Another sigh, then he turns back towards the tv and mutters, “I’m done with this conversation.”

He picks up his controller and unpauses his game, and the rhythmic sound of him tapping buttons fills the space between you. He’s getting his ass kicked, not that he doesn’t usually, but right now he seems to be particularly incapable of defending himself from the ai enemies on the screen. You can tell his focus is elsewhere, try as he might to pretend he’s more invested in the game than whatever thoughts are swirling around in his head.

Your lips are pursed as you hold in the words threatening to spill from you. He’s aware that you’re watching him, he can see you in his periphery. Your self restraint is running thin, and he’s started to squirm in anticipation, knowing full well you have some more bullshit to say.

“Have you ever played with your ass before?” You blurt it out before you’ve even realized it, hands clamping over your mouth as if you can’t believe you just said such a thing.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Again, he sighs. The game pauses and he briefly tightens then releases his grip on his controller. He sits on his answer for a moment, not yet sure if he should indulge you further. Maybe if he imagines it hard enough, he can explode you with his mind and be done with this.

“Yes, I’ve played with my ass before.”

You beam, the part of you expecting him to just call you a freak and disregard your question entirely put at ease. “Did you like it??”

You're much too excited about this for his liking. “I- yeah… I did.” Head rolling back onto the couch and his whole body slackening, he looks utterly defeated. You, on the other hand, are basking in your victory. You’re peeling away at him, layer by layer. Unveiling his desires that he’s kept hidden so deep within him he may not even be sure they’re there. “It’s just usually too much of a hassle to do it most of the time...”

Your tongue pokes out to wet your lips, and he watches the movement with rapt attention. “I have this toy… It looks a lot like Karasu’s dick…”

His eyes snap back to yours in an instant, and you continue on as if he’s not silently pleading with you to have mercy on him. To stop implanting these images in his head.

“It’s not quite as thick, but it’s got the same subtle, upward curve~” Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth. Otoya watches again, letting himself get lost in the visual to distract from what you’re saying to him.

You feel his leg shift between yours. His foot trails up, settling just shy of the apex of where your thigh meets your hip. “Okay… You’re telling me this why…?”

“We should try it.” You grin. His face goes flush. “On you, of course.”

“And why do you think we should do that?”

You sit up and push yourself towards him. He tries to back away, but there’s nowhere for him to escape to.

“So you know what to expect when you finally decide to ask Karasu to have his way with you.”

divider by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

#i do not wish to be percieved rn bye #otoya x reader #blue lock x reader #scheduling this to post while dash and i are asleep so i can pretend this didnt happen

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chenziee · 2 years ago

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Shortly after Ace starts dating Marco in a modern AU, Luffy is chatting with Sabo about his latest E.R. trip when when he goes "Actually, Pinapple man was there and--"

Sabo is completely confused for a moment, until Luffy notices and clarifies, "You know that guy. I forget his name. That pinapple guy. Ace brought him to BBQ last week."

It takes Sabo a full minute to process that Luffy just called Ace's boyfriend, the department head of the university hospital, 'that pinapple guy' but when he does... he laughs. He laughs and laughs to the point of tears; he can't remember the last time he laughed quite this much.

He keeps bursting into snickers when he rushes to the store right after.

When Ace gets home that night, there is a pineapple sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, complete with googly eyes and fake glases glued on--as well as having its own plate and cuttlery set out before it, ready to get its own serving of dinner.

Ace doesn't have to look at the name tag that reads "Marco, that pineapple guy" that is hanging on lanyard that's tangled in its leaves before he, too, starts laughing until tears are streaming down his face.

A photo of Marco the Pineapple is set as Marco the Human's contact photo before dinner is even served.

Marco the Pinapple sits at the table for a few days but after a Straw Hats visit, it is deemed that he is taking up too much space and is relocated to the living room, his new home being the top of a cabinet.

By the time Marco the Human visits the ASL household about a month later, Marco the Pineapple is pretty much a family member.

Marco doesn't notice the random pineapple at first--the pineapple that is now wearing a tiny lab coat and a stethoscope--until Ace's cat, Kotatsu, jumps on that particular cabinet.

It's only when Sabo's warning hiss of, "Kotatsu, you know you can't touch Marco, don't you dare" draws his attention that he notices the cat wasn't about to start wrestling with his ankles.

Instead, he was sitting next to the decorated pineapple and staring straight at Sabo as if to tell him to try and stop him.

Marco isn't sure if he's ever been faced with a sight so bizzare... but he would be lying if he said he didn't find it hilarious.

Ace gifts him Marco the Pineapple Jr. to keep on his desk at work.

And Marco loves it.

#one piece #marcoace #marace #sabo #luffy #asl #asl brothered #modern au #today on things i'll never write #portgas d ace #ace #marco #so many typos omfg #that's what i get for writing and posting thos while falling asleep #marco the phoenix #katie does a write #katie pretends to fic

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toomanytookas · 1 year ago

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The Gift

Dieter Bravo x f!afab!reader

Rating: 18+ only please

Summary: Dieter designs a special room for you in the house that you are building together.

Important note: This is set in the world of @schnarfer’s If Wishes Came True trilogy. If you haven’t read it (where have you been? Go! Read it!!) you will likely be a bit lost.

Word count: ~3k

Content: Angst and fluff, the angst is pretty much all in the past but we do sit with it for a while here (this is dedicated to Al, after all), consumption of food and alcohol, references to/presence of drugs but they aren’t consumed on screen, oblique references to the reader and Dieter's sexual proclivities, blink and you’ll miss it moment of smutty touching, lots more sensual and casual touch as well as kissing, swearing, bathing, cats, I wrote this for one person but she’s invited you to the party

A/N: A version of this fic was gifted to my beloved @schnarfer on the occasion of her birthday last week. It would have never actually been possible for me to have the confidence to send it to her and not just throw it straight in the bin without the very gentle hand holding of @pascalssbabyy (Beth, you are an angel).

I say a version because after being the most gracious recipient of a fic of her fic (wtf was I thinking?), Al not only encouraged me to share it more widely but was willing to give it a beta and helped to refine my attempt at an ode to her style into the much punchier, emotionally charged (we do love torturing our boy a bit...) thing you now have the opportunity to read. This is absolutely the product of two minds and I could not have had more fun working with her to reach this final version. Any remaining errors and weird bits are my own, feel free to lmk if you see anything funky. I hope you like it!

I don't know what it is about you that makes the bathwater blush, why I want to ask for your hand forever around my throat;

- Megan Falley, "Your Bathwater > Wine"

When Dieter adopted Chairman Meow from the shelter, the sign on the tom’s cage said he had been wandering despondently around the property his last owner had vacated, unable to stray far from the place where he had last known a comfortable life. Abandonment issues, the profile warned. Looking for a home that will provide constant affection.

Having been driven to the cattery by a deep yearning to be the centre of someone’s world, Dieter thought he recognised a kindred spirit. I’ll be your friend, bud. He stuck a thick finger into the mog’s enclosure and wiggled it against the soft fur. When the cat had budged up even closer in response, he knew that it was love.

After you left, when he would wake to that furry face rubbing against his chin, a paw tapping his cheek to ask to be let in under the covers, Dieter was grateful that he had someone who understood why—despite Pete’s encouragement—he could never quite go through with leaving that fucking fishbowl of a house for good. Not when he no longer had you.

The wretched, destructive thing that lived inside him conjured constant reminders of how your brightness had seeped into the very walls of the house. It dangled flashes of your smile in his periphery when he made his morning coffee, replayed echoes of your laugh when he reached for you in the middle of the night. They were glimpses of lost happiness that in those brief moments still radiated joy. The glow sometimes burned like hot coals, but he gathered every memory of you tightly his chest. The searing ache was worth it. Staying put was worth it. How else would he remember so clearly how much you had made his world come alive? And how else would you know how to find him when you decided to come back?

But when you did return to him, when you came home, Dieter’s dedication to remaining in that bastard house until his end of days vanished. He was climbing the walls to be rid of it as fast as humanly possible. Why would he want to stay there when it was a constant reminder of the destruction he had wrought? Without you the house was a lifeline, but with you it was a curse. It could never be the home he wanted to give you now that he had a second chance. Despite what his trusted energy worker suggested, a ceremonial disposal of the bed and a few rounds of sage burning would not have been enough to fix it.

So he called his realtor. Sold the house. Said goodbye to all its awful energy. Hoped that maybe all the worst versions of Dieter Bravo managed to be left there, trapped behind the glass. Waiting to be discovered and dealt with by whichever sad fuck bought that Hollywood house of mirrors, blissfully unaware of the demons they were to inherit.

The Dieter menagerie moved in to yours.

The Chairman and Dolly Purrton both quickly found their favourite new spots to snooze in puddles of sunshine, but as much as he longed to join them, Dieter could never quite settle.

The longer you shared the space and began to rebuild some of the trust and respect that needed to layer on top of your burning, incandescent love; the clearer it became that your house was also too haunted.

There was too bitter an aftertaste on both your tongues whenever you would pull into the drive, remembering the pleading eyes of past Dieters who had turned up unannounced at all hours of the night begging for forgiveness, desperate for a second chance. It was too jarring, the pangs of Dieter’s jealousy over plastic, perfect Brandon, who once upon a time happily wandered those halls, pressed you hungrily against those doorframes, laughed with you over a lovingly prepared dinner made in that kitchen. What a fucking prince.

The discomfort of it all, the continued haunting that he had thought escaping his former house would resolve, left Dieter lumbering through the house, wrapping himself in a moveable den of blankets and keeping a hand braced against his tummy or a cat cradled to his chest in an effort to soothe the roiling thoughts.

After he spent a full week between shoots wandering despondently from room to room, only able to feel grounded when you were somewhere in the house, you put your foot down.

This was meant to be a second chance, D. Not us climbing back into the coffin. This house was no longer your home, you told him, if it was responsible for the tension in his jaw and the ache you felt when either of you found reminders of all the past hurt.

And so Dieter set out to build you both a house. A home that would reverberate with the joys of love and the laughter of friends, and never, ever know the monster inside him that he was working so hard to put to rest. A sanctuary for the two of you, tucked against the hills in an area where the neighbours don’t care a single bit who either of you are, only that you look out for the community and pitch in a baked good or two for the annual block party.

It’s the house of your dreams because it represents your shared commitment to making a life together. It’s the house of his dreams because, somehow, you want to live there with him.

Given a blank check, the architect and interior designer work with the two of you to identify the exact touches that will make you feel beyond comfortable. The kind of upgrades that aren’t flashy, but make enjoying the pleasurable things in life even easier.

The new bed feels like you’re being cuddled by the softest clouds. You spend your free mornings tucked in under the covers together, letting him sneak peeks over your shoulder as you gleefully trade quips with your friends and read the naughtiest and most delicious smut before rising to start your day.

There’s a gas fireplace that can be lit at a moment’s notice when you want to curl up in one of the the divine plush chairs, which you picked out together after spending an afternoon in a high-end showroom, half focused on which were the most comfortable to read in, half on which could reliably sustain both of your weights in motion.

These are just a couple of your favourite things amidst a near embarrassment of riches. They make you feel as though you’ve won the lottery, and the lottery’s name was Dieter (just Dieter, your dear love Dieter, no Bravo in sight).

Picking out features and facets for the house was so much a shared project between the two of you—the thing you could work on through trading pinterest boards and voice notes, even when projects kept you physically apart—that it was a bit of a surprise when Dieter informed you that there was a room he wanted to build that he wasn’t going to share the details of. Not until it was done.

He took infinite pleasure in making a big show of the secret, whipping out a blindfold that may or may not have originated from your toy chest when you were set to do walkthroughs during construction, curling his broad body around you and nudging you forward with one foot and then the other until the room was far enough away from view that he could restore your sight without worry of ruining the surprise.

It’s going to be magnificent, angel, he would breathe gleefully against your ear.

The contractors were always thankfully far enough ahead of you that you didn’t feel embarrassed by the heat that flooded your face at the tickle of his words and the firmness of his chest against your back.

You had some sense of what the room might be. Dieter wouldn’t reject your idea for a vintage-inspired clawfoot tub in the master unless he was going to make it up to you somewhere else in the house. He knew how much of a comfort a soak in the bath was for you, there was no way he was going to deny you the luxury in your own home.

But what exactly this room looked like remained a mystery. Sometimes a package would arrive that he would eagerly squirrel away behind that closed door, disappearing for a while to set up whatever newest addition he had imagined on the road to perfection. Piece by piece, Dieter was building a dream, one that he specifically dreamed of for you.

In the meantime, the two of you moved into the house and set about truly making it your space, fit to burst with the vibrancy of your lives.

There was nothing like being able to wind down from the heights of the energy on set, the frenetic hustle that you loved so much but demanded that you be at a constant eleven.

Nothing like ending a chillier evening by the fire. Your feet tucked under the fluff of the Chairman’s rotund rump where it was perched on Dieter’s lap, your thumb idly tracing the drops of condensation on a bottle of cider.

Nothing like welcoming friends at the weekend for a hearty roast and glowing conversation, getting to show off the fruits of your beautiful gas range and indulge in the delight of warm bellies and full hearts.

Nothing like your Dieter, flush with a new aura of happiness and love and the therapy-influenced acceptance that he was allowed to have all of this, to have you, to know joy.

On the night of your birthday, when your body and head already feel floaty from a delightful evening featuring a steady flow of cocktails and sushi, Dieter sneaks away as you are bidding goodbye to your final guests.

Once the last of your friends are out the door, he places a pair of oversized scissors in your hands and herds you like an eager collie over to the soon-to-no-longer-be-secret room. There’s a velvety ribbon across the door and he has you make the ceremonial opening cut before placing one of his warm palms over your eyes and the other at your sternum, holding you to his chest and guiding you both over the threshold.

You feel a wall of steam envelop your body and your heart leaps with anticipation. Your bathtub. You were right.

Dieter removes his hand, “Open your eyes, angel.”

Immediately, your vision is flooded with ochre and gold. Candles flicker playfully on almost every possible surface, their dancing light filling the room.

It is clear to you right away that this oasis will become a peaceful near holy space, a sanctuary that you can retreat to when you need to shut out the rest of the world. Despite the many, many acts of sin that are bound to occur inside these four walls, there is something bright and pure about the energy that Dieter has curated.

Lush ferns and orchids are mounted to the walls, bound to flourish in the tropical climate that the frequent steam will create for them.

There are massive geodes of your favourite crystals that sparkle on pedestals, radiating deep energy and glistening in the candlelight.

Two skylights open the room up so you can see the heavens, as though from your watery cocoon you might be able to ascend to the stars.

The bath itself is cavernous, currently filled nearly to the brim and softly crackling with lush bubbles that are being stirred by what you assume must be underwater jets.

On the far wall, Dieter has painted an abstract mural that makes you think of the moments of calm that you feel when he wraps you in his arms after a long day. Soft, warm, safe.

As he follows your gaze, eager to ingest your every reaction, he directs you to look at the title that he’s lettered just next to his signature.

Angel’s rest.

Your eyes are misty, “Oh, D. It’s magic.”

“Everything for my girl. Everything.”

His voice cracks slightly through the whisper, his hands come to your waist to turn you in his embrace, strong eye contact boring into your soul with the depth of how very much he means those words, beyond this gift, beyond this house.

You have to kiss him. Your heart can’t take not fusing your mouth to his in this moment.

It’s a soft kiss, a tender kiss, one you could bask in from now until the end of time. It makes you so bright with love.

You can’t help but let your lips curve into a grin. You think he must be able to feel your cheek muscles twitch from how widely you are smiling against his lips.

He breaks from you, but immediately returns once, twice, and then presses a quick and cheeky peck against your jawline.

“Come, angel. Before the water gets too cold.”

Slowly, reverently, he helps you slide your sparkling birthday dress over your shoulders and down to the floor. Pressing gentle, open mouthed kisses to your collarbone and lace-covered breasts as each inch of you is revealed.

He kneels before you to remove your panties. As soon as they are at your knees, he nuzzles his face against your mound, the tip of his nose nestling against your clit.

Fuck.

You hear him exhale happily when your stance softens, hands ghosting up and down your thighs, but instead of taking his first taste of your cunt for the evening, he draws back and tips his head toward the bath.

Pouting, you nod and let him help you out of your slippers, large hand cupping each ankle in turn. When your bare feet touch the floor, you can tell that there is some sort of heating system beneath the tile. It’s heaven.

You grasp his forearm for balance as you ascend the steps and then slide into the steaming hot water of the bath. You let your grip linger, playing with the flexing muscle that you feel ripple as he wiggles his fingers playfully. He knows you're a bit loony for the feel of his powerful arms.

Then he's pulling away from you again.

Despite the near-trance the water and this moment is sending you into, you let out a soft squawk of disapproval.

"Just for a minute, angel. I want to go get your present."

More gifts? Well, an indulgent Dieter is often the happiest Dieter and it is your birthday. And Dieter firmly believes that birthday girls deserve to have some lovely treats.

You let yourself doze, still tipsy and buzzing from the joys of the night, cradled by the bubbles and the soothing warmth of the water. The next thing you know, gentle but thick fingertips are lightly dragging their way from your knee to your hip and then up the flesh of your stomach, a mild and delicious friction. Before those fingers can reach the swell of your breast, your hands come up to halt their journey. Intertwining your fingers with his, you bring Dieter’s now somewhat bubble-covered hand up for a kiss, avoiding the worst of the soapy aftertaste by pressing your lips high on his pulse point.

When you make eye contact, his gaze still looks wild with love.

"Relaxed, angel?"

"Ever so."

You look over at him and find he's set a tray down on a bar cart that has appeared from somewhere in the room. On it, a box of four pralines from your favourite chocolatier, a chilled bottle of champagne, and a joint resting on the edge of a beautiful glass ashtray. It must be new because its colours are too perfect to not have been picked out lovingly by Dieter to match the room.

You sit up slightly. Happy birthday to you, indeed.

"May I join you?" The reverence in his voice feels it’s been magnified by the room.

"We've talked about this, baby. Water makes for horrible lube."

"I just want to cuddle with my birthday girl."

This Dieter, so tender, so vulnerably in love in a way that he never let himself be before you. You sense in this moment that he truly feels he needs permission to be allowed to just be in your space for a while, a hesitance fueled by past regrets and insecurities that even the promise and protection of this new house have not fully squashed. No matter. You are more than happy to affirm just how welcome in your arms he will always be.

You smile, nodding sleepily, and he sheds his clothing. You're so relaxed, so enveloped in warmth, that you almost forget to admire his bare body as he climbs in to join you. Almost. Thank goodness the part of your brain that always wants him, is always drawn to his form, isn't actually taking a holiday so you can admire.

When he's settled with his back against the side of the bath, Dieter pulls the cart over so that everything is in reach. He pops the champagne, handing you a glass, then brings one of the chocolates to his mouth, holding it in his teeth and wriggling his eyebrows playfully in a suggestion for you to take it from him.

You giggle and indulge him, using your hands to grip the edge tub on either side of his body and pull yourself through the water until you are practically chest to chest, nose to nose. Too close for true eye contact, but you can't help but pick one of his eyes to focus on, letting yourself go a bit crosseyed to try and send him every wonderful thing you have been feeling this evening directly through your gaze.

Slowly, gently, you close the remaining distance and bite the praline in half, letting your lips drag against his as the chocolate begins to melt on your tongue. It's perfectly bitter and smooth.

Dieter consumes the rest.

"Mmm. A not too sweet for my not too sweet."

The snort that leaves your body firmly disrupts the headiness of the moment, the exhalation forming a crater in the bubbles and making you further devolve into giggles when you have to bring a hand up to brush away a clump of the soapy fuzz that sticks to his cheek.

You press your forehead against Dieter's damp shoulder and feel the rise and fall of it as he joins you in mirth, arm coming up around you so you don't slide away from him as you once again relax into the water.

As the wave of laughter subsides, your breathing synchronizes with his and you let yourself soak in the quiet. A perfect christening of this tub. He presses a kiss to the side of your head.

"I love you, angel. Happy birthday."

#the bubble #the bubble fanfic #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #me: wednesday is probably a good quiet day to post this #pedro: hold my beer #but i'm still posting it anyway because if i don't i'm just going to keep obsessively poking at it #also this is queued for while i’m sleeping so if you know what time it is for me rn i promise i’m at least pretending to be asleep

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