#towel bars and hooks

[worstreligiousfanart]

Bathroom - Farmhouse Powder Room Mid-sized country porcelain tile, multicolored floor and shiplap wall powder room photo with white walls, a vessel sink, wood countertops and a floating vanity

[missroxelot]

Bathroom - Rustic Bathroom

small mountain style Photo of an alcove bathtub with 3/4 beige tile, ceramic tile, and a brown floor. It also features shaker cabinets, dark wood cabinets, granite countertops, a two-piece toilet, beige walls, and gray countertops.

[bathroomforless]

At Bathroom4Less, the UK's leading bathroom supplier of eco-friendly bathroom products, we offer a wide range of high-quality bath accessories to enhance your space. From stylish basin wastes, overflow filler wastes, and bottle traps, to elegant bath panels, bath screens, and robe hooks, we’ve got you covered. Explore our collection of shelves, towel bars & rails, soap dishes & dispensers, shower baskets, curtain rails, shower tray wastes, and more. For toilet accessories like toilet roll holders, trust Bathroom4Less for superior quality!

[blooniverse]

Bathroom - Beach Style Bathroom Mid-sized beach style kids' white tile and porcelain tile porcelain tile and white floor bathroom photo with flat-panel cabinets, light wood cabinets, a one-piece toilet, white walls, an undermount sink, quartz countertops, a hinged shower door and white countertops

[sadiesdoll]

hiiii! i love your writing so much 💕 i had an idea for a sevika x reader, where sevika goes to the gym quite a bit and reader decides to join her just for fun.

. ݁₊ 🪽 . ݁˖ sevika helps you stretch.

contains: semi-public sex, size kink, strength kink, praise kink, abs riding, clothed grinding, light dom!sevika, mild overstimulation

Enjoy ♡

You didn't really mean to join Sevika at the gym.

It had started out as a joke—something you'd teased her about every time she came home looking like she'd bench-pressed a whole city block. But then one night, half-curled on the couch and high off the smell of her sweat-damp collar, you mumbled something like "maybe I'll come with you sometime..." and Sevika had just raised an eyebrow and said, "Alright. Tomorrow."

And now here you are.

Standing in the middle of a mostly empty gym with way too much equipment, way too many mirrors, and absolutely no idea what the fuck anything is.

Sevika's already working on something behind you—grunting low, the heavy clank of weights echoing every time she lifts. You glance over your shoulder just in time to catch the sleeveless hell she's got going on: arms flexed, tank top damp with sweat, gray joggers hugging her hips so perfectly it should be illegal.

You blink. Then look away fast.

Focus. You're here to bond. Support your girlfriend. Try something new.

You walk up to one of the machines— something with big padded handles and complicated-looking instructions—and confidently grab one of the bars.

Then freeze.

"What does this even do...?"

"You're about to dislocate your spine, baby."

You yelp and spin around. Sevika's behind you now, all towering and smug and shimmering with sweat, towel slung around her neck like she owns the entire building.

Which... technically, she kind of does. The gym manager adores her. Let's her in after hours. Always tells her to "lock up when you're done, champ."

"I-I knew that," you lie immediately, stepping back from the machine.

Sevika snorts. "Sure you did."

And before you can blink, she's stepping behind you—hands on your hips, warm and huge and grounding-and leaning down, her breath brushing your neck as she speaks.

"Let me show you."

Your pulse spikes. She's not even trying to be sexy. That's the worst part. She's just being her—confident and unbothered and strong as fuck.

She reaches around you to grab the handles, her arms bracketing yours, her body flush against your back. You feel the ripple of her stomach muscles every time she exhales, feel the press of her thighs behind yours.

"You wanna engage your core," she murmurs, adjusting your stance with ease.

"Keep your arms loose. Don't lock your joints."

You nod, barely absorbing the words. Her hands dip lower—grazing your stomach, guiding your hips back into place.

"Right here," she says, her voice rough and low. "This is where you wanna feel it."

You whimper.

Whimper.

Out loud.

Sevika freezes for a second. Then—fucking smirks.

"Y'know," she murmurs, voice practically a purr now, "you're not really here to work out, are you?"

You try to turn around, deny it, say something—anything—but she hooks an arm around your waist and lifts you off the ground like it's nothing. Just fucking picks you up and carries you two steps over to the stretch mats like a goddamn protein-drunk caveman.

You squeak. She laughs.

"Sit down," she says. "We'll try something easier."

You drop to your knees on the mat, cheeks hot, heart racing. You're so flustered you don't even notice Sevika lowering herself down too—until she's flat on her back, arms behind her head, sweat glistening on her chest, abs flexed under her tank like they were sculpted just to ruin your life.

"C'mere."

You blink. "What?"

Sevika taps her stomach. "You wanna learn, right? Come ride."

Your jaw drops.

"I-I thought we were stretching?!"

She smirks. "We are. I'm stretching you." 

She tilts her head. "C'mon, baby. Use me.

Let me make you feel good."

You hesitate for half a second.

Then slowly, very slowly, you swing one leg over her hips, straddling her warm, solid frame. Her abs are like concrete beneath you, and the second your thighs brush them—your whole body reacts.

"Oh," you breathe.

Sevika smiles. Lazy. Hungry.

"There you go. Just like that."

Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and heavy. You rock forward. Once. Tentative.

Her abs flex on purpose.

You gasp.

"Feel that?" she murmurs. "That's all you, baby. Keep going. Take what you need."

You don't even realize how you got here.

One second you're standing on shaky legs, cheeks hot and thighs sore from Sevika's "gentle guidance" on the stretch mats—and the next?

She's flat on her back beneath you, glistening with sweat, arms folded behind her head like she knows she's your undoing.

"C'mon, baby," she murmurs, voice low and lazy. "Right here."

She taps her stomach with two fingers— right between the ridges of her rock-solid abs.

"You said you wanted to try everything."

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again—like maybe words will come out if you just try hard enough.

But nope.

You're too busy staring.

The way her abs flex and ripple under the low gym lights, the way the sweat shines along her chest and drips down her neck, the way her joggers are hanging just a little too low on her hips now—

God.

"W-What if someone—"

"There's no one here," Sevika interrupts, cocky. "We're alone. Lights are off out front. Security system's armed. Doors locked."

You swallow. That should make you feel better. But all it does is make your heart pound.

You're really gonna do this.

In the gym. On Sevika's abs. While she watches.

You climb over her slowly, thighs straddling her waist, knees sinking into the mat. You're already warm between your legs-buzzing with tension from the sheer filth of the moment. The second your clothed cunt brushes against her stomach, you feel it.

The heat. The pressure. The flex.

Like her body was made for this.

Sevika's eyes drop to the spot where you hover over her, and she bites down on a groan.

"Shit," she mutters. "Look at you."

Her hands grip your hips—gentle but firm, grounding you like you might float away.

"You nervous, sweetheart?"

You nod, your skin tingling with warmth. "A little..."

"That's okay," she breathes, voice velvet-dark. "You don't have to do anything. Just sit right here. I've got you."

You let her guide you down slowly. Her abs are hot and solid beneath you—each breath she takes making them twitch, flex, pulse right against your soaked underwear.

You gasp. Your hips jolt.

Sevika grins. "Yeah. That's it. Feel that?

You're already making a mess."

You slap a hand over your mouth. She catches your wrist.

"Uh-uh. Don't hide from me, baby."

She presses your hand to her chest instead—right over her racing heart.

"Feel that? You're the reason it's beating like this."

You moan—actually moan—and Sevika's stomach tightens. The flex sends a jolt straight to your clit.

You grind. Just once. Just to feel it again.

It's heaven.

The ridges of her abs roll beneath you with every movement, perfectly shaped to catch on the exact spot that makes your legs shake.

She doesn't rush you.

She just lies there. Watching you. Letting you use her. Whispering little praises every time your hips stutter.

"Good girl..."

"Look at you, making a mess on my abs like you were made for it."

"Fuck, baby, keep going—just like that."

And God, the eye contact—the eye contact is killing you. Her head tipped back, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, lips parted just enough to show teeth every time she groans your name.

You feel her abs flex again beneath you—this time harder, on purpose—and your hips stutter.

"S-Sev..."

"Yeah, sweetheart?" Her tone is smug now. Wicked. "Gonna cum on my stomach like a needy little thing? You gonna soak me right here in the gym where anyone could see?"

You whimper. You're so close. Your puffy clit reacting to every grind. You didn't even know you could get off like this, but—

Sevika leans up suddenly on one elbow, her face right in yours.

"Be a good girl," she growls, "and cum for me."

You do.

Hard.

It hits you like a goddamn wave—legs shaking, thighs clenching, your cum dripping down your thighs, a cry tearing out of your throat as your body grinds helplessly down on her, soaking through the thin fabric between you.

Sevika's arms wrap around your waist instantly, holding you steady as you ride it out. Her lips brush your ear.

"Fuck," she whispers. "You're so fucking perfect when you lose control like that."

You bury your face in her shoulder, panting, too wrecked to speak.

She chuckles—low and smug.

Then she grabs your ass with both hands and squeezes.

"Round two," she murmurs, voice dark again, "starts when you stop shaking."

thank you so much for the request <3

[wheeloffortune-design]

what are some of your favorite "hacks" for working with an ADHD brain?

I love optimizing my house to make things easier. Stuff that works for me:

Phone chargers in every spot where I tend to hang out (bed, couch, desk, kitchen table). They need to be long chargers, so I can lie down however I want, not fold myself uncomfortably because it's too short.

Bins where I tend to hang out, always at arms reach. I need to be able to immediately throw the trash or it'll stay there forever.

I removed the doors to the pantry, from my closet, I took off the drawers of the fridge, so I can always see what's in there and reduce the lack of object permanence.

I have a ton of clothes, so I can do laundry like, once every two weeks, or sometimes in dire circumstances, once a month.

Dry shampoo and baby wipes for the times where even showering is too hard.

Snacks and granola bars when eating is too hard.

I fold my clothes vertically in the drawers so I can see them all and stop forgetting they exist.

My jewelery is in transparent plastic boxes with little divisions (they're craft boxes from the dollar store). I can see what's in there and again STOP FORGETTING THEY EXIST

The phone alarm is not enough to wake me up so I got an old fashioned radio alarm and placed it outside my room. It's hell, but whatever it takes.

Hooks over doors, in every room. In my bedroom, that's where I hang my jeans, hoodies, whatever I use often.

On the doors again, shoe organizers, the kinds you hang. That's where the hats, mittens, scarves, belts, end up.

Never closed storage, always open shelves. Closed storage is where things go die.

The hooks near the front door are for keys but also small earphones, since I only need them when I go out. (the earphones are the ones with cable because i lose the airbuds and never remember to charge them)

Cleaning wipes in every room.

Face cleaning wipes on every desk. Careful not to confuse them.

The mop is the kind with a water bottle attached where you just spray and clean. That's like a million steps removed and you can easily clean that tomato sauce stain.

So many shelves, guys, I added shelves on the top of dressers. Things I use rarely go in labeled transparent plastic bins. always transparent.

Actually everything needs its own spot. Mess comes from things that have no specific spot. I'm still figuring out how to optimise some stuff. This week I bought a modular shoe rack from the dollar store, assembled it vertically, and it fit in a corner of the bathroom. Now I know where towels can go.

The spots where I hang out need to be comfortable. My bed, the couch, the desk, there's always a blanket, a fan, a humidifier near. Discomfort is the concentration killer.

A huge pan. I need to be able to cook massive portions because I don't cook often. My go to recipe is tons of veggies in a spaghetti sauce.

Boxes to drop my hairties, earrings, etc, in every spot I hang out.

Seriously, shelves, bins, dividers, displays, presenters, the dollar store is a treasure trove of adhd tools. The best ailes are: home organisation, crafts, school supplies, and strangely, makeup organizers. The point is to find the way to organize your stuff so it pleases your brain, and make living and cleaning easier. You go with your brain, not against it.

.... that’s most of it, I think. also no amount of organization will beat medication and therapy, but it all comes together for an easier life.

(oh yeah, this might confuse you into thinking my house is clean. is it definitely not.)

[leclerc-hs]

a smut where you and Charles aren’t together but he likes you and found out you fucked another driver?

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which you and your best friend have always been oddly close OR charles fucks you hard on your couch warnings: 18+, smut under the cut!!!, angst??, bad french translation, not proofread!!!! word count: ~3.4k author's note: hi not sure if this is exactly what you wanted but this is what i came up with :) xoxo

“Votre relation n’est pas normale.” Your relationship is not normal. Camille murmured softly as she reached over your shoulder, her fingers grazing the wooden bar as she retrieved her drink.

Confusion etched itself across your face, a tapestry of furrowed brows and wide, searching eyes. “On es tamis depuis tojours.” We’ve been friends since forever. You shrug your shoulders with a small smile. “It’s normal.”

“He’s all over you. Constantly.” You watch her eyes wander over to Charles, seated at the table invested in conversation with the rest of your friends. “Even when he’s not with you, he’s checking on you every second he can.”

Your stomach flutters with a cascade of butterflies at the very mention. Yet, it didn’t matter. You were friends. You let out a soft laugh, brushing off her words as you take a leisurely sip of your drink. 

“It means nothing, Cami.” You state. “Besides, I may or may not have hooked up with Lando last week.”

Camille’s fingers deliver a gentle but affection smack of your shoulder, her eyes sparkling in mischief as she gasps in amusement, the sound of her laughter ringing with a warm, melodic tone.

“Mauvaise fille!” Bad girl!

“We were drunk.”

“Was it any good at least?”

A faint, approving smile tugs at the corners of your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the pleasure. Camille responds with another tender, playful tap to your shoulder. 

“We agreed it was a one time thing only though.” You catch the bartender’s eye behind Camille and give a subtle, practiced nod, signaling for a much-needed refill.

“Qu’est-ce qu’une chose unique?” What’s a one-time thing?

You jump, slightly startled by the ambush. His voice warm.

“Rien.” Nothing. You glance over at the bartender, who has already forgotten about your request for a refill. Charles, noticing your empty glass and the delay, quickly catches the bartender’s eye with a decisive wave. Within moment, he efficiently arranges your drink to be refilled, ensuring its back in your hand in less than a minute.

“All better now, ma lapin?” My bunny. You turn your head to look at him, and a radiant smile spreads across your lips, lighting up your expression with warmth and affection.

Across from you, Camille stifles a snort, her amusement barely contained. The sound prompts you to narrow your eyes at her, a mix of curiosity and mild irritation flickering in your gaze.

Charles casually mentions that he’s heading back to the table, but before he goes, he rests his hand lightly on the small of your back, his touch warm and reassuring.

He leans in, his breath tickling your ear as he murmurs softly, “Take it easy tonight, yeah?”

The intimate proximity and his gentle tone sends a soothing shiver down your spine. You nod in acknowledgment, and with a final, lingering look that seems to convey both care and encouragement, he turns and makes his way back to the table.

“He’s so gone for you.”

-

The sun blazes high and fierce, casting a bright glare over the padel court. The air is thick and hot, and it wraps around Charles as he steps off the court for a water break.

Charles can feel the sweat beginning to bead on his brow, trickling down his face as he grabs a towel to wipe his face.

The players around him, equally drenched and exhausted.

Carlos twists the cap of his water bottle with a soft, satisfying pop, the cool hiss of escaping air mingling. As he takes a refreshing sip, he looks over at Charles with a casual yet intrigued expression. His eyes, bright with curiosity, as he casually asks, “What are you doing tonight?”

Charles tosses his sweat-soaked towel onto the bench with a practiced flick, the fabric landing in a damp heap. He then runs his hands down his drenched shirt, attempting to absorb some of the perspiration clinging to his skin. The fabric clings to him, darkened and heavy with sweat, as he wipes his face, the effort evident in every move.

Charles glances at his phone, his eyes catching the sight of two unread messages from you displayed on the lock screen. His gaze flickers to Carlos, who has also noticed the notification, his eyes shifting towards Charles with a curious glint.

“Are you seeing her later?”

“I mean, most likely,” Charles replies with a nonchalant shrug, his attempt to maintain a casual demeanor barely hiding the faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “She’s my best friend.”

“Just a best friend?” Lando then interjects, curiosity sparkling in his eyes as he studies Charles.

Charles nods, taking a deep, refreshing gulp from his own water bottle.

“Oh, thank god,” Lando exhales loudly, a wave of relief evident in his voice. “I thought you two might be more than that. I was seriously worried you’d kill me if you found out we hooked up. I mean it was just casual, nothing serious.” 

Charles seemed to freeze in place as soon as the words ‘hooked up’ left Lando’s lips. His demeanor shifted; the casual shrug was replaced by a look of stunned disbelief, his eyes widening slightly. The color in his cheeks deepened, and for a moment, it was as if he had temporarily stopped functioning.

“You did what?” Charles’s voice dropped almost an entire octave, harsh and edged with disbelief. The sudden shift in tone sliced through the air.

Lando raises his hands in a defensive gesture, his expression a blend of alarm and pleading. His wide eyes and slightly raised eyebrows convey a silent, desperate plea that said please don’t kill me

Charles could feel the frustration boiling in his chest, an unsettling mix of anger and disbelief churning within him. His mind seemed to short-circuit at the realization that you had slept with Lando; the very thought impossible to him. The notion that you, someone so significant to him, had been with someone else, especially Lando, made him feel sick. You’re his.

Charles stepped back onto the padel court with a palpable edge, his frustration visibily simmering. As he gripped his racket, each swing was swung with a fierce, and angry energy. His movements were sharp and aggressive, the ball smacking hard against the racket with a stinging crack. 

He darted across the court with a tension that made every step seemed charged, his eyes narrowing in concentration and irritation at Lando on the other side of the court. Each volley and smash seemed to resonate with his internal anger, the intensity of the game mirroring the brewing frustration inside of him.

No matter how hard he hit the ball, or how hard he worked his body in the game, the burning sensation in his chest never faded.

-

You were in the middle of pulling dinner out of the oven, a roasted chicken with sliced baby potatoes, when you heard the front door of your apartment creak open, its familiar sound echoing through the quiet kitchen. The gentle groan of the hinges hinting at someone entering. Your ears perked up at the sound, but you weren’t alarmed. A quick glance towards the door confirmed your suspicion: Charles was the only other person with a key to your apartment. 

The rich smell of rosemary and garlic filled the apartment, their scents weaving through the air. Charles inhaled deeply, unable to suppress a soft, appreciative groan from the smell. 

You carefully set the dish on top of the stove, and with a swift nudge of your hip, close the oven door. Your attire is simple and cozy, a very large sweatshirt that swallows you in its oversized embrace. Charles can’t help but smile at you, the burning in his chest fading just slightly.

Charles casually drops his phone, wallet, and keys onto the edge of the countertop nearest the kitchen archway. A tired but genuine smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he approaches you. He pulls you into a warm embrace, his chest offering comforting solidity. He’s dressed in a grey pair of sweatpants and a navy t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from a recent shower. The contrast between his casual, relaxed appearance made your insides feel like goo. 

You can’t help but notice a subtle shift in Charles, his demeanor more reserved than usual. Despite his warm smile and appreciative comments about dinner, and the occasional small talk, there’s an unmistakable quietness about him.

His words come more infrequently, and when he does speak his responses are rather brief, lacking the usual depth and enthusiasm.

The contrast between his silence and typically engaging nature leaves you lingering with a sense of concern as you bury your body under a heap of blankets on the plush couch.

Charles settles beside you on the couch, his feet propped up comfortably on the coffee table. The soft glow of the TV, which is playing a random movie neither of you are really paying attention to, casts a gentle light across the room. The flickering screen illuminates his features in a warm, calming way.

“Il y a quelque chose qui ne va pas?” Is something wrong?

His head immediately turns to you, an unmistakable glint in his eyes. “Hm?” He plays it off, not really sure if he’s ready to have this conversation just yet.

“What’s wrong?” You say again, turning your body to face him now. “You’ve been so quiet tonight.”

He gazes at you for a few moments, his eyes distant and contemplative, as if he’s lost in a deep, lingering thought. The silence between you two stretches, its weight almost palpable, and you can’t help but feel a growing sense of unease.

“You can tell-“ You don’t even get to finish your sentence.

In the blink of an eye, his hands move to the back of your head with sudden, determined force. He pulls you towards him, and before you can fully grasp what’s happening, his lips crash against yours in a fierce, unexpected kiss.

You react almost instinctively, your fingers reaching out and gripping his shoulders not to push him away, but to draw him closer. The urgency and depth of his kiss awakens a surge of emotion, and you pull him towards you, deepening the connection between you. Your hips immediately begin rolling into him, almost an involuntary move.

It takes an even shorter amount of time for his tongue to slip into your mouth, his hands trailing to the back of your knee, grasping it and slipping it over his lap, until you’re fully seated on his lap.

He doesn’t break the kiss. No, for a few minutes it’s just all tongue and teeth clashing. Not even gentle. If he could swallow you whole, he would.

It’s not until you pull back, your lips tingling and swollen, and your breath coming in short, ragged gasps, that you finally meet his gaze. His once vibrant green eyes are now completely darkened, their usual brilliance replaced by an intense, smoldering depth that reflects the fervor of the moment.

He’s insanely hard as you rut against him, your hips involuntarily slowly rolling against him like you have no control of your body.

“That’s it, fuck,” He groans, guiding your hips to grind against him harder. A measly pair of sleep shorts and sweatpants layered between you both. “Such a good girl, yeah?”

Soft whimpers escape your lips, your breath hot on his ear as drop your head forward into the crevice of his neck.

You’re uncertain about what this means for the two of you, but you know you can’t stop. The room is thick with tension, the air charged with unspoken words and electric anticipation. The burning sensation in your stomach intensifies, a fiery knot of emotions. Meanwhile, Charles feels as if his heart might burst from his chest, its rapid beats echoing in the depth of his feelings and raw intensity of the moment.

Your cheeks are scarlet red, and it isn’t until your orgasm approaches that your hips are moving at a feverish pace. No longer able to even fully kiss him as your mouth widens and soft high- pitched moans escape against his own mouth. And he swallows every moan you give him. 

He gives you no time to recover before his large fingers are sprawled across your neck, shoving you down to the couch onto your back and slipping your sleep shorts off. The cool air of your apartment is a stark contrast to your soaked core.

“Please,” You beg, Charles fingers still pressed into the soft skin of your neck, no doubt leaving little marks. 

For a moment, Charles takes in the sight before him. His cock twitches against the band of his sweatpants, he’s so hard that it’s almost painful. 

“What do you need?”

“Charlie please, I really need you to fuck me.” You plead again, breaking Charles out of whatever trance he was in. 

It’s hurried. He reaches behind his head with one hand, grasping a fist full of fabric of his navy t-shirt before pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. A rush of not so smooth moments as he shoves his sweatpants and boxers down. They aren’t even completely off, resting just below his knees because he’s in too much of a hurry to finally be inside of you.

He leans his full weight into you, slipping his cock into you slowly. The burning sensation feels too good that you can’t help but bite your lips to refrain from moaning too loudly.

It’s not until he’s fully bottomed out inside of you that he tilts his head forward with a brutal moan, the chords in his neck prominent as your walls clench tightly around him.

“Fuck,” He mutters, not moving his hips yet. “You’re a tight little thing, aren’t you?”

You were shaking at this point. At how much he filled you. His cock was pressed up deliciously against your walls. He could feel your walls trembling against him, and he hadn’t even moved yet.

He rests with both arms at the sides of your head now, one more rested on his elbow while the other was locked straight as he begins rolling his hips into her, not even full strokes yet as he lets your body adjust to him.

Your eyes sparkle up at him with a smile tugged on your lips, and he swears his heart might beat out of his chest.

It’s not until his hand slips under the back of your knee again, guiding it up until its pressed to your chest that he picks up the pace of his hips. His fingers grip your leg tightly, his full body weight leaning into the pressure of his grip on your leg.

You couldn’t handle the way he was staring at you. A smirk toyed on his lips. 

For a flash of a moment, the image of you and Lando flickers into his mind. Driving him crazy.

He was ruthless. Fucking you deep and hard into the cushions of the couch. Your fingers gripped his arms, digging your nails into the skin of his biceps.

Your pussy flutters around his cock. “Do that again,” He groans. So you do. “Fuck, just like that.”

You’re not sure how it was possible, but he begins to pump his length into you at a deeper and more intense angle.

His breaths were jagged in heavy in your ear as he drops down, his chest now pressed to yours. “Open up, baby.” His voice is hushed, deep breaths in between each word like he’s struggling.

You don’t even need to ask, opening your mouth he lets the spit of his mouth fall into yours in a stringy mess. “Oh, God.” You groan at the sensation of his spit in your mouth.

It only takes a few more minutes before you’re shoving your head deep into the cushions, your head lolled back in pure pleasure as your orgasm crashes into you, throbbing and shaking around his cock. You cried out shamelessly, unable to stop your body from shaking.

“Fill me up, please” You beg. “Need you inside of me.”

Charles can feel his resolve slipping. “Yeah?”

You nod feverishly as Charles slows the pace of his hips, still hitting in harsh and calculated strokes. He came with a loud groan, his face pressed into the crevice of your neck as he loses all senses of strength and collapses on top of you.

For a few moments, you just lay there with him on top of you, paying attention to the heavy even breaths you both share. Eventually, you both move in silence. Charles making sure to clean you up with the care and concern he always has for you. Your heart lurches in your chest as he removes the wet cloth from you, all cleaned up now.

“Are you okay?” You ask with slight concern. “That was-“

He cuts you off. “Did you really fuck Lando?”

His words have you caught completely off guard, your cheeks reddening almost instantly. “Where did you hear that?” You feel the panic form in your throat.

“Where did I hear that?” He repeats, his tone sharp. “That’s all you have to say?”

“No,” you say, your fingers gently playing with the delicate baby hairs at the nape of Charles’s neck. “I mean, yes.” You take a deep breath and come clean. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He scoffs slightly, his hands finding a comfortable grip on the flesh of your hips, the hem of your sweatshirt bunched around them.

“God, you really don’t know do you?” He adds, his head falling back against the couch cushions. A deep breath escaping his chest as he shuts his eyes momentarily, his frustration and weariness palpable.

“Know what?” You ask, feeling your heartbeat quicken. A swarm of nerves knots in your stomach as his fingers grip and release your hips in a rhythmic, anxious pattern. 

“That I love you.” He lifts his head, locking his gaze with yours, his eyes intense and sincere as he enunciates each word with a deliberate clarity. “That I’m in love with you.” The weight of the confession hangs in the air, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

“Charlie,” You whisper, feeling an overwhelming rush of emotion. You lean forward, your body naturally collapsing into his chest as his arms slide up your back, enveloping you in a sweet embrace. His hold tightens, drawing you closer, and you nestle against him, the warmth and solidity of his presence providing a comforting anchor. 

“You’re mine,” He says, as if he’s talking to himself. Reminding himself. “You’ve always been mine.”

“My Charlie,” You smile softly. “I love you too.”

[miley1442111]

heyy, i love your writing! I was thinking a rafe x fem reader, where Rafe says they don’t have anything, she was just a hook up etc when he was actually just scared of having feelings for a girl for the first time in his life. she gets with JJ to make him jealous and it works, but instead of being that mad Rafe Cameron he just open his heart and his fears to her (even end up crying a bit)

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mistakes and misjudgements

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a/n: hi! thank you so much for requesting! I love this idea!

pairing: rafe cameron x fem! reader

summary: i suggest you look at the request

warnings: kissing, toxic relationship, rafe is confused, cursing, drinking, suggestive mentions, mentions of rafe's addictions (i think that's it?)

not entirely proofread

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Rafe walked past the bar, his eyes searching for yours. You, the pogue bartender at the club, had caught the Rafe Cameron’s eye, and he wasn’t about to let you go. 

He was met with Jj. His smile dropped, while Jj’s smirk rose. 

“What can I get you, Cameron? A vodka cranberry? I can mix it with the blood of the people you’ve murdered?-”

Jj stopped talking when Rafe leaned in closer. 

“Just a water, thanks.” 

Jj nodded and walked to the fridge to grab him a bottle, and then you walked up, and he watched as Rafe’s demeanour changed. He was softer, sweeter, and funnier. Jj almost laughed out loud at the way Rafe pushed some hair back from your face, that sickly sweet smile on his face. 

Jj moved you over, his hands on your waist and handed Rafe his water. “Water for the gentleman.”

Rafe’s smile dropped. “Thanks man.”

“Oh, Jj, this is my boyfriend, Rafe,” you smiled, introducing the two.

Bile rose in Rafe's stomach. Were you two dating? But that came with so much more than just the fun dates you two were indulging in. That would mean he’d have to be vulnerable with you. And the fact that you hated his drug use, something he’d been struggling to stop for a while now. And he knew you were too good for him, it was only a matter of time before you figured it out yourself and-

His mouth moved before his brain could stop it. “Woah,” Rafe deflected. “I’m not her boyfriend, we’re just… casual,” he shrugged. 

Your face fell and Rafe had never felt so bad. “Right, casual.”

You hated that word. You hated how he used it. You hated how you thought, even just for a second, that you would settle for that.

Jj’s smile widened. “Well, there’s your water. See you ‘round Kook,” and with that, Jj turned his back on Rafe and turned to you. “You alright?”

You nodded, more annoyed than anything else. “He’s such an asshole.”

“I hate to say ‘I told you so’, but I did warn you-” before he could finish you hit him with a towel, which ended up in a towel fight in the bar, neither of you aware of the searing eyes of Rafe Cameron. 

Maybe he’d fucked up. Maybe he did want to be your boyfriend. 

Maybe. 

Jj was appalled at what Rafe had done. Casual? What was wrong with him? He had the prettiest, kindest, most amazing girl on the island, if not the world, and he was throwing it away, for what? To fuck other people? That didn’t make any sense. So you two made a plan.  

He was going to ask you out. Now, Jj liked you, yes, but as a friend. You liked Jj, yes, but again, as a friend. So you two could ‘go out’ with each other and make Rafe jealous. For the simple reason of principal, you had to make Rafe pay, it was only fair. 

---------------------

When you walked into the party, you immediately found Jj and clung to him for the whole night. Everyone was talking about you two, especially since most people thought you were dating Rafe. 

You two danced, drank, and even made out, and by the end of the night, you knew you’d sent a message Rafe’s way by the amount of texts you’d received.  

Rafe: Wtf are you doing with him?

Rafe: Text me back.

Rafe: Stop being so close to him. Come talk to me 

Rafe: Please Y/n.

Rafe: I got the fucking message now stop it.

Rafe: You have my attention, you always do. Get off of him.

Rafe: Please come talk to me.

Rafe: Y/n stop.

Rafe: Please. 

Rafe: I know I fucked up, come on. This isn’t fair.

Rafe: I made a mistake Y/n, I’m sorry.

Rafe: Fuck this, I’ll be at Tanneyhill when you’re ready to talk to me like an adult. 

Rafe: Please talk to me. Please.

You chuckled as you read through the messages, Sarah by your side. 

“Oh my god! That’s why he was so upset leaving the party!” she laughed. 

Your stomach dropped. Rafe shouldn't have been upset, he didn't care about you, right? You were just another girl he was talking to and planning on fucking, right? “What do you mean?”

“Oh yeah, Kelce was telling me he was super worked up and upset all night so he left. He didn’t even do anything but he was pacing the entire night. Top though he’d had a panic attack.”

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath. “Hey, I think I might call it a night,” you turned to the group. 

“Aww come on! The night’s just started,” Kiara pleaded, you chuckled and shook your head. 

“I’m tired!” you lied. “And I have work tomorrow.”

You needed to talk to Rafe right now. 

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The walk from the beach to Tanneyhill was quick but full of quiet and anxious scenarios. You didn’t mean to make him upset, you just wanted to show him what he was missing. He embarrassed you earlier, and you wanted to get him back. You never meant to cause harm. 

You knocked on the door, hoping he was ok, and internally hoping it would be him to open the door, considering you were wearing a very short dress that you knew Rose would turn her nose up at. 

The door swung open to reveal… Rafe. 

But he looked… upset? His eyes were red-rimmed and his nose was sniffly, he’d been crying. You’d made him cry. 

“Hi,” he sniffled, and your heart just broke. Your Rafe had been crying over you.  

You cupped his cheeks and pulled him closer. “I’m sorry,” you whispered and he shook his head, trying to hold back more tears. 

“It’s fine,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and tired. 

“It’s not. I’m so sorry Rafe,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek and that was all it took, the floodgates opened and he wrapped his arms around you, allowing him to be held by you. You sank down to the steps and let him cry into your neck for a few minutes. You softly brushed through his hair with your fingers and whispered hushed apologies and promises of everything being ok. After a few minutes he was coherent enough to speak. He pulled back, wiping his eyes with his hand as you sat beside him, confused and feeling awful. 

“I got so… jealous for a while, seeing you and Jj at work. I have no idea why. A-and then at the party, I saw you two just laughing a-and ha-having fun,” he hiccuped. “And I realised that I-I’m not like that. I’m not f-funny. I don’t make you laugh. I’m not ve-very fun to b-be around.” 

Your heart broke as you saw the little known insecure side of Rafe Cameron. Obviously, Jj and Rafe were different people, but you enjoyed Rafe’s dad jokes, just as much as you enjoyed Jj’s dry sarcasm. You and Jj had known each other practically since birth, so obviously you were more relaxed around him than with Rafe. Especially with Rafe, at the beginning you were so tense on every date, always worried that you were going to say the wrong thing, since this was your first real relationship. 

“I love being around you,” you cooed, cupping his cheek. “I think you’re funny. You make me laugh all the time.”

He nodded. “B-but I’m not like that, I’m… different. I’m not e-easy to be with, with the d-drinking and the baggage, and the drugs. I know that, a-and I promise I’m trying to change, t-to be better f-for you, it’s just h–hard. A-and I’m so scared that I’m going to lose you i-if I do the wrong thing.” 

“You’re not going to lose me,” you promised. “I swear.”

“But you and Jj-?”

“I was… trying to make you jealous,” you admitted, slightly embarrassed. 

“Oh,” he sighed. “That’s g-good. ‘Cause I really like you. And I want you to be my girlfriend.” 

You smiled. “I’m all yours Rafe, and we’ll work through it all together. I’m here for you, always.”

You took his hand in your and smiled. 

His other hand came up to cup your cheek, and he pressed his lips to yours in a soft kiss.

You'd get through it all, together.

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obx masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

[moondustbaby]

Totally Chill About It

bsf!Rafe x bsf!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

summary: You hooked up with someone last night, and Rafe shows up the next morning like nothing’s changed—joking, stealing your blanket, and absolutely not caring. (Except maybe he does. Just a little.)

⸻

You’re still in bed when you hear the front door open. No knock, no warning, just the telltale creak and the unmistakable sound of Rafe letting himself in like he pays rent.

You groan into your pillow, not even bothering to lift your head. “You’re early.”

“I’m on time,” he calls back. “You’re just dramatic.”

Heavy footsteps. A pause outside your door.

You peek up from the sheets just in time to see him lean on the doorframe, sipping from the iced coffee he clearly stopped to get for himself, and only himself.

He gives you one long, amused once-over.

“Well, well, well,” he says. “Walk of shame still walkin’?”

You roll your eyes and flop back onto your pillow, the comforter still tucked high on your chest. You’re wearing just your underwear and one of your tank tops—nothing scandalous, especially not to Rafe, who has seen you in everything from bikinis to literal childhood bath towels.

“I didn’t walk anywhere,” you mumble. “He left like an hour ago.”

“Tragic,” Rafe deadpans. “Can’t believe I missed him. I wanted to shake his hand.”

You lift your head again just enough to glare at him. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins, strolling into your room like he owns it. “C’mon, I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being something.”

He drops onto the edge of your bed, stealing your blanket like he always does, fully invading your personal space without a second thought.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re weirdly chipper about this.”

“I’m always chipper.”

You hum, unconvinced. “If I hooked up with someone last night, shouldn’t you be, I don’t know… concerned?”

He shrugs. “You’re a grown-up. You can make your own mistakes.”

“Wow. So supportive.”

“I am supportive!” He nudges your shoulder, still grinning. “I even brought you this.”

He tosses something onto your chest. It’s a protein bar.

You blink. “Seriously?”

“What? Figured you’d be low on nutrients.”

You groan and throw it back at him. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You don’t.

You fall back against the pillows with a sigh, and Rafe lays down beside you like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Which, honestly, it is.

His arm settles behind your head. His leg hooks lazily over yours. His breath is warm against your temple when he says, quietly, “Did you like him?”

You turn your face toward him. “What?”

“The guy. Was he… nice to you?”

Your stomach flutters, but not in the way it did last night.

“Yeah,” you say. “He was fine.”

Rafe hums, eyes fixed on the ceiling now. “Fine sounds boring.”

You smile a little. “Yeah. It was.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he glances at you, smirk back in place. “Bet he didn’t even get you coffee.”

You grin, nudging him with your elbow. “You didn’t either.”

“I get you coffee every time I come over,” he says, offended. “Today is about you learning to appreciate me.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s warm. You’re pretty sure he knows.

He shifts a little closer. “Just saying,” he adds, voice low, teasing. “If you’re gonna waste time hooking up with guys who don’t know your coffee order, I should at least get to bully you about it.”

You laugh. “Fine. You win. You’re the superior man.”

“I know.”

You snort and bury your face in his hoodie. He doesn’t move.

He never does.

And even though he’s acting chill, even though the teasing is loud and the tension is quiet—somewhere beneath it all, you both know exactly what you’re doing.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: rafe said “i’m totally fine with this” and then proceeded to lie, joke, steal your blanket, and bully you into dumping a guy who isn’t even your boyfriend. this is for the girlies who swear they’re “just best friends” while letting him lay in their bed post-hookup like it’s totally normal. unhinged asks and requests always welcomed 🙃

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests! 💌

Masterlist

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@psychicnatural @superlegend216 @rafesbabygirlx

[verricherri]

If you still have slots available for req I would love a little sequel to "yours officially" about like a public date at a dinner or bar or smth (sfw)💋💋

(P.s. I'm the one who requested that one!!)

Yours, Out Loud

A/N: This one’s a follow-up to “Yours, Officially” — written from an ask that absolutely demanded a proper date night 🍒 consider it a sequel, but yes, it can totally be read as a standalone if you're just here for soft, flustered Rhett. Warnings: Prepare to cut your chest open and let soft Rhett stomp all over your heart. you will not emotionally recover. you will crave more, Rhett saying things he means. Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

It started with a knock on your door. A real one. Three short raps and a deep breath on the other side like whoever was doing it had spent the last half hour talking themselves into it.

You opened it.

There stood Rhett Abbott — thumbs hooked in his belt loops, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in one hand like it might bite him. He looked clean, like too clean, shirt tucked in properly for once, hair doing that slightly-too-perfect swoop like he’d combed it more than once and hated himself for it.

You blinked. “Well, hey.” He nodded. “Hey.” You eyed the bouquet. “I see someone raided a garden.” He glanced down at the wild mess of daisies, dandelions, and something vaguely purple. “Amy said I needed somethin’ rustic. This count?”

You reached out, taking them from his hands. “Very rustic. Especially the dandelion with half its fluff missing.” “I was gonna swap it out,” he muttered. You smirked. “But you didn’t.” “Nope.”

He cleared his throat. Looked at the flowers. Looked at you. And then, a little too fast:

“Would you wanna go to dinner with me? Like… a proper one. In town. Just us.” You tilted your head. “Like a date-date?” He nodded. Then quickly added, “If you want.” You tapped a finger against the stems. “Well, since you brought emotional support flowers…”

His brow furrowed.

“I’m saying yes,” you laughed. “Pick me up at seven?”

The smile that broke across his face — you wished you could bottle it.

---

You got ready at your place — alone, thank God — because the way you were fussing with your hair and second-guessing every outfit would’ve sent even the most patient man running. You’d cycled through at least four different options, each one rejected for crimes like too casual, too desperate, too “oops-I’m-just-hot-and-here”, or worst of all: too obvious you’re trying to impress a man who still wears shirts with pearl snaps.

Eventually, you landed on something soft. A little flowy. Not too tight, not too loud, but enough that if someone saw you with him — with Rhett — they’d know: this wasn’t a maybe. This was real.

Meanwhile, back at the Abbott ranch, Rhett was losing a very quiet, very personal battle with his reflection.

“I swear to God, if you change shirts again, I’m takin’ the truck and leavin’ you behind,” Perry grunted as he passed by, chewing on a carrot stick like it was a cigar. “It don’t look right,” Rhett muttered, frowning at his collar in the hallway mirror. “This one’s got a wrinkle.” “You’re the only one who sees it,” Perry deadpanned. “You’ve already ironed that shirt twice.”

From down the hall, Amy’s voice rang out:

“He’s tryin’ to impress her! Let him panic!”

Cecilia peeked out from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“You bringing her flowers again, honey?” Rhett rubbed the back of his neck. “Already did.” She smiled, soft and sure. “Then you’re doin’ just fine.”

He finally decided on a shirt. The same damn one he started with. Changed his hat once. Then again. Then put the original one back on because apparently the second one was his “stupid hat,” according to Amy, and now he was emotionally compromised.

By the time he made it to your place, he’d practiced what he wanted to say six times in the truck. Changed the station. Turned it off. Turned it back on. Took his hat off. Put it back on. Then decided he was being ridiculous and climbed out before he could talk himself out of knocking.

He raised his fist to your door — and you opened it before he got the chance.

Your hair. Your smile. That dress.

Rhett stared. Actually stared. And then forgot how to breathe.

“You alright there, Abbott?” you teased, leaning against the doorframe like you weren’t trying to survive his flustered little half-smile. He blinked. Twice. “Yeah. I just—” He exhaled like the air had knocked him. “You look real good.” You smirked. “You say that like you’re surprised.” “I am,” he said, voice low. “Every time I look at you.” You locked your door behind you, tucking your keys in your purse. “So… was that your official ask?” He looked confused. “What?” You tilted your head. “Are we going out, or am I just admiring your truck from the porch?” Rhett flushed. “Right. Yes. I mean—” He held the passenger door open like a damn gentleman. “Can I take you out tonight?” You raised a brow. “On a real date?” He nodded. “Real as it gets.” You slid into the seat, the scent of leather and cedar filling your lungs. “Then get in before I change my mind.”

He ducked his head, that crooked grin slipping back onto his face as he shut your door and jogged around to the driver’s side.

Once he started the truck and pulled onto the road, you gave it about three seconds of quiet before letting the grin take over your face.

“You know,” you said casually, “Amy told me you changed shirts three times and nearly forgot your wallet.”

He groaned like a man who’d just been shot.

“She wasn’t even supposed to be watchin’—” “She also said you combed your hair twice. And that you threatened to fight Perry for laughing.”

Rhett muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “traitor,” then sank lower in his seat.

“Remind me to ground her.” “You can’t. She’s not yours.” “Still. I’ll find a way.”

You reached over, brushed his knuckles lightly where they gripped the gearshift.

“You nervous, cowboy?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just glanced at you with that quiet kind of intensity, the kind that always made your heart trip a little.

“Not ‘cause of you,” he said finally. “’Cause I don’t want to mess this up.”

Outside, the sky was turning sherbet gold, the quiet hum of the tires filling the space between words.

---

The diner Rhett picked wasn’t fancy — far from it — but it was the kind of place with a cracked leather booth, a jukebox in the corner that only played country from before 2001, and a waitress who knew your name before you even introduced yourself.

“You’re the one sittin’ with an Abbott tonight, huh?” she said with a wink, refilling your water without asking. “Bout time.”

Rhett flushed so deep you thought he might actually melt through the floor.

He’d originally slid into the booth opposite you, hat low, hands on the table like he was bracing for a test.

“You nervous?” you asked, propping your chin on your hand. He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Not nervous. Just… aware.” “Of what?” He hesitated. “That we’re not hiding anymore.” You smiled. “And you don’t like that?” “I didn’t say that,” he murmured, gaze lingering on your mouth a second too long.

You reached across the table and brushed your fingers over his wrist — lightly, deliberately.

He froze. Blinked. Then stood up so fast his knee hit the edge of the table.

“What are you doing?” you laughed as he rounded the booth. “Doesn’t feel right sittin’ across from you,” he muttered, sliding in beside you. “Feels like you’re too far.”

You blinked, startled by how earnest it sounded.

“So now you’re gonna sit next to me in public,” you teased, “like some kind of boyfriend or something?” Rhett turned slightly, resting one arm along the back of the booth. “Ain’t that what I am?”

You looked up at him — really looked — and caught the flicker of anxiety behind his grin. Like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want this out loud.

So you nudged his leg under the table, just lightly, and said, “Took you long enough.”

The food came not long after — burgers and fries, nothing fancy — and Rhett tried to act like he wasn’t watching your every move as you drizzled ketchup in a perfect swirl.

“You do that every time?” he asked. “What?” “Make ketchup look like it belongs in a damn art gallery.” You raised a brow. “You planning to start a sketchbook of my condiment habits, or…?” He laughed under his breath, eyes soft. “I might.”

And for a while, it was easy.

The kind of easy that you didn’t realize you were missing until it settled in your bones.

You talked about little things — Amy’s obsession with ghost stories, how Perry once burned cornbread so bad the smoke alarm shorted out, and the time Royal got locked out of the house wearing nothing but a towel and a whole lot of pride.

Then it happened.

A man at the next booth leaned over, greasy baseball cap low on his brow.

“Didn’t think Rhett Abbott was the dating type,” he said, like he was trying to be funny. “Figured you’d die single and grumpy like your dad.”

You went still.

Rhett didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

Just… clenched his jaw, fingers curling slightly at your waist where they’d been resting.

But instead of tension, something steadier came out of you.

“Well,” you said brightly, “good thing we’re not asking you to join us.”

The man blinked. Rhett… chuckled.

Just once.

Then he pressed his lips to the side of your temple.

“You handled that better than I would’ve,” he said. You grinned. “That’s why you keep me around.”

He let the kiss linger for a beat longer than necessary — not performative, not possessive. Just his way of saying he heard you. And that he wasn’t going anywhere.

---

The walk back to your place wasn’t long — ten minutes, tops — but Rhett insisted on parking the truck at the far end of Main, claiming it was “easier to get outta town that way.”

You didn’t call him out on it. Not when you both knew damn well it was just an excuse to stretch the night out longer.

The air had that post-rain coolness to it, ground still damp, the stars pricking the sky like they were strung up just for you. And Rhett — well, he kept bumping into your shoulder like his limbs forgot how to coordinate.

“You okay there, cowboy?” you teased, brushing your hand against his. He looked down, ears pink in the porchlight glow. “Yeah. Jus’—can’t believe we did it. Like, real date and all.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him.

“Did you not want to?” His head shot up. “No—no, I did. I do. Hell, I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Just didn’t know how to ask without messin’ it up.” “You didn’t mess it up.”

He smiled, just slightly. Then his brows pulled together, like there was still something heavy stuck behind his ribs.

“I ain’t used to this,” he admitted, voice low. “Feelin’ proud about somethin’. Wantin’ to show it off.”

You leaned into him, slow and steady, until your foreheads touched. His hands came to your waist like instinct.

“You can show me off whenever you want,” you whispered. “I’m yours. Out loud.”

He kissed you then.

Not rushed. Not uncertain.

Just sure.

Like he finally understood this was something he could have — not just want.

And when the kiss broke, he murmured it against your lips:

“You wanna do it again? Like next Friday?” Then a beat. “Or tomorrow?” You laughed, fingers curling in his jacket. “How about both?”

His grin softened, proud and a little stunned, like he still wasn’t used to this kind of happiness.

“Maybe next time,” you added, tipping your head with a smirk, “I can shout your name out loud at your next bull riding comp. Let everyone know I’m yours.”

Rhett blinked. Went bright red. Groaned into your neck.

“You’re tryin’ to kill me.” “You like it.” “Too damn much.”

[bathroomforless]

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[suhlogic]

paradise [kim mingyu x fem!oc]

summary: going to la union for a temporary escape from your busy city life was supposed to just be all about you, not until you meet a hot stranger at a bar and things escalate quite interestingly for the week.

warnings: slight age gap, dom!mingyu, sub!reader, unprotected sex, choking kink, creampie, size kink, praise kink, dry humping in a semi-public place, biting kink (slight), cum-eating

[🔞]

your city life proved to be exhausting, still navigating everything at 21 despite being independent and already moved out of your parents' house but the corporate life was a bitch to deal with on top of your mother nagging you to fulfill your filial duties as the eldest child to provide when they are still fully capable of supporting themselves and your younger sibling. so here you were, driving alone in your car on the way to la union to unplug for a week. the car ride was boring and tiring since your friends were all busy and you didn't want to ride a bus alone. finally, you arrived at your hotel early morning and got everything settled before you slept to make up for the exhaustion.

after a good few hours of decent sleep, you decide to get ready for the beach and put on a light red bikini that was just held together by strings that was properly showing off your huge tits. you also put on a skirt and a thin knitted coverup while your hair was up in a cute claw clip and grabbed your small tote bag on your way out to have some fun while the sun sets. as you reach the seaside, you decided to lay your towel on the sand and put your bag on it as you enjoyed swimming in the water basking in the sun.

[11:00pm]

after washing up back at your hotel room to grab dinner at the bar, you put on a pink dress with a thigh-high slit that was backless with just a pair of lace panties underneath. as you make your way into a chair by the bar counter and order your food, you mind your own business. after all, the fun doesn't start until the alcohol gives you enough courage to get fucked by a handsome stranger.

sipping on your cocktail was already affecting you and noticed that a tall handsome guy, with sharp gentle features and a short cropped haircut was eyeing you. his sun-kissed skin looking perfect under the strobing lights, athletically built body showing off through the shirt he's left the few buttons open with biceps practically begging to rip through its sleeves. but you weren't going to make it easy for him, catching his stares and waving back at the mystery guy. luring him to come over to your spot, and it fucking worked like magic.

his aura was intoxicating. the moment he leaned in to whisper something in your ear, he immediately had you hooked. "so what's a pretty girl like you doing in this place?" he smirked. you felt taken aback by his deep voice, his breath being minty with a hint of the gin and tonic he was drinking earlier. "just looking to have fun,although i've heard the real fun starts in the bedroom" you bite back with a smile from your pink glossy lips.

he laughed at the smooth rebuttal and reached his hand out to introduce himself, "feisty, i see...it's so rude that i didn't introduce myself. i'm mingyu by the way," he said. "and i'm _____," you shake his hand. "you know, i could show you a fun time what do you say?" his huge hand grabs the small of your back, the tension and close proximity making you yearn for his touch. the flashing lights and the music thumping on full blast against the speakers felt so right under the hot twinkling stars on a summer night,

"don't worry baby, they're too busy to care about what we're doing" he whispers as he holds you tighter and grinds his clothed member against your ass harder, "fuck, let's get out of here...my room." you whine as you begin to face him and grab his hand, leaving after paying your tabs.

once it was all settled, you and mingyu began to walk back to your hotel with hands intertwined together no one but the stars and the waves crashing against the shore witnessing romance brewing between the two of you as the music began to fade into the distance. the walk back to your place consisted of laughter and getting to know each other more, you began to learn that he was also getting away from the chaos of the city—family stuff, in his own words. not long after, the two of you made your way inside the elevator and pressed the floor where your room was.

you grab him by this nape and pull him in for a kiss, tasting your sweetness on his tongue and glistening pink lips which turns heated the moment your hands travel down his toned abs and into his boxers, feeling up his manhood—lengthy, thick and hard. you pull his pants down along with his underwear as his dick springs free slapping against his stomach past his belly button.

"will it fit?" you give him your best doe eyes as you begin to jerk him off, spreading his precum around the slit of his bulbous mushroom tip. "don't tease me, i need to be inside you now." he moans, the lust in his eyes darkening as he takes his dick in his hand and rubs it up and down your wet folds before inserting it slowly. his tip feeling hot and heavy against your wetness, moaning at how his dick feels inside you.

"didn't expect to pick up a hot stranger like you tonight..." you smirk, shifting to sit up on the bed while he grabs a towel to clean the both of you up and runs a bath. "i've had my eyes on you since you walked into the bar , i'm glad the night ended with you under me," he teasingly winks as he motions for you to come sit in between his legs and starts to wipe you down.

but mingyu couldn't help leaving slow and soft kisses down your cheeks and down your jawline as he cleans you up, "babe... don't start now, i can barely walk," you laugh, trying to suppress your moans. "i can carry you anywhere, don't worry," he whispers as you lean your neck to face him and pull him in for another kiss. after cleaning the two of you up, mingyu carries you in bridal style into the bathroom and helps you get into the bathtub and follows suit behind you and engulfs you in his warmth.

his biceps hugging you flush against his chest as you grab on his forearms biting at it softly and kissing it. you don't know if he''ll remain a stranger for the night or someone you'd be spending the rest of your life with but surely you hope it's the latter. he smirks at your antics and kisses your cheek, "happy 2nd anniversary, my love."

[chanelrolls]

Love & Deepspace Men As Your Gym Instructor

pairings. sylus x reader, zayne x reader, rafayel x reader, xavier x reader, caleb x reader

notes. a series of headcanons about the LIs as your gym instructor. requests are very much open.

SYLUS

• Sylus isn’t just a gym instructor—he’s an executioner. He doesn’t train people; he breaks them. Every session is a test of survival, and he watches your suffering with just enough amusement to make you question if he enjoys this. “If you collapse, I’m leaving you here,” he deadpans as you struggle to get off the mat.

• He has absolutely no patience for whining. The moment you start complaining, he doubles the intensity of your workout.

“I think my legs are going to give out—”

“Perfect. Let’s add weights.”

• He’s unnervingly quiet when you struggle. No words of encouragement, no sympathy—just the piercing gaze of a man who expects results. You groan, dropping the dumbbells. He just stares. “…Say something.”

He blinks. “Pathetic.”

• He refuses to let you lift with bad form. He will physically adjust you without hesitation. Hand on your back, fingers pressing into your shoulders, grip firm against your waist. He’s indifferent to the proximity—you, however, are not. “Relax,” he murmurs, voice just above your ear. “You’re tense.”

• His personal space boundaries don’t exist—especially when spotting you. You’re struggling under a barbell, and suddenly, he’s there. Arms bracketing yours, voice smooth and unbothered. “Push,” he orders. You try, but all you can focus on is the way his breath fans against your cheek.

• He subtly tests your endurance just to see how much you can handle. He calls it training. It’s actually just entertainment. “You can take more,” he muses, adding another plate to the bar.

• Flirts without technically flirting. Everything he says could be taken as platonic—but the way he says it? Absolutely not. “You’re improving,” he muses.

You blink. “Wait… was that a compliment?”

He shrugs. “Take it or leave it.”

• Refuses to admit he cares, but it’s obvious in subtle ways. He’ll shove a water bottle at you without comment. Drag you to a bench when you look exhausted. You pant, wiping sweat from your forehead. “I’m dying.”

He clicks his tongue, tossing you a towel.

• Competitive to an unhealthy degree. You mention beating him at anything, and suddenly, he’s taking it personally. “I ran five miles today,” you say, stretching.

He glances over. “Make it ten next time.”

• When he does praise you, it’s rare—but devastatingly effective. It’s not often, but when it happens, it lingers. “Not bad,” he murmurs, watching you finish your set.

Your brain malfunctions. “Wait—what?”

He smirks. “Nothing.”

SCENARIO

You’re on the ground. Not sitting. Not crouching. Collapsed.

Sylus stands over you, arms crossed, entirely unimpressed. “Pathetic.”

You groan. “I literally can’t move...”

He tilts his head. “You have another set.”

Your glare could burn through steel. “Sylus. My legs are gone.”

He crouches beside you, gaze unreadable. “You’re fine.”

“I’m—” You gesture weakly. “—not fine.”

There’s a pause. Then—without warning—he hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you up like it’s nothing.

Your hands instinctively grab onto his shoulders, and for a second, the world tilts. His grip is steady. His voice, lower than usual.

“See?” he murmurs. “You’re still standing.”

You blink up at him, heart hammering. “I—”

He smirks, releasing you. You immediately stumble.

“Alright,” he says, stepping back, tone casual. “Next set.”

You hate him. You really do.

ZAYNE

• Zayne is a gym instructor with the patience of a saint and the intensity of a drill sergeant. He’s not the type to yell or get overly aggressive, but his expectations are high. If you slack off, he doesn’t scold you—he just looks at you. And somehow, that’s worse. “Again.” His voice is calm, almost indifferent, as you struggle through push-ups. “Don’t stop until you get it right.”

• He never sugarcoats anything. If your form is bad, he’ll tell you. If you’re being dramatic, he’ll call you out. But if you actually push yourself, he will acknowledge it.

• You pant, struggling to finish your reps. Zayne watches. “You’re stronger than that. Keep going.”

• The kind of instructor who gives subtle but sharp praise. He won’t shower you with encouragement, but when he does give a rare compliment, it sticks. “Well done,” he murmurs after you break your personal record.

• Prefers efficiency over flashy workouts. He doesn’t waste time with trends or gimmicks. He’ll give you a program that works, but you will definitely suffer. “No shortcuts,” he says, handing you a heavier weight than you expected. “Do it right, or don’t do it at all.”

• Not overly physical unless necessary. He’s not the type to adjust you constantly, but if your form is off, he will fix it—without hesitation. One hand at your lower back, the other guiding your grip. “Here,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “Straighten up.”

• Expects discipline, but isn’t completely heartless. He won’t let you quit, but he does notice when you’re genuinely struggling. His version of kindness? A short water break instead of immediate death.

• You groan. “Zayne, I think I’m dying.”

He hands you a water bottle. “Then hydrate first.”

• Completely unbothered by whining. Complain all you want—he won’t react. In fact, the more you complain, the more weight he adds.

• “My legs feel like jelly—”

“Then we’ll strengthen them.” He hands you a resistance band.

• Is meticulous about post-workout recovery. He doesn’t just push you—he makes sure you recover properly. That means stretching, hydration, and making sure you’re not being an idiot. “You better not skip your cooldown,” he warns.

You smirk. “Why? Will you carry me home if I collapse?”

His gaze flickers to you. “No, but I’ll make sure your next session is worse.”

• Doesn’t like distractions. If you come to the gym to chat or mess around, he’ll shut it down fast. “Focus,” he says when you start rambling between sets. “Or leave.”

• Gives zero reaction when people try to flirt with him. Other gym-goers have tried. He never takes the bait. You watch a girl giggle as she asks him for ‘help’ adjusting her form. Zayne corrects her stance in under five seconds, completely unfazed. “Done.”

She pouts. “That’s all?”

He turns to you instead. “You’re up.”

SCENARIO

You’re wheezing. Absolutely dying.

Zayne watches from the side, arms crossed. “You have five minutes left.”

You groan, gripping the treadmill’s handles. “I’m—gonna pass out.”

He tilts his head, unimpressed. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

“I meant it this time—”

The treadmill suddenly increases speed. You yelp.

“ZAYNE—”

He doesn’t react. “You’ll survive.”

You stumble, barely catching yourself. “You’re evil.”

There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Keep running.”

RAFAYEL

• Rafayel is the worst and best trainer you could have. He’s the type to look like he’s taking this seriously—clipboard in hand, stopwatch ticking—only to throw in something completely ridiculous halfway through your session.

• “Alright, time for squats. And if you mess up, I’ll make you do them while balancing a book on your head. Gotta work on that grace, cutie.”

• He is not a role model. Skips warm-ups, ignores cooldowns, and somehow never follows his own advice. He’ll sit there drinking an iced coffee while watching you struggle. “Push through the pain,” he says lazily, sipping his caramel macchiato.

• Absolutely makes things harder just to mess with you. If he sees you struggling, does he help? No. He makes it worse. “Oh, you’re having trouble with those weights? Here, let me fix that.” —and suddenly he adds more.

• Zero professionalism. If you start flirting, he will flirt back, and it’s a dangerous game. “You’re lucky I’m here to watch you suffer.”

You smirk. “Or maybe you just like watching me.”

He leans in. “And what if I do?”

• Overly dramatic when he works out himself. If you ever catch him actually exercising, he acts like it’s a life-altering event. “God, this is agony. Why do people do this?” —as if he’s not a personal trainer.

• Pretends he doesn’t care, but actually keeps a close eye on you. He’ll tease you for whining, but the second you actually look like you might faint, he’s already there, handing you a water bottle. “Tsk. You look pathetic.” A pause. “…Drink.”

• Loves making up fake ‘training techniques.’ Half the time, you don’t know if he’s being serious or just making things up for fun. “This exercise is called ‘suffering but make it aesthetic.’ Perfect for you.”

• Will absolutely let you take breaks if you bribe him. You want to sit down and do nothing? Cool. Just bring him a snack, and he’ll mysteriously forget how many reps you had left. “Fifty push-ups? Nah, I think it was… ten. Maybe five, if you’re cute enough.”

• Gets jealous if you take fitness advice from someone else. If you ever listen to another trainer, expect Rafayel to sabotage them in the pettiest way possible. “Oh, he told you to stretch like that? Ridiculous."

• The type to bet against you—then get personally invested when you prove him wrong. He wants you to fail, just so he can be smug about it. But when you actually push through? Yeah, now he’s impressed. “…Goos job,” he mutters when you finish a brutal set. Then, a smirk. “Do it again.”

SCENARIO

Rafayel leans against the squat rack, watching you struggle with your set.

“I swear—this feels heavier than last time,” you grunt, barely holding the bar steady.

He smiles innocently. “Hmm. Weird.”

You narrow your eyes. “You did something.”

“Moi?” He places a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Darling, I would never sabotage my favorite student.”

You pause. “I’m your only student.”

“Exactly.”

It takes you a second before realization hits. “You added weight when I wasn’t looking, didn’t you?”

He hums. “Guess you’ll have to finish the set to find out.”

“…I hate you.”

He grins. “I love you too.”

XAVIER

• Xavier is terrifyingly efficient as a trainer. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t mock, doesn’t even look particularly invested. But somehow, he always gets you to push past your limits. “You said you were done? No. You have three more in you. Keep going.”

• His neutral expression makes him unreadable. You can be dying in the middle of a workout, and he’ll just watch with the same blank stare.

“Is this… supposed to be this hard?”

He blinks. “Yes.”

• Zero tolerance for excuses. You tell him you’re tired? He tilts his head slightly. “And?” Say your muscles hurt? “That’s the point.” Try to leave early? He will appear behind you.

• But he has an unexpected soft spot. The moment you actually can’t keep going, he’s already handing you water, fixing your form, making sure you don’t push past your limit. He won’t say it, but he’s watching closely.

• Deadpan humor that makes you question if he’s serious. “Xavier, I think I’m dying.”

He nods. “Yes. That is what training feels like.”

• He’s weirdly encouraging in a clinical way. He won’t shower you with praise, but when he does compliment you, it hits. “Your endurance has improved,” he murmurs, as if it’s just an observation. …But somehow, that makes you want to try even harder.

• Almost never raises his voice, but when he does? You listen. The one time you nearly drop a weight on yourself, his usual monotone disappears. “Stop.” You freeze, more from shock than anything. When you glance up, his eyes are sharp—focused entirely on you.

Then, just as quickly, he’s back to normal. “Fix your grip.”

• He doesn’t do ‘small talk’—but he remembers everything you say. You mention your favorite protein shake once, and a week later, he hands you one without a word. “Drink this. You’ll need it.”

• One time, when you were gasping for air on the mat, you look up to glance at your instructor for an approval, only to see him snoring on the floor.

• Stares at you a bit too intensely. You didn't want to assume, but you swore you caught him staring into your lower half when you were doing squats.

• He has a quiet but very possessive streak. If another trainer tries to offer you advice, Xavier is right there, staring them down. “She’s my student,” he says, and that’s the end of the conversation.

SCENARIO

You’re gasping for air, bent over after another brutal round of circuits.

“I can’t—” you wheeze. “That’s it. I’m done.”

Xavier watches you for a moment, then nods. “Alright.”

Wait. That’s it? No cold stare? No sarcastic remark?

You frown. “You’re not going to force me to keep going?”

He hums. “No. If you want to stop, you can stop.”

…You don’t trust him. “…But?”

He tilts his head, like he’s considering something. Then, his voice drops, just barely: “I just thought you were stronger than this.”

Your eye twitches. Oh. Oh, that bastard.

You grit your teeth, straightening up. “Fine. One more set.”

For the first time that day, he almost looks amused. “Good choice.”

CALEB

• Caleb is the ultimate ‘supportive but slightly terrifying’ trainer. He’s always smiling, always energetic—but somehow, that makes him even scarier. “C’mon, pip-squeak! Just one more set! You got this!”

…You’ve been doing ‘one more set’ for the last 20 minutes.

• He’s the type to bet against you just to make you work harder. “You? Finishing a full workout without whining? Nah, I don’t see it happening.”

…You push yourself just to prove him wrong.

• Runs next to you on the treadmill—effortlessly keeping up. You’re dying, but he’s jogging beside you, chatting like this is a casual stroll. “You hear that? That’s the sound of progress, babe.”

…The only sound you hear is your own wheezing.

• Looks like he’s playing around, but he’s actually analyzing every move. He’s laughing, teasing, but if your form is even slightly off? He’s immediately fixing it. “Tsk. You keep that up, and you’ll wreck your knees. Here—” He steps behind you, hands ghosting over your waist to adjust your stance. Too close.

• Not afraid to use distractions as motivation. If he catches you slacking? He leans in, voice dropping into something softer. “What’s wrong? Getting tired already? You know, if you do five more reps, I might have a reward for you.”

…You never ask what he means. You don’t want to know.

• Has no sense of personal space. He will absolutely drape himself over you if he thinks you’re resting too long. “Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just waiting for you to stop being lazy.”

• If you ever try to beat him at anything, he makes it a whole event. You challenge him to a sprint? He smirks. “Oh? You think you can keep up with me?”Suddenly, the entire gym is watching.

• He absolutely loves reveling in the thought that he's physically stronger than you, sometimes even asking for you to sit on him as he do push-ups. You never agreed.

• He gets way too proud when you start improving. The first time you lift heavier weight than before, he whoops—loudly. “Hell yeah, that’s my girl!”

…You pretend it doesn’t make you feel weirdly warm.

• If anyone else so much as glances at you? He notices. And suddenly, he’s all over you—grinning, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “So, sunshine. How about we grab a smoothie after this? My treat.” …He’s not asking. He’s staking a claim.

• Will not let you leave without stretching—and if you refuse? He personally helps you. “Fine. We’ll do it together.” Then he’s behind you, hands guiding your arms, breath way too close to your ear. “Deep breath. Good girl." You’re never skipping cooldowns again.

SCENARIO

You collapse onto the mat, sweat dripping down your face. “I can’t anymore.”

Caleb squats down beside you, grinning. “Oh yeah?”

You glare up at him. “I’m done.”

He tilts his head, considering. “Hmm. Shame.”

“…Shame?”

He leans in, smirking. Too close. “Well, I was gonna say—if you did ten more reps, maybe I’d let you pick where we grab food after.”

You stare. “That’s—”

“—Or,” he interrupts, voice dropping, “I could just pick for you. And you know I have awful taste.”

You groan. He’s the type to drag you to some all-protein, no-flavor nightmare.

He grins wider. “So. What’s it gonna be, pip-squeak?”

You sigh, grabbing the weights. “I hate you.”

He laughs, standing back up. “No, you don’t.”

[goldfades]

that one clip of Melo cheesing talking ab an interviewers accent when he was asking him a question but with reader 😛😛😛

You clear your throat as you glance down at the lineup of questions scribbled in your notebook, the stadium lights overhead casting a golden hue over the polished hardwood. It’s late—postgame energy still crackling in the air, the smell of sweat and Gatorade lingering.

LaMelo Ball stands a few feet in front of you, all easy posture and loose limbs, towel draped around his shoulders like he barely remembers it’s there. He’s still riding the high of a win, that much is obvious. Grinning, relaxed, adrenaline humming under his skin.

You raise the mic a little. "LaMelo, another strong performance from you tonight—"

Before you can even get to the rest of your question, he tilts his head, brows raising. A slow, lopsided smile starts tugging at his lips, and then—

"Nah, hold up," he says, shifting his weight, dimples pressing deep into his cheeks. "Your voice—yo, where you from?"

It takes you a second to process. "Uh—"

"'Cause I ain't gon’ lie, you sound official," he continues, ignoring the camera, the noise, all of it. His eyes are locked on you, pure amusement swimming behind them. "Like, real professional. Like you're on ESPN or some."

Your grip tightens on the mic, suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, of him. The way he's watching you, head slightly tilted, studying you with a kind of casual intensity that makes your pulse tick up.

You clear your throat, trying to steer this back on track. "I mean, that is the goal, but—"

"Nah, nah. It’s fire. Like, you got that… what’s the word? Articulate. Sound smooth as hell," he muses, rubbing his chin. "Like, if I ain't see you right now, I’d think I was listenin’ to one of them all-time greats on commentary. Real polished."

You blink. Your mouth opens, then closes. You’ve interviewed plenty of players before, dealt with plenty of personalities—some stoic, some playful—but this? This is unfiltered, no-holds-barred, pure LaMelo Ball charm, and it’s aimed directly at you.

"You tryna make me forget my questions, huh?" you manage, trying (and failing) to bite back a smile.

He laughs at that, a low, rich sound, nodding. "Yeah, somethin’ like that."

You take a breath, recalibrating, trying to remember the very professional, very well-crafted question you had planned before LaMelo decided to turn this interview into his own personal game of Who Can Fluster the Sideline Reporter First.

"Okay," you say, voice steady—mostly. "Let's try this again."

He nods, amused, like he’s indulging you. “Let’s.”

You glance at your notes, refocusing. "Twenty-two points, ten assists, five boards—"

"Mmm." He hums, nodding, but his eyes haven’t left you.

You push on. "—shot efficiently, really controlled the tempo. Walk me through what was clicking for you tonight?"

There. Professional. Composed. Nothing to be distracted by.

But LaMelo? He doesn’t even pretend to take this seriously. Instead of answering right away, he tilts his head again, studying you like you’re the more interesting subject here. His tongue peeks out slightly, running over his bottom lip, like he’s deciding whether he should keep this going or let you off the hook.

Spoiler: he’s absolutely keeping this going.

"You know," he starts, dragging the words out slow, easy, "I was gon’ answer that, but now I’m thinkin’ about how good you sound sayin’ my stats like that."

Your fingers flex around the mic. "LaMelo—"

"Nah, for real." He grins, dimples deep and boyish, eyes full of mischief. "Say 'em again real quick."

You shake your head, exhaling a sharp breath through your nose. "You are unbelievable."

"I mean, you don't have to say all of 'em," he muses, ignoring your exasperation. "Maybe just the twenty-two points part. Just real smooth, one more time for me."

He’s teasing, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—something both playful and annoyingly confident—that makes your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

You adjust your grip on the mic. "LaMelo Ball, if I say it again, will you actually answer the question?"

"Cross my heart." He makes an exaggerated motion over his chest, but the sparkle in his eye tells you he’s fully enjoying this little back-and-forth too much to stop.

You hesitate. This is ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. But if saying his stats one more time is what it takes to get this interview back on track…

Fine.

You inhale, leveling him with your best unimpressed look. Then, slow and deliberate, you repeat, "Twenty-two points."

The moment it leaves your mouth, LaMelo bites his lip, nodding like he just heard the smoothest lyric in a song.

"Aye, yeah. That’s tough."

Oh, for the love of—

You let your head drop for a second, closing your eyes like you’re searching for patience, but you can hear him laughing, low and satisfied, like he just won something. When you look back up, he’s still grinning, looking at you like you’re the highlight of his night—not the win, not the stat line. Just you.

"Can I get my answer now?" you ask, arching a brow.

"My bad, my bad," he says, hands up like he’s surrendering. But the glint in his eye? That tells you he’s far from done with this. "Yeah, uh—game felt good. We was movin’ the ball well, lotta good looks, tryna keep the pace up. You know how it go."

Finally. A proper answer. You nod, mentally jotting down his response. "And with the way you guys have been gelling lately, do you feel like—"

"You got a boyfriend?"

You blink.

Your lips part slightly. The question lands out of nowhere, cutting through your train of thought like a buzzer-beater shot you weren’t ready for.

"LaMelo." You say his name carefully, like you’re making sure you heard him right.

He just shrugs, like it’s the most natural follow-up in the world. "What? It’s a valid question."

"In what way is that related to tonight’s game?" you ask, narrowing your eyes.

"Its not," he admits easily, flashing you that same lazy grin. "But it’s related to me tryna figure out if I got a shot."

Oh.

Your breath catches, just for a second. It’s one thing to deal with a little postgame flirting, a little playful banter—that’s part of the job sometimes. But this? This is something else entirely. Because LaMelo isn’t just being charming. He’s being bold.

And worse? He’s waiting. Watching you. Like he actually wants an answer.

You shift slightly, gripping the mic tighter, feeling the heat creep up your neck. "I—I don’t think that’s part of the interview," you manage.

"Okay, cool, cool," he nods, pretending to be serious. "So, off the record then."

"LaMelo."

"You dodgin’ the question."

"You ambushed me with the question."

"And?" He leans in slightly, grin widening. "That mean you got somebody, or you just tryna keep me in suspense?"

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "You are something else."

He nods, satisfied. "So I been told."

You’re not sure what’s worse—the fact that this conversation has gone completely off the rails, or the fact that you’re kind of enjoying it.

You don’t even have to turn around to know everyone in the background is eating this up. You can hear the chuckles from the PR guys, the muffled laughter from a couple of Melo’s teammates lingering in the tunnel, probably watching this unfold like it’s their new favorite postgame show. Even the camera guy, who’s supposed to be neutral, is shaking a little—probably trying to keep himself from outright wheezing on live TV.

Yeah. This interview is ruined, completely unsalvageable.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion from the long night, maybe it’s the sheer audacity of LaMelo Ball flirting with you like it’s his full-time job, or maybe it’s just the fact that you’ve already lost control—whatever it is, you suddenly decide: screw it.

You adjust your stance, shifting your weight to one leg, tilting your head slightly as you level him with a look that’s somewhere between amused and incredulous. "You know you’re supposed to be giving me the quotes, right?"

LaMelo grins like you just accepted his challenge. "I am givin’ you quotes. Just not about basketball."

"Right, because that’s what the people tuned in for. To hear you interrogate me about my dating life."

He shrugs, eyes glinting. "Hey, people wanna know. I wanna know."

You scoff lightly, shaking your head, but you don’t deny it. Which, of course, only makes him push further.

"So what’s up?" he presses, shifting closer by just an inch, all faux innocence. "You single, or I gotta fight somebody?"

A loud, exaggerated Oooooohhhh echoes from the peanut gallery behind you. You don’t even have to turn to know it’s his teammates instigating. Someone claps their hands. Someone else—probably one of the rookies—straight-up howls with laughter.

You take a deep breath, feeling your own composure slipping fast. "You are absolutely impossible."

"And yet—" He leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make it worse. "You still ain’t answered me."

Your fingers tighten around the mic. You’re aware of the cameras, of the people watching, but you’re also aware of the way LaMelo is looking at you—like this isn’t just for show, like he’s actually waiting, actually interested. Like he doesn’t just flirt for fun but because he wants something from you.

Your pulse is a little too fast. Your face is a little too warm. And against your better judgment, against every single sideline-reporter instinct in your body, you hear yourself say—

"Off the record?"

The moment the words leave your mouth, LaMelo’s eyebrows shoot up like you just hit a game-winner at the buzzer. His whole face lights up, that cocky, boyish grin stretching wide, and the reactions from the background get ten times worse.

Somebody straight-up screams. There’s full-on chaos behind you—clapping, laughing, someone saying “Ohhh, she folded!” like this is a streetball match and not a professional interview.

Meanwhile, LaMelo? He looks way too pleased with himself. He nods, crossing his arms like he just won the whole damn NBA Finals.

"Off the record," he echoes, voice smug and sweet at the same time. "Yeah, lemme hear it."

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to fight the grin pulling at your lips. "You just wanna hear me say it, huh?"

"You know I do."

You exhale, shaking your head, pretending to deliberate like you don’t already know exactly what you’re about to say. And then, finally, slow and deliberate, you tilt the mic slightly away from your lips—just for show, just to make it dramatic—before saying,

"I’m single."

Absolute pandemonium.

The background noise explodes. Melo’s teammates lose their minds. One of them, probably Terry, full-on runs across the court like you just announced a trade. Someone else (PJ, you think) starts clapping like this is a live studio audience and they just heard the juiciest plot twist of all time.

And LaMelo? LaMelo has the nerve to bite his lip like this is the best news he’s gotten all week. He drags a hand down his chin, nodding like he’s considering his next move, like this just confirmed something for him.

"Aye, yeah. That’s real good to know," he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

You shake your head, barely containing your laugh. "You are insane."

"And yet—" he grins, stepping back slightly, throwing his hands up in exaggerated victory, "I got my answer."

You exhale sharply, running a hand over your face. "Interview over."

The camera guy, finally recovering from his silent wheezing, gives you a thumbs-up before cutting the feed. The second the red light on the camera flickers off, you finally let yourself breathe.

You look up at LaMelo, who’s still grinning at you like he just pulled off the smoothest move of his career.

"You happy now?" you ask, raising a brow.

He tilts his head, considering. "Not yet."

You give him a look. "What more could you possibly want?"

"Your number."

And just like that, he’s got you flustered all over again.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

So I 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: your casual arrangement turns a bit too serious.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

A sheen of sweat coats your forehead, beading in the strands of your hair, your teeth gnashing as you strain to lift the bar just a little higher. Use your legs, you remind yourself. You suppress a grunt as your body trembles with the effort. 

“You got it, flex, you can do it,” a voice taunts from behind you. You roll your eyes and push up. Bucky steps closer and tickles along your hips. “Need a spot?” 

You growl and hook the bar in place, letting the weight off your shoulders. You step out of his reach and swipe up your towel. Your wipe your face as he comes around the weight rack and grabs your bottle out of your grasp. You growl as he squirts it into his mouth. 

“Thirsty?” He winks and wiggles the bottle. 

“What are you doing here?” You narrow your eyes and take the bottle from him. 

“Looking for a work out.” He winks. 

“Really? ‘Cause you’re not dressed for it.” You look him up and down. He’s in his usual; dark jeans, grey tee, canvas jacket. 

“Don’t need to dress up for the kinda work out I’m thinking of,” he snickers. 

“How’d you find me?” You challenge as you check your smartwatch. 

“Tuesday’s. You’re always too busy for me.” 

“Uh huh. And it’s a Tuesday. I’m busy.” You retort. 

“Ah, come on. I can help you with your cool down. Get you nice and stretched out.” He rests his hand on the barbells, his other on his hip as he leers at you. 

“You’re gonna need a good dose of protein after that,” he teases. 

“You’re gross.” 

“You love it. Come on. I'll take you by the shake place first. I’m a gentleman, you know?” He laughs and you shake your head. 

“Right. Let me change.” 

“Ah, I like you sweaty. Pheromones or whatever. You know, my sense of smell is enhanced.” He smirks. “I can even smell when you’re horny.” 

“Ew, shut up.” You jab his ribs and push past him. You sling your towel over your shoulder and strut off. He follows you. 

“Doesn’t this remind of old times?” He asks. 

You’re taken back to the day you met. Your first week in the gym. You were lost and you looked it. He helped you figure out the leg machine. He also fixed your form. Strange how time passes. 

“I feel like you were less annoying then.” 

“Really? Cause you were a lot more tense back then. Glad I could loosen you up, although your ass is looking tighter.” 

You stop at the locker room door and face him. “You--” You squirt the water bottle at him. “You’re gonna have to wait out here. Weirdo.” 

You spin and push through the door. You hear him growl as he’s shut out. You continue on to your locker and grab your bag. You unzip it and peel off your tank and leggings. You stretch and look around the empty space. You like to go on Tuesdays when it’s quiet. When you can focus. 

That isn’t easy lately. With work and the Bucky’s inconsistent consistency. Every time you think you have a moment to chill, he’s there to tie you up. You’re going to have to talk about boundaries. You’re going to be too busy to deal with his spontaneous drop-ins. 

You turn to grab your water bottle from inside the locker and as you turn back, you’re shoved against the cold metal. Your yipe is smothered in Bucky’s hands, his metal one around your throat. You wriggle and clutch his wrist. Your eyes round and flick side-to-side. 

He chuckles, “I got tired of waiting.” 

You murmur into his hand and slap his arm. Your heart picks up and a shiver rolls over you. You kick your feet around his. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt this with him. Panic. 

“Hey, just playing,” he drags his hand away and slackens his grip on your neck. “Don’t need be scared.” 

You take a deep breath and step away from the lockers. He stands back and watches you. His eyes rove up and down. He tilts his head. 

“Really, I wasn’t meaning to scare you. I was just...fucking around.” 

“It’s fine,” you shrug and reach for your blouse. “I was just surprised.” 

“Your heart’s still going--” 

“I told you, I hate that,” you hiss. 

“I can’t help it. I can’t not hear it.” He insists. 

“Just... go wait for me outside. I’ll be a minute,” you don’t look at him as you pull the shirt over your head. 

The reminders of how much stronger he is are jarring. At times, it's hot, at others, it's frightening. He's not just a man, he's more than that.

He lingers and sighs. His boot scuffs as he slowly slides it across the tile. He walks off and you listen for the door behind him. You blow out between your lips. 

You definitely need to have a talk. It’s all good and fun until he gets a face full of the mace you keep in your purse. Besides, he’s getting a bit clingy. This isn’t supposed to be that. It’s casual. It’s easy.

Well, it was. 

[hazbinshusk]

huskerdust x gn!reader. after a particularly rough day recruiting for the hotel, you limp back to your room to find your two favourite boys waiting for you. anon request. 1.7k

featuring: some blood, physical hurt/comfort, cuddles. really, it's just pure fluff.

Hell can seriously suck a dick sometimes.

You shove the door to the Hotel open with tired arms, for once actually finding yourself wishing that the wall had once again been blown up, if it meant less effort getting home. Charlie had had you pounding pavement all day, trying and failing to enlist new guests to the hotel. Even after the failed extermination, most of the sinners in Pride were less than welcoming to the idea of improving themselves. You spent half the day being told to fuck off and having doors slammed in your face, and the other half actively avoiding being the victim of some asshole’s wrath or lust.

You wipe sweat and ash from your brow with the brow with a sleeve, pausing by the bar to take the weight of your knee. You’d managed to trip while trying to escape a sudden firefight in the Doomsday District, and every step back to the hotel had sent pain shooting up your leg. Your pants were torn and blood has dried in itchy streaks down your calf.

The bartender is nowhere in sight, and you fish your phone out of your pocket to text Angel, sighing when you notice the screen now has a crack spiderwebbing up from the corner of it. Still, a small smile twitches at your lips briefly when you notice he texted you an hour earlier. It’s short and sweet, and your smile widens tiredly.

It was a habit the two of you had picked up since you’d fallen into this relationship with him and Husk; when two of you had turned in for the night, one of you would text to let their other partner know which room they had ended up in. Usually, it was you texting Angel when a shoot ran long, but it had been a rare day off for the porn star and apparently the lack of clientele had meant Husk had been able to clock off early, too.

The lack of a cat emoji said they were spending quality time with Fat Nuggets in Angel’s room, and you thanked Lucifer silently that he’d installed an elevator during the remodel.

You sigh at the idea of having to keep moving rather than just collapsing onto the nearest horizontal surface, limping around the bar to wrap a handful of ice in a towel before making your way to the elevator.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Hey, gorgeous, ‘bout time you got—” Angel sits up from where he was lounging across his bed, concern creasing his brow as he takes in your dishevelled appearance. The sudden movement unsettles the two curled up on top of him – while Fat Nuggets snuffles in a mix of both protest and greeting as he waddles across the comforter, Husk looks up with a quiet ‘mrrp?’. He had been stretched out alongside Angel, his arms wrapped around the spider’s midsection and his chin resting against his chest. Angel’s hand still lingers where it had been stroking through the fur between the bartender’s ears, and you feel a small pang of regret for interrupting the tableau. “What in the fuck happened to you?”

“Hell happened,” you reply dryly, wincing as you put a little too much pressure on your knee. Husk blinks sleep out of his eyes and his expression immediately becomes marred with worry. He pushes himself up of Angel just as you move to collapse onto the stool in front of Angel’s vanity, ignoring the ache that protests in the small of his back as he comes to your side. You grimace as you stretch out your leg in front of you, and Angel rolls over to fish the first aid kit out from under his bed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” Husk points out gruffly, kneeling beside you. He carefully hooks a claw in the tear in your pants and tears it wider, his brow furrowing further as he reveals the dried blood staining your calf.

“Am I?” you say, sarcasm weak. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Husk fixes you with a dry, exasperated look from under his feather brows as Angel joins the two of you. “Who did it?”

“No one.” You hiss as Angel begins to clean you up, the saline stinging at the abrasion on your knee.

A low growl rumbles warningly through Husk. “Doll…”

You reach out, cupping his face in your hand. You stroke your thumb through the fur of his cheek soothingly. His frown doesn’t ease, but his eyes close for a moment at the touch. “I’m serious. I fell, that’s all.”

“Jesus, toots.” Angel says through an exhale, carefully scrubbing away the blood streaked over your calf. His other hands rummage through the kit for disinfectant and a bandage. “Was it down a flight of stairs by any chance?”

You shake your head, smirking lightly. “Doomsday District; the ground there is like, ninety percent broken glass. Pretty sure I got it all out.”

“The Princess shouldn’t be sendin’ you out there alone,” Husk grumbles, using a piece of saline-soaked gauze to wipe away the remaining ash on your face. You wrinkle your nose as the material tickles at your nose. “It ain’t your job to—”

“Husk, I’m fine.” you assure him. You lean forward to press a kiss to his nose, and Husk’s shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. “I’m home.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Better?”

You smile, running your fingers rhythmically through Angel’s hair. “Much.”

The three of you are curled up on Angel’s bed, ice melting against your knee and all three of you cradled amongst his many, many pillows and blankets. Husk is propped up against the pillows by the headboard, his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders. You’re tucked up against him, your shoulder against his chest, and your face tilted up to tuck up against his jaw. His purring vibrates through his back, but some of his earlier frustration still lingers in the twitching of his tail. His lips brush against your forehead gently.

Angel is curled up against your side, his head on your chest and two arms wrapped around you. Another reaches up to stroke through the fur of Husk’s side, the fourth resting on the back of the little hell-piglet curled in a ball on Husk’s thigh beside your hip. His legs are bent to tuck up under yours, hooking your knees over his thighs to keep your injury elevated. Every part of you seems to be pressed against soft, soft fur, and you arch your neck further to press your lips to the underside of Husk’s jaw. His purring grows louder.

“Plus side?” Angel comments, looking up at the two of you without raising his cheek from your chest. “Charlie is gonna feel so bad ‘bout sendin’ ya out there—”

“She fuckin’ should,” Husk interjects in a grumble. You sooth him by reaching down to card fingers through his fur, and when your fingers find Angel’s hand, the spider entangles them with his and squeezes. He might be talking more lightly about your current state than Husk, but you knew he was worried, too. You squeeze it back.

“—that there is no way ya gonna be on recruitment duty for, like, a month.” Angel continues. “Ya can jus’ live the high life here. Ya milk that knee jus’ right an’ she probably won’t even make ya go to group. Lucky bitch.”

You hum a laugh, shivering at the way Husk’s claws skim pleasantly against the bare skin of your arm. “And does this ‘high life’ by any chance involve some serious naked time?”

Angel giggles, reaching releasing your waist to reach down and run teasing fingers over the front of Husk’s pants. “Depends. Think the old man here can keep up?”

Husk swats his hand away, and you catch the amused smile that touches his lips for a moment before he remembers to scowl. “Never heard you complain.”

“Maybe you should turn your hearing aid up,” Angel suggests tauntingly, and you choke on a laugh when Husk reaches over you and shoves him off the bed. “Hey! Ow!”

Husk grins, winking at you as Angel stands, all four hands on his hips and a pout on his face. Careful not to jostle you, Husk leans over and grabs a hold of the front of the spider’s shirt, pulling him down into a kiss. Angel wraps two arms around his neck, the other two smoothing over the bartender’s chest. He finds a nipple and pinches, hard, and Husk breaks away with a surprised growl.

“Fuck!”

“Hey!” you object as the movement jostles you further. You rescue Nuggets from the fray, setting him down on the end of the bed. “Watch the invalid, would you? Some of us are injured here!”

Husk immediately stops, his expression apologetic. He catches your cheek, dusting kisses over your face before he presses his lips to yours. You hum happily, feel Angel climb into the bed beside you. He curls up behind you, pressing himself up against your back. Husk kisses you for a few moments more before he pulls away, touching his lips to the skin between your brows. “Sorry, doll.”

“He’s a goddamn brute,” Angel says, tucking his head over your shoulder. “You should totally kick his ass.”

You giggle, and Husk silences him by kissing him again. When they break apart, Husk pulls you into his chest, wrapping an arm around you. His wing curves to cover the three of you, and you bury your face contentedly in the soft fur of his chest.