#while marc catches up

[honeyvettel5]

ahah do you guys think valentino feels regret in a way knowing he’s giving the wrong advice to his kids; that whatever he does marc will always be one step ahead because he is the one who is still racing and knowing things about tyres, pace, bikes, tracks; valentino isn’t. that it doesn’t matter how many things he whispers into franky’s or pecco’s ears marc will always fuck them over because he’s that thorough (see: the last four races) when he strategizes. ahah you guys think about it at all

[bunni-v1]

I just saw the teasing, but shy / brat taming story. Can I request kinda similar but kinda opposite, MC who is shy and likes to tease but is actually a good girl? 🧡

I personally like to tease, I love seeing them start to lose it because they start to get so turned on but they know they can't do anything about it. (Not in an angry way tho, if that makes sense?) But I'm also very much a good girl, while I very slightly might test boundaries, I live to please. I don't see many stories for us good girls, (also pillow princess stories are quite rare) so if you feel comfortable, I would love to see this version also. 😄

Such a Good Girl~

Necessary marc tag: @cilomarc

🍓I saw this and IMMEDIATELY started brainstorming. Other than when I was writing Cookie Run, this is the fastest I've gotten to a request. Now, It might've taken me a little longer than I wanted to get it done... but shut up. Now I'm not sure how loyal I was to the prompt, I kinda just... got lost while writing. Still, I do hope that it's what you were looking for my love <3

TW: Brat tamer Zayne & Sylus; Mean Xavier; Oral Receiving (Rafayel) & Giving (Caleb); Use of "Good Girl"; BLATANT Caleb favoritism; Grammar Errors

Info: NSFW; Zayne, Xavier, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb x Reader (separate); Short drabbles

Total Word Count: 6.2k words (individual count listed with character)

MDNI

ZAYNE (1.2k Words)

You don't even remember what you did to get yourself in the position in the first place. Well, you do, but you felt too lightheaded to think about it now. Zayne had you pressed close to his chest, head resting on his shoulder, and dick nice and snug inside your tight little hole. There was a pressure deep in your stomach that couldn't be relieved without movement, but he refused you the option, hands stilling your hips when they wiggled even a fraction.

Maybe, coming into Zayne's office during work hours in his favorite skirt wasn't the greatest idea you'd had. He was only so patient, especially when it came to you and your teasing. He let you play dumb for a little while, because it made you happy, and it's not like he didn't enjoy seeing the soft curve of your ass in the tight fabric as you waltzed around. It was almost cute the way you played dumb, like you didn't notice the way his eyes trailed after you and his pen stilled occasionally to observe you.

It was only meant to be a cute little game between the two of you, one you didn't expect to yield the results it did. But when he beckoned you over, pulling you between his legs by your hips, your fate was sealed. He had his usual calm expression, but his eyes were alight with need, drinking you in with each rove over your curves. The hands on your hips slid down to your thighs, then back up again, feeling the expanse of soft flesh as if it were his personal comfort.

His eyes find yours when he finally speaks, "Is there a reason you chose this skirt today?"

A little smile crawls up your face, almost shyly, "I thought you might like it."

His eyebrows raised in acknowledgement, lifting his chin just slightly in affirmation. His fingers pull you closer by the backs of your thighs, drumming up and up until they rest atop your butt. It's not a science to tell that he's very pleased with your answer, no need for a rigorous degree to read him, he spells it out for you without needing to be asked.

"I do," he hums, kneading your cheeks in his hands, "Were you hoping for a reward?"

Direct and to the point as always, you couldn't hide from him. There was no attempt with the way you flustered, eyes flitting around nervously while you nodded your answer. Far too cute, if you asked him. He tapped your bottom, and like a trained dog, you looked back at him with fluttering lashes.

"If you can be nice and patient, I'll give you what you want," he hums, tilting his head so the light catches in his eyes just so, "You can do that for me, can't you?"

And that's how you'd ended up throwing your legs on either side of him and curling into his neck like a lifeline. You'd cock warmed him before, it wasn't a challenge to sit still and let him work. The stagnant pleasure was something you had come to enjoy, an intimacy that set butterflies free in your stomach every time he offered for you to do it. What was difficult to deal with, though, was the tension in built in your head.

You knew how your night would end, obviously. The issue lay in not knowing when Zayne believed the reward awaiting you was earned. You were always his good girl; you knew you were so well behaved, he told you all the time. There was simply no measure that could properly count when you had behaved well enough for your treat. That was up to Zayne to decide, and it could span from minutes to hours of waiting. That was the fun of it, though.

He would tap his fingers along your sides when the time was getting closer. Physical affection and comfort pick up, as a little warning. You think it's mostly subconscious, more for himself than it was for you. Fingers slide up and down your spine, kisses pressed to the side of your face in reassurance, or arms pulling you just a little closer.

Your nerves jitter in excitement when he sets his pen down, the soft shuffle of papers being moved out of the way, the most exciting sound in the world. Gentle hands pull your face into view, stroking over your warm cheeks as an apology for making you wait so long. You smile at him, leaning into his hands, craving that skin-to-skin contact more than you'd realized.

"You want to move, don't you?" He asks, though it comes out as more of a statement.

Adamantly, your head bobs up and down, "Yes, Sir."

He hums, copying your nodding, "Go ahead then, you've earned it."

Not needing to be told twice, you use his shoulders as leverage to bounce yourself up and down in his lap. Slow and steady motions to start, dragging his length along your walls, taking in each inch of pleasure with delight. All the while, he watches you, making sure you behave like you're meant to. Both of you know you will, you'd never do anything to purposely upset him, but the thought of him watching for little slip-ups gets the heat boiling beneath your skin.

His hands rest on your hips, not helping, just resting patiently. Just in case. You try not to think too hard about it, focusing in on the task you were given. Taking in the comforting feeling of him buried deep inside you, dragging along your walls like he was made to be there. The pleasant squelching sounds filling up his normally quiet office, encouraging you to keep going even though your legs start to burn.

His head leans back, getting more comfortable in his chair, content just watching you use him. His hands squeeze in patterned intervals to further encourage you to chase your high. Quiet, watchful, and entirely taken with you. The flush on his cheeks was more than enough to signal that you were performing exactly as he wanted; there was no need to vocally pronounce it when he made it so obvious to you. Heated gaze committing every little shift in expression to memory, utterly obsessed with the way you fall apart so obediently.

And fall apart you do, movements quickly becoming sloppy. It's too difficult to raise your hips in the same motion over and over, so you've taken to rolling them instead. Your orgasm is quickly building, coiling up your spine and fuzzing up your brain deliciously. You can't cum without permission, though. You don't want to misbehave and face punishment. Luckily, Zayne knows you too well, sensing your need from the way your hips seem to stutter and how you clench in uneven patterns now.

One hand cradles your chin between loving fingers, tilting your face toward his. Those sinful green eyes glimmer with knowing, looking over your flushed face like reading a report. The smallest smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, head tilting to the side in a teasing motion.

"You want to cum?" He hums expectantly, and when you nod he continues, "Go on then, be good, cum for me."

And like magic, like your body has been trained to listen, that coil springs and snaps pleasure through your body. Your orgasm draws a long, low moan from your lips, your body falling forward against his shoulder. Despite the way it tingles from the intensity of the pleasure curling along every nerve, you feel the unmistakable gentle rub of practiced hands along your spine. Coaxing your body to relax into him, easing the heat encasing you just enough to keep you lucid.

Your reward for being so good for him.

XAVIER (1.2k Words)

Xavier loves the way you like to play with him - it's cute how you tentatively poke at him, then hide away the second he questions you. It's a little game he likes to play with you: play dumb and see how far you'll let yourself get before you self-correct your behavior. He doesn't even have to do anything; you give yourself up for him every single time with a flutter of your lashes and a pout.

Just like today, you were testing your limits again, and he was happily playing oblivious. It started with some poking to his cheek and his side, annoying, but nothing he wasn't used to. The way you lit up when he hummed in acknowledgement set a chill down his spine. You didn't stop there, eventually letting your cute little innocent poking evolve into firm grasps. Nowhere too risqué, on his arms or holding his waist as though that was where your hands belonged.

He'd slid his hand over yours at that point, quietly warning you that he was on to you. Not to negate, just to tell, a reminder of who was in charge of whom. You took it as an invitation and worked yourself up to more teasing touches. Featherlight as your hand grazed over his chest and above his thighs, still too good to push further than that. Your intention was clear without needing to go further, though, and it brought Xavier great excitement to see how you shrank back from giving in to your wants.

You didn't have to worry about it, and you knew that fact. Xavier was ready to hand it over to you on a silver platter, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It came when your fingers strayed just a little too high up his thigh, not intentionally, but the perfect excuse to grab them firmly. Bringing the hand to his lips, kissing their tips with such devotion, you nearly forget that he'd caught you in the act. Those pretty blue puppy dog eyes darken slightly when he gazes at you, intent clear as day in their sparkle.

"You've been quite playful today, starlight," He mumbles against your skin, "Are you hoping for something from me?"

You fluster immediately, just like he expected you to, because you're so scared of being bad for him. You hate it when he's mad, so you nod obediently. His other hand tilts your head gently, as if it's a suggestion of movement rather than a command. You listen regardless, moving your face as he likes, swallowing when his thumb grazes over your lip. He watches your tongue dart out after it, like you were trying to get a taste of what he left behind. That makes him more of a mess than he'd be willing to admit, breath shaking with his next exhale.

"Don't worry about telling me," He says, moving forward in a swift motion, pressing you to the couch cushions easily, "I already know what you need, just behave and I'll give it to you, okay?"

Another helpless nod, and he is hovering over you like a predator who'd just caught his prey. Sliding your clothes out of his way, not bothering to take anything off fully, far too preoccupied to care about such a trivial matter now. He only makes sure you're wet enough before he pushes inside your tight heat. It takes all his self-control not to moan out loud, mouth finding your neck to distract his brain with a different task for the moment.

He laves at the skin there, soft tongue sending shivers down your spine as it runs along the sensitive spots he's able to find like second nature. He works his way up to the shell of your ear, nipping and kissing along your jaw, buying time for your world to stop spinning before he sends it out of orbit again. You can feel the satisfied smirk against your ear, whining when the ghost of his teeth nibble along it.

"You're already so wet, you took me with no problem," He whispers, wiggling against you for emphasis, "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? How naughty, here I thought you were so well behaved."

You tug at his shirt, letting out an annoyed whine. Insistent, defiant, denying the idea that you had misbehaved. You hadn't, after all, he let you do all of it after all. He smiles, pulling back to look at your angry little pout.

"No?" He hums, and you confirm with a nod, "You think you're a good girl?"

You agree, vigorously nodding your head so hard he worries you might give yourself whiplash. Your angry pout makes him want to kiss you stupid, but he holds back on that. Only good girls get that treatment, and he wasn't so sure you'd earned the title yet. Instead, he presses his face close, just a hair's width away. Refusing to kiss you, but allowing you to desire it enough that he can see the need on your face.

"Why don't you prove it, then," He asks, rolling his hips once, "if you cum for me, maybe I'll reconsider my judgment."

With that, he begins his movements, sending your head spinning yet again with the pace he sets. Never one to waste time when he had you laid out so openly beneath him, he pistons himself into your wet heat at a steady but quick rhythm. Each drag manages to hit each spot against your spongy walls perfectly, getting you dizzy within moments of him starting. Your grip on his shirt tightens, using the fabric as a means of bracing yourself against the warmth spreading across your body.

It doesn't do anything for how quickly he manages to get you babbling, knowing your body better than you do. Those deep blue eyes watching you submit yourself willingly, knowing well that you would before he started. You always behaved so well for him; he just liked making you work for his praise. The angry expressions as you fought his accusations off, making him stupidly hot and bothered. Making the way your face absolutely scrunched up and losing itself to the heat of the moment all the more satisfying.

It doesn't take you long to reach your peak, not with how easily he works your body like this. Knowing exactly how to move his hips for you, like it was instinct to get you to fall apart on him. You cry out his name, fingers balling the fabric of his shirt like it would help you somehow. Cute, cute, cute sings inside his head, over and over, like he was losing his mind. He sees the moment the invisible thread in you snaps, and feels it as you grip around him as though trying to drag him down with you.

Instinctively, he comes down to kiss you, giving you your just rewards for being so good for him. The gentle reprieve he gives you makes it all worth it, though.

Mumbling against your moans his soft praises, "Good girl, keep going, give me all you can."

RAFAYEL (1k Words)

The only thing in the world Rafayel likes more than you is your attention. Knowing you're looking at him, having the awareness that you are encapsulated by him makes him happier than he'd be willing to admit to you. Something about the reassurance that you are there, and that you find him as mesmerizing as he does you, helps to calm his raging heart. Quells the burning fire of his yearning to a low simmer, no longer consuming him whole, but warming him from the cold of memories that still haunt him.

That attention of yours was addicting, and you were simply unaware of the effect you had on him. Which is why he felt as though he'd been going through withdrawals all day, a notable lack of your eyes on him driving him nuts. Yes, you were busy and he was oh so understanding of that... but he could only take so much. It was getting to be unfair at this point.

First, you wouldn't let him pull you back into the sheets, scolding him about 'work' and 'responsibility'. You sounded like Thomas, but he didn't complain too much that time, content to watch you get ready; the show was compensation enough. Then, audaciously, you refused to send him any pictures. Wouldn't even amuse the lighthearted flirting, too busy running around being a hero to pause for him. What made it all worse, when you got home, you were 'too tired' and 'just wanted to eat and nap'.

Fine, okay, whatever. He'll make you a tasty, nutrient-full meal and cuddle you on the couch while you talked about your day. He doesn't bring it up again, wouldn't push you when you seem so genuinely exhausted. He can go without for you, he did it for hundreds of years, what's a day?

It's fine until you start to get restless, wiggling about this way and that and pressing into him very intentionally. It clicks when you glance over your shoulder, pouting expectantly. You'd tortured him on purpose, how mean.

He pulls you back, hooking his chin over your shoulder with a smug satisfaction. The ends of his hair tickle your cheek when he pulls you into a deep and insistent kiss, not allowing you the time to catch up. He goes until you're dizzy, wiping away the string of saliva connecting you with that familiar playful smile of his, then it drops.

Annoyance, and that pout you hate to love stare you down, "Tell me, Cutie, were you intent on torturing both of us today?"

You shake your head, ready to deny him, but it catches in your throat. He nudges your nose admonishingly, almost daring you to say no. You'd played your mean little game, and he obeyed your rules, it was time for his reward; And he would be getting it. No matter what.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, "I didn't think I'd get this far."

He huffs, like he doesn't believe you, tracing your lip with his thumb.

"Talk is useless. Why don't you show me how sorry you are?" He rumbles out, eyes darkening in his desire.

You drop to your knees like you were being mind-controlled, freeing him from the confines of his pants. He stands at attention, proud and aching for your pretty lips to wrap around him. It makes you feel worse for playing hard to get all day, knowing how he must've been so needy this whole time. Those observant eyes watch you with hardly restrained excitement, twinkling down at you encouragingly.

You slide your thumb over the tip, spreading the pearly pre over it. There's an obscene amount of it, proof of how long he'd been keeping himself together, dripping down your hand. Absent-mindedly, you lean down to lick it up from where it slides down your wrist, following it back to the source. Salty and a little bitter, you ignore the taste for the sheer satisfaction of making him feel good.

You lick up what you spread around, popping the tip in your mouth and swirling your tongue around it. He curses your name like it were sin itself. Sensitive and desperate. You use it as motivation to take him in, inch by inch, until your throat tickles, then you pull back. Wrapping what you couldn't fit in your mouth with your hand, beginning languid motions back and forth. Sucking, swirling, pleasing him just how you know he likes.

You want to make it up to him, feeling so bad for teasing him the way you did. You really didn't mean any harm, but from how he was throbbing along your tongue, you know you did. Using your mouth to make it up to him was the least you could do. Apologizing with each hum you send along his shaft, sending your sorry directly through his nervous system.

A hand runs through your hair, scratching your scalp soothingly in reward. Not that you've earned it, but he can't be too mean when you're just so good for him. The prettiest sight he's ever seen, lips wrapped around him while you desperately try to keep eye contact between the fluttering of your lashes. All your attention was his now, and he was happy to hog it all unashamedly, just like you were to suck him off for hours.

He thought about letting you, he thinks you may even deserve the way your knees would sting after the fact, but he can't help but be weak for you. Not when he had a lot more he wanted to get done tonight. The gentlest tug is all it takes for you to pop off him, swallowing up air as though you'd been drowning. He smiles, wiping a little bit of spit running down your chin. His messy little masterpiece.

"You can take all of it, can't you?" He asks, and you nod in a daze, licking your lips.

He allows you to take him again, helping you take more and more down your throat until he's settled there like it's where he belongs. You breathe through your nose, face scrunched up in concentration, trying so hard to make it up to him. It's so charming, making his heart race and sending the blood right back to his dick.

It's not enough, though; he needs you to look at him.

"Cutie," he hums, and you look up at him, glassy-eyed and desperate for approval. He smirks, "Such a good, obedient girl for me, I think I can forgive you this once if you keep it up."

SYLUS (1.2k Words)

Sylus was a very busy man, something you knew intimately after being with him for so long. Frequently, he was off somewhere in the N109 Zone doing something that you were safer turning a blind eye to than asking about. You'd spend weeks at a time without seeing him, alone in your apartment as you worry needlessly about his well-being. He always came back in perfect condition, smirking at you as though your worry was some pointless thing, teasing you for how much you care.

Being with him was difficult, but ultimately worth it in the long run. The way he took care of you far outweighed the periods where you could not physically have him with you. Though... sexually... You felt your resolve waver just a bit.

You found yourself very pent up in the weeks that he was gone, and there was only so much your fingers or toys could do to satiate the heat that boiled in your tummy. Pictures and videos of your previous times together helped, but also made it worse at the same time. You just wanted him: his warmth, his touch, his taste. Devastatingly addictive, and you felt strung out without him at your side.

You'd send him pictures and videos, hoping he'd return the favor when he gets the chance. Sometimes he'd call you and talk you through it, cooing at you as though you were an insatiable kitty and not his very needy partner. Naturally, given your human nature, you can only handle so long before you start feeling petty.

Normally, you wouldn't deprive yourself when he comes home to you, whispering syrupy sweet words into your ear. Not this time. No, you wanted him to have a taste of how frustrated you would get. Since he seemed to find it oh so funny when you got all needy, let's see how he liked it.

You forgot how patient he was.

He could reasonably wait several millennia, and you were finding that out the hard way. He was a stone wall of impartialness; nothing could shake him, and within a week, you felt your resolve rapidly crumbling. He knew this, of course, he always knew. Yet, he let you play your game without a peep. It only made you more infuriated, need burning in your stomach every time you looked at him, trapped in a prison of your design.

You give in a week and three days into your little facade, frustrated and pent up, and by Astra needing him to do anything for you. He looks up at you like he was expecting your arrival at his office door. You're not aware of the cute little pout on your face, nor the way you nervously fiddle with the hems of his oversized shirt sleeves. And, goodness, he questions himself on how he could possibly hold out for so long when you're just so radiant.

You stop short of his desk, positioning yourself with arms crossed as you glare at him. He regards you with a tilt of his head, leaning back in his chair like a king on his throne. It's not meant to be intimidating, but it sends a chill up your spine. Fuck he was unfairly sexy, wasn't he? How could you purposely ignore him for some stupid petty pride?

You take a deep breath, sighing out your apology, "I'm sorry."

"Whatever for?" He hums, amusement thickening his voice.

"For avoiding you," you continue, stepping forward like owning up to it, "I was just..."

"Frustrated?" He finishes for you.

In a ridiculously smooth movement, he stands, walks to your side, and gently guides you to his couch. You are lying down across his lap, head propped up by a pillow against the arm, looking up at him with wonder. A large hand rests on your thigh, sliding your skirt to pool around your waist as you prop your knees up. Fingers stop just short of the apex of your thigh, tapping patiently along the soft skin there instead.

"It must be so difficult, being without me for so long," he purrs, "I can only imagine so, since you thought to play such a silly game with me."

You frown, resisting the urge to clench your thighs, "I just wanted you to feel how frustrated I was."

"You think I don't miss you when I'm away?" He scoffs, rolling his eyes like it was an offensive thought.

"Not as much as I miss you," you spit back.

He releases a huff of a laugh, squeezing your thigh, and you realize too late you've fallen into his trap, "Oh really? I suppose not, then. Tell me, though, what exactly do you do when you miss me?"

He knows what you do, of course, and he takes great pleasure in the videos you send. That does not stop him from quickly dipping his fingers into your underwear, finding the wetness pooling there pleasing, "Do you touch yourself like this?"

His fingers, long and slender and precise, swirl over your clit in practiced motions. The movements seem sloppy, but it's far from unintentional. He's mocking you, discarding his usual smoothness for how he imagines your fingers might play with the needy bud.  It's annoyingly accurate, which is why you melt so easily. You missed his touch so badly, unable to move your fingers in the same way he can, far less precise and sure of yourself.

You nod, swallowing hard, "I can't touch myself like you do."

"Poor little kitten," he soothes, mercifully correcting his motions to the tight circles you missed, "Don't worry, I'm here now. I'll touch you as much as you want."

Flimsily, you grab his tie, giving it a gentle tug, "Kiss me, please."

He doesn't waste any time in giving in to your commands, lips finding yours in a slow and passionate kiss that gets you sighing. You had missed him so badly, you were so needy, and now he was kissing you like you were the oxygen he needed to breathe. Your little game was stupid anyway, the pettiness melting to make way for your desire to please and be pleased.

You moan into his mouth when his fingers dip into your heat, dragging along your walls, reaching far deeper than you could've dreamed. He's skilled with his movements, curling them along the most sensitive spots he'd taken time to memorize. Somehow, knowing your body better than you do. Which is why it's no surprise you cum quickly, orgasm coming without warning and leaving you breathless against his lips.

He's muttering your praises, 'very good', 'that's it', 'perfect', and it only makes you more hazy. How he could be so sweet to you after you were so stupid was beyond you, but you didn't want him to stop. He doesn't, intrinsically knowing what you need without voicing it, and soon you are working through your second consecutive orgasm. Then your third, until you are finally coming down from your high with his steadfast praises ringing through your mind.

"Thank you," you mumble.

"Thank you," He answers, pressing a soft kiss to your nose.

CALEB (1.6k Words)

You didn't mean to tease him, honestly. It was innocent. It was always something innocent... until it wasn't. Until you managed to push enough that he decided it wasn't, because there was no way he was rock hard over some harmless little antics of yours. Or, maybe it was the fact that it was so innocent that got him so hot and bothered.

As much as he loathes to admit it, he gets a kick out of defiling you. You call it a kink, he calls it human nature (only for him, though, forbid another man thinks about the things he does.) Regardless, you tease him without meaning to all the time. The comfortableness you feel with each other allows your walls to come down, and unintentionally make something else of his rise. It was a good thing to be so comfortable with your partner, after all, you'd insist. Not realizing what seeing you in nothing but his oversized t-shirt did to his mind.

It drove him wild the way your completely harmless antics managed to 'wake him up' so to speak. He felt like a helpless virgin, which... he sort of was before you, but he figured he'd grow out of that phase eventually. Feels like it only got worse with time, and yet he wouldn't trade it for the world. Content to spend the rest of his days blue balling himself so long as he gets to live that sweet domestic bliss with you.

Currently, you are in the kitchen, working on the breakfast you'd insisted on making for him. Sweet as it was, Caleb was never really one to accept your acts of service without a fight, preferring to be the provider. It was a fight to get him to sit down and relax for once; one of his scarce days off should be spent decompressing, letting you treat him for once. He sat on the couch watching the news for all of ten minutes before he got annoyed and wandered to the kitchen.

He knew better than to get in your space, so he leaned against the doorframe, watching you with a glower. It softens when you send a smirk over your shoulder, brushing off his pouting effortlessly as you glide around his kitchen. It was too cute a sight to stay mad, anyway. His old t-shirt - the one he got from his high school honors program that he couldn't fit into anymore - hardly covers your ass, giving him just the smallest glimpse of your panties each time you reached up or shifted just right.

You shift from foot to foot as you work on the pancakes - apple cinnamon, his own recipe, of course. Hair pulled away so he could see the evidence of your late-night activities peek from just beneath the collar of his shirt. If that wasn't enough to send him into a catatonic state of domesticity, you would look at him every few moments, like you were waiting for him to do something. Sultry little pout tossed over your shoulder, gliding over his bare chest, just over the dick print in his grey sweats, then turning around like you weren't being the biggest tease in the world.

Normally, Caleb would let it slide. Normally, he'd roll off your teasing with a bright smile and a halfhearted scolding. Normally, he had somewhere to be in the morning, so he couldn't afford to give in. Today was not a normal day. Today was a rest day, and what better way to rest than indulging in all the desires he'd purposefully pushed off until now?

He cages you between his arms when you look away, moving a fluffy pancake to the plate set next to you. They looked perfect; you'd followed his recipe exactly. Too bad he wasn't craving pancakes right now, and judging from the way you giggle when his lips graze your shoulder, you weren't either.

"Feeling hungry?" You laugh, reaching a hand back to scratch the base of his skull like he was an overgrown mutt.

One of his hands slides to turn off the stove, then wraps around your hip, pressing you back into his crotch. You feel how hungry he is, poking at your buttocks through the minimal layers of clothing both of you are wearing. Open-mouthed kisses across all exposed flesh he could reach further incriminate him, urging you to give in.

"Starving," he groans.

"Well then," you hum, turning to face him - he doesn't leave your skin for a moment, moving with you, "dig in."

He moans, lifting you up to the counter with a swift heft, spreading you out pretty for him. His lips trace down the fabric of his shirt while his fingers inch it up over your hips, humming satisfied when they find skin to ravish again. He makes a fast trail to your clothed entrance, pressing his nose to the wet fabric and taking a deep whiff. Another groan grumbles out of his chest, and in another moment, he's licking along the slick staining the fabric.

You both moan at the sensation, Caleb's muffled by you and you by your hand. He tugs you closer, tossing your legs over his shoulders, surrounding himself with your thighs. No escape, not that he had any intention of leaving. He looks up at you, smiling when he notices how you try to hide, eyes darting around the room like that would help you.

Gently, he takes the hand covering your mouth, settling it firmly on his head. He doesn't let go of your wrist until you weave the soft locks through your fingers, scratching at his scalp just like you had earlier. You get an encouraging little smile for it, a soft kiss pressed to your thigh as a reward. His other hand tucking your panties to the side, revealing your hot sticky cunt to him. You clench reflexively when he licks his lips, amethyst eyes finding yours again as he spreads your lips.

Slowly, deliberately, without breaking eye contact, he leans down and kisses your clit. Your mouth falls open because that might just be the hottest thing you've ever seen in your life. You think you might need a million pictures of the way he looks at you as his lips pucker against the sensitive bud. Unfortunately, you don't get to stare at it for too long, as Caleb is as insatiable as he is in love with you. Eyes falling closed as he brings his tongue across your folds, lapping the juices there up like a thirsty dog.

Your fingers curl tightly into his scalp at the sensation, pressing him closer with a pathetic noise. Somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, addicting to a man like Caleb. His mouth dips down to your entrance, a loud slurping ringing in your ears as he drinks up the juices that leaked out from your needy hole. Tongue working in steady rolls, still not quite experienced, but moving exactly like you needed him to. Your clit does not go neglected, nose nudging against it with his eager movements. His head bobbing excitedly with each shameless slurp, and he really does remind you of a dog like this.

When his tongue plunges as deep as he can get it, you whine out his name, thighs clenching around his head. It slides in far too easily, like it was made to be there, which certainly does something for his ego. You lock your feet behind his back, trying to roll your hips into his uneven rhythm with little success. Not that he needed the help, you were already tumbling over the edge when you lifted your hips the first time. Fucking yourself against his face, elongating your orgasm for as long as he allows you to. And he allows you to for a while, long enough that he's able to force a second one out of you in your frenzy.

Only when you slam your head against the cupboard does he force himself back, concern overpowering his need to eat you out until you can't speak. You whine at him, trying to force him back down, but he isn't having it as he checks you over. He laughs at you when he decides that you're fine, pinching your cheek like you were a petulant child and not his very overstimulated, needy girlfriend.

"You want more? You already came twice, pips." He laughs, pressing a wet kiss to your forehead.

Instead of responding, you press your foot to his hard on, taking great satisfaction at the way he hisses. He catches you by your ankle, tugging your legs open so he can stand between them again. You pull him into a heated kiss, scooting dangerously close to the edge of the counter so you can press into him. You feel his resolve crack instantly, kissing you back like you were the very oxygen he needed to breathe.

"I need you inside, please," you murmur into the desperate dance of lips on lips.

Without argument, he tugs himself out of his sweats, pressing himself against your heat, "Since you've been so good, I think I can be nice, just this once."

You gasp as the tip slides between your folds, lubricating himself up with a few thrusts, then sliding into your desperate hole with little resistance. The stretch is accompanied by low whispers in your ear, cooing and coaxing you, "Goooood girl, that's right, you take it so well," and "Breathe, princess, I've got you."

By the time you're done with each other, the pancakes are freezing cold, and Caleb decides it's time to start lunch instead. He's cooking this time.

[glasvera]

Dead Man Walking

Moon Knight x Fem!Vampire!Reader

Description: Sequel to Blooded Moon! When you're on the run, cursed to be a vampire and chased by the superheroes that want to save the city, Moon Knight finds you first. Maybe saving you isn't his best idea, but he'll be damned if he leaves you behind when you're this terrified. Being easy on the eyes also helps.

Warnings/Disclaimers: SMUT (18+ only, Minors DNI!!!!), cursing, angst, blood, blood-sucking, pretty vivid descriptions of the taste (I mean, it's a vampire reader, so what'd you expect?), hurt and comfort, tearing off clothes, shower sex, fucking against the wall, doggy style, fluff and smut

A/N: Oh hey, it me <3 Been working on this one for a while! Hopefully it's a good blend of freaky with sprinkles of comfort... reader did just drink blood for the first time, after all. Title was inspired by the song of the same name (by Grant) because I listened to it at least a dozen times while writing this LOL

Word Count: 3.7k

Blood trickles from the fresh puncture wounds in his neck. Your inhibitions begin to leave you when you dive in, lapping that liquid vitality, groaning with each swallow. You don't bite again, at least not yet, but you do suck, coaxing forth just a bit more blood from his veins that you gulp down eagerly. His hips buck up into you and he lets out a low moan, fingertips delving beneath the waistband of your pants and squeezing the bare skin of your hips.

You drink in the sweet tang of his blood, the salt of his sweat. He tastes divine, and the sounds you draw from his lips leave your thighs quivering with want. It isn't long before your hips meet his in their movements, undulating and grinding against him with hot exhales of breath fanning across his neck.

Impatient hands get to work, first at his red-stained cloak, quickly followed by his pauldrons, chest plate, and his bracers and gloves. Soon he's left in just his undershirt from the chest up, the fabric clinging to every curve and muscle of his delicious frame, and your hands roam across the expanse of dark grey fabric. He shudders under your touch but doesn't remain idle as he splays his hands across your bare back before pushing your shirt up. Goosebumps litter your skin in the wake of his movements.

“Mind if I…?” he murmurs, his voice rumbling just next to your ear. A flash of your tongue cleans the drop of blood that dared to attempt an escape from your lips before you smile, baring your sharp fangs. He curses under his breath. “That… shouldn’t be as hot it is.”

A dark chuckle thrums in your chest as you raise your arms above your head and help him divest you of your shirt. 

“Shit.” His eyes roam hungrily over the skin exposed to him. It’s smooth and cool like polished marble. Lips, red and sticky with blood, press searing, messy kisses along your clavicle. When his bare hands find your breasts, you gasp at just how hot he feels.

You hadn’t really considered that you were cold until now. It was your new normal. Now, with feverish palms molding and squeezing your tits and a tongue like lava savoring the expanse of your neck… surely you were going to burst into flames. It eats you alive. You need more. You need to consume, to be consumed.

Fingernails sharpen into claws before you’re tearing apart the barrier keeping you from his chest. Marc’s eyes widen, but he makes no move to stop you, shrugging off the remaining shreds of fabric as they scatter to the floor. Locking your thighs tighter around his hips, you push him down to lie on his back, smiling coyly. You drink in the veritable feast of a man beneath you. Fingertips spread through coarse, thick hair as you brace yourself against his heaving chest. Thin, angry lines criss-cross his skin, beading with red rivulets, the aftermath of your hastiness. You catch one of them on the pad of your index finger before bringing it to your lips and darting your tongue out to taste it.

But then a wave of realization washes over you. This… this isn’t you. Blood crazed, seductive, feral. It felt like someone else had taken over you.

He sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you stiffen atop him. A gentle, albeit searing, touch grazes your cheek. “Hey… you doin’ okay?”

Your eyes snap back down to meet his, greeting that chocolate gaze with a red-tinted, frenzied glance. Breath shudders forth from your chest. “I am… I…”

Your eyelids shut tight and you hold your head in your hands. Guilt shrouds over you like a thunderous cloud. You should be asking him that question. You owed him so much, and all you’ve done is take and take and take…

The hand at your cheek presses firmer, cupping your jaw while his thumb brushes soothingly over your cheekbone. “We don’t have to do this.”

“No, I want to, I just--give me a moment.” Peeking through barely open slits, you can see the concern etched upon the lines of his face. Despite the flush that decorates it, the desire that blackens his irises, there is a patience there that, whether or not you felt deserving of it, you had grown accustomed to.

Though he does give you a few moments of silence, he eventually speaks up. “I’m fine, if that’s what you’re worried about. Khonshu sure as hell isn’t happy about it, but I don’t need him butting in on this sort of thing anyway.”

It doesn’t quell the shame, the fear of the possibility that gnaws at your conscience. “...What if you turn?” you ask meekly.

He gazes up at you softly now, a pitying exhale breathing through his lips. “Pretty sure it has to be intentional. I’ll be fine,” he reassures you. It’s not like you could argue with him; after all, only one of you had long-term experience with these sorts of things. You had only just turned a month or so ago. “Besides, I don’t think Khonshu would let me go that easily.”

A sudden twinge and a wince as he turns his head away in pain confirms that, at least.

“Yeah…” he scoffs with a cock of his head, “I’ll be fine.”

You give him a tiny, sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry.” When he gives you a curious look, you add, “For complicating things, I mean. With Khonshu, Iron Man, all of it.” You lean into the hand that lingers at your cheek before letting out a long, drawn out sigh. “I can’t imagine that drinking your blood will help the situation, either.”

“Stop that.”

You blink in surprise as the pad of his thumb tugs at your lip, swiping away the blood beginning to crust there. “What…?”

He sits back upright, holding your head between his palms. His touch still feels almost feverish to you, but there’s gentleness, comfort, and in this position, you can’t help but stare into his eyes and find the sincerity behind his gaze.

“You’re questioning if you’re worth the time, the effort. You don’t get to decide that.”

Your heart might as well be trapped in his fist with the way it clenches in your chest.

“I--”

“Stand up,” he commands.

Your body freezes for a moment, tender muscles only just revitalized feeling sore with the sudden tension. But he’s raising a brow, reaching down and pushing at your hips, and you don’t have time to think when you’re too busy collecting your bearings and keeping your balance. Were your legs really this wobbly before? You stagger to your feet like a newborn fawn.

“Let’s get you washed up,” he adds sternly, pointing with a nod of his head in the direction of his sleeping quarters. When you hesitate, he stands and sighs with a slump of his shoulders. “C’mon. You trust me, don’t you?”

What did trust have to do with it? Other than you being around him at all as a blood sucking vampire, or as someone who up until recently was a complete stranger, or how another member of his team wanted you wiped off the face of the earth, or--

“Hey. Snap out of it.” Despite his tone, his hand takes yours gingerly. Your eyes snap towards his, surprised to find him gazing warmly at you through cocoa irises. “We can explore whatever the fuck just happened later, but you clearly need a minute, and we both could stand to have a little less blood caked on us.”

-----

You remember how the faucet on your apartment’s shower used to squeak when turned. Of course, being in the Baxter building, the plumbing had no such problems here. Only the hiss of warm water sounds before the streams begin to drum against the porcelain floor.

It’s funny… only a few minutes prior, you were practically ripping each other’s clothes off. Now it’s an awkward fumble, grunts and oofs punctuated with occasional apologies, stumbling against the wall with pants legs tangled around your ankles. You bump your nose against his knee at one point and your eyes begin to water even as you snort out a laugh at your clumsiness.

“You know,” you start with an airy chortle, “I always thought being a vampire would lend a bit more grace to the afflicted.”

The water is almost too hot when you step into it, but there's comfort in the steam that coalesces about your body. Marc joins you soon after, and you can tell he's trying to give you space if you need it…

…even if his arousal still occasionally nudges your thigh or butt.

Who could blame the man when sanguine perfection stands before him?

You hear him grunt with discomfort as the water washes over his fresh cuts and bruises. Regardless, it isn't long before lavender hits your nostrils and you feel strong, firm hands at your shoulders.

“S'pose it's like piloting a new body,” he replies as he massages the soap into your tender skin. A contented hum rumbles in your throat and your head lolls lazily to one side. “You, uh… changed a bit once you tasted my blood.”

“Don't remind me,” you groan.

“No, not like that,” he chuckles. “I mean physically. You got stronger. Your… you seemed to perk up a bit.” His voice wavers. Did he sound embarrassed?

“I… what?”

Soap lathered hands make their way down your back. His thumbs press outside the ridges of your spine, mapping every dip and curve. Your cheek presses against the cool tile wall as his fingertips work miracles into your aching muscles, melting you like butter. Your back arches with the pleasant side benefit of pushing your ass out towards him, and you can feel him freeze for a fraction of a second, but he quickly recovers. 

“Pretty sure it was mainly the muscles, and it's nothing dramatic, but ah…” his touch dips lower, leaning forward with his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Now his hands are at your hips and you feel the hesitation in his tensed fingers. “Seems like you got a bit of a lift in certain areas.”

Oh. You peek down at your chest, and it does seem a bit more shapely, but you had been a bit too distracted to notice earlier. Blood sucking, kissing, and all that.

“I guess it makes sense. Vampires in the stories are always supposed to be alluring, right?” you reason with a chuckle, though a smirk does tug at your lips. “How'd you notice the difference?”

“I, well… you see--” he stammers, and you feel his body stiffen.

“I'm teasing, Marc,” you reassure him with a lilting giggle. He relaxes only slightly, and you can't help but roll your eyes. “I… like knowing you look at me like that. Like this.” You turn in his hold, pressing your back to the tile and taking his hands in yours. He drinks in your nude form hungrily, openly, eyeing the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the fill of your hips. It sparks something in your chest before a warming flame flickers in your belly.

“I like you.”

His eyes flicker down to your lips, no longer painted red with his blood now that the water has washed it away. There’s that hesitation again, even if his eyes are halfway through fucking you already. Something holds him back. You lace your fingers together before bringing your joined hands above your head, forcing him to lean towards you to keep his balance. Water beads and drips from his messy brown locks onto your face, but you barely even notice it. All you can focus on is the way his gaze bores into you, eyes darkened with lust yet softened by tenderness. This was different from before, when everything had happened so fast. Taut strings of building tension had snapped, pooling desires had overflowed.

But this?

You study his rugged features, dropping one hand to press your fingertips and drag them languidly along the scratchy stubble of his jawline. Cupping his face, you can trace the pad of your thumb along his cheekbone while his eyes flutter closed. In this moment, you have all the time in the world.

“Well… good thing I like you, too,” he responds gruffly, untangling your fingers to brace himself against the wall. He leans over you properly, caging you with his palms flat on either side of your head, pinching his inner lip between his canines.

You let out a shuddery breath as your eyes devour every delicious detail of him, openly ogling every muscle. Your fingertips fall to his chest again, gentler this time, but still raking through that coarse chest hair and following it across his stomach as it trails all the way down, down…

You draw your index finger teasingly down his shaft. A sharp intake of breath hisses through his teeth as his brow knits together, and his cock twitches expectantly in response to your touch.

“I can tell.”

There's barely enough time for that cheeky smirk to spread across your face before he dives in, groaning and slanting his mouth over yours. Salt, sweat, the lingering taste of his blood accented by the somewhat metallic tang of the shower water, is all spoon fed to your palette when his tongue parts the seam of your lips. You gasp delightedly at his eagerness and wrap your fingers around him properly. In response, one hand shoots down to your thigh and digs into the plush flesh, hiking your leg up and pushing you firmly against the cold tile.

It's a mess of teeth and tongue, wet and warmth, hunger and affection. Your tongues dance, caress, fight, but he relents when you suck on the appendage, letting out a breathy groan and rutting into your hand.

Gently, avoiding breaking the skin, you kiss and suck, grazing your fangs across his skin as your lips trail along his jaw towards your prize. He surrenders willingly, almost excitedly, tilting his head to expose his neck to you. The animal in you begs you to bite down, to take in more of that liquid vitality, but you have to prove yourself worthy of his trust, worthy of his affection, worthy of this.

“You…” Another pleasured exhale interrupts him. “You don’t have to be gentle.” It’s so sincere it makes your chest ache, your lips trembling as they hover over his pulse point.

“Let me be,” you plead softly as your breath fans across his neck. “Let me prove that I can.”

His head turns and presses an awkward kiss to the soaked strands of your hair. “Alright. Can’t promise I will be, though.”

You snort out a sudden laugh at that before echoing his own sentiment. “You certainly don’t have to be gentle with me.”

It seems to spur him to action once more. Reaching down to replace your hand with his own, he strokes his cock and lines it up with your entrance. You’re more than ready, practically dripping even without the water that cascades down your bodies. Despite all of his talk, his reassurances, his patience, you can tell it’s all beginning to wear thin as his breathing grows more and more ragged when the tip nudges past your labia.

Your knee is practically pressed to your chest, folding you in half as he holds your perfect legs wide open. It takes effort, conscious thought, to breathe as you hug your arms around his shoulder and bury your face into his neck, but you’re rewarded with the delicious drag of his cockhead as it slides into you.

“Fuck…”

A single curse shouldn’t be so attractive, but the way his voice goes gravelly, breathy, the way he digs his fingers into your thigh just to keep himself composed, all because of you? You could live off of this high.

True to his word, it doesn’t take long before he’s snapping his hips against yours, fucking you into the tiles. You would be surprised, no, impressed by his stamina despite your earlier drink if it weren’t for the fact that you were preoccupied spilling moan after moan into the crook of his neck. He slides in and out of you so easily, curves just right, that you can’t help but wonder if his cock was somehow made for you. Every nerve ending is set alight with pleasure, the searing heat of his body branding you as you hold on for dear life and dig your nails into his back.

“M-Marc! Oh fuck-” you breathe into his skin. You taste the salty tang of his sweat against your lips as he pistons in and out of you in a heated frenzy.

Your moans are music to his ears. He cups your ass in his other hand before lifting you up completely, wrapping your legs around his waist and pushing you against the wall. His pace never falters, and the slight change in angle leaves you keening out high-pitched cries and seeing stars. The muscles of your core tense as that wonderful pleasure starts to build. His hips clap against yours, and his pubic bone grinds deliciously against your clit with every thrust. 

“That’s it--fuck, feels so good… shit…” he praises, grunting with effort when your velvety walls clench around him. “Perfect… so fucking perfect--”

You whine as a tingling sensation sparks across your body and spreads to your extremities. No one has ever fucked you so well, so thoroughly, and your heightened vampiric senses only seem to multiply the sensations tenfold. You feel every inch of him with every thrust, feel the way he fucks into you like his life depends on it, feel the press of his fingers as they squeeze into your flesh.

“Right there, yes!” you whimper, throwing your head back against the wall when he angles his thrusts ever so slightly to the side. You’re so close, so fucking close, your moans growing airier, whinier, desperate.

And then he’s setting you back down onto your feet, and you can’t believe he would have the audacity when you were this fucking close--!

But he’s breathing heavily, his heart racing, when that gruff voice commands, “Turn around.”

That alone almost makes up for it, sending shivers down your spine that morph into pleasured shudders that warm you to your core.

He pulls out of you and you’re quick to comply, turning and bracing your hands against the same wall that had been kind enough to support you so far. It’s mere seconds before his hands find your ass, cupping it possessively. Your back arches and you press impatiently against his achingly hard cock, still slick with your juices, peering over your shoulder and biting your lip. Your fang just barely pricks the plump flesh and draws forth a bead of blood that you instinctively lap up even if it’s your own.

“F-Fuck… needed this view.” His voice is like silk and gravel, breathless, airy, and rough. He wastes no more time in reentering you.

Oh gods.

If you thought he was perfect before, if you thought there was no way he could feel even better, you were criminally mistaken. It’s too sinful to be heaven and yet it’s pure euphoria as he fucks you hard and fast, the curve of his length dragging perfectly and hitting that spongy spot that leaves you whimpering and babbling for more. One hand darts between your legs and feverishly your fingertips circle your clit, timing it with his thrusts. Your ass and tits bounce with the force of his fucking, and he leans over you to capture one of your breasts in his hand as he pinches and squeezes at your supple skin. Hot breath puffs against your back.

“Can feel… you squeezing me… shit, come on--” he grunts.

All you can give in response are gasps and lilting cries as your moans grow higher and higher in pitch. Your cheek is smashed against the wall and your jaw hangs slack, drooling with pleasure. His cock hammers into you, fingers tug and twist at your nipple, and your own work desperately at your bud as you chase the wave that crests higher and higher within you. The closer you get, the more your moans sound like pleas for release. He doesn’t relent, even as his breathing grows more and more labored, the effort leaving his body even hotter against the permanent chill of your vampiric skin.

“Yes, yes, fu--hah… mm--mmh--fuck!” Your throat is hoarse from moaning and leaves your voice wispy and airy as you crest closer, closer, chasing the wave and riding it further and further--

It crashes, and you crash with it, slamming into you with a flurry of fiery, euphoric explosions as you spasm and convulse, crying out with your orgasm as your core tightens and your pussy grips his cock like a vice.

“Shit!” he curses, leaning back and gripping your hips with both hands as he slams into you, chasing his own release. You shudder as he fucks you through the aftershocks. Faster. Faster. It’s almost bruising, but you’re made of tougher stuff than most. Gargled moans bubble in your throat.

He finally stills in you with a guttural groan, emptying his load deep into you as he pants for breath. His grip on you finally loosens before he slumps forward, catching himself on the wall as the shower fills the silence with the gentle hiss of water. Your head is filled with a pleasant buzz, your mind hazy as you try to stagger yourself upright. 

Before you can stand up fully, however, Marc’s arms wrap tightly around your waist as he hugs you to him. It’s a complete turnaround from how rough he had been just moments ago. Tender, loving, even. The hug turns into a sway, guiding the two of you back and forth softly. He buries his nose into the crook of your neck.

“You good?” he murmurs. His lips press gentle kisses along your shoulder.

Affection swells in your chest and you nuzzle into him with your cheek. How could you put it into words suitable enough? For the first time since your transformation, you felt whole again, accepted, trusted, cared for.

“I feel wonderful,” you beam, wrapping your arms around his. It’s good that you’re turned away from him in the shower, because you feel the happy tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

For the first time in months, in the arms of the man that saved your life in more ways than he could imagine, you were more than good. You were home.

[runa-falls]

my turn

part 1 | part 2

pairing: marc spector x reader (a bit of steven grant x reader)

summary: marc has had enough of watching you take advantage of steven and not him...

cw: smut (18+), voyeurism, masturbation, rough sex, dirty talk, degrading words, pining omg so much pining, angst, creampie, fluff?, ft. steven

wc: 3.4k

a/n: long time coming (cumming) -- i just realized i barely have marc fics so hopefully this holds up to expectations!

masterlist

----

You know Marc. But you wouldn't necessarily say that you're friends. And even if you were, you're definitely not 'friendly' with him the way you are with Steven.

If you were to ask him though, it wasn't for the lack of trying.

Since you've met Steven, Marc has merely been a shadow behind him, stopping in to check on Steven's personal life every so often before disappearing again.

What you aren't aware of, though, is that the only time he trifles in Steven's life is when he gets to see you.

Usually, Marc is uninterested in the daily life of his other half.

Steven wakes up, catches (or misses) the bus, gets to work, grabs some food on the way home, then calls it a day. It's a bland routine that Marc set up specifically to make sure that Steven is safe and sane. So, of course, when there's a change, Marc starts to pay attention.

Suddenly, out of the blue, you're everywhere.

A smile in the background of Steven's phone, a sticky note on the fridge reminding him to get more blueberries, and the oversized sweater you leave on the armchair one day that Steven steals whenever you're away.

He has no idea how you came into the picture, how he's never noticed you, or how Steven of all people captured your attention.

All he knows is that Steven is fumbling. Hard.

Marc had no idea what the nature of your relationship was until he had a front row ticket to one of your friendly favors.

---

Steven isn't subtle about his feelings. Anytime he's exceptionally scared or excited, Marc is called forward by his subconscious mind just in case he's in danger.

Usually, Marc is forced to front when Steven is about to burn his flat down from his nth attempt at cooking, or when he nearly walks into a busy intersection because he has his nose stuck in a book. But he never expected this.

He knew you liked to baby Steven. Take care of him because he had no one else to turn to (except Gus of course), but he just assumed you were being friendly, a kind soul willing to take Steven under your wing.

Nothing could have prepared him for when he woke up to the sight of you on your knees in front of him. It's odd being in the back seat of his body while Steven is getting all of your attention. He can feel everything, from the way your soft lips brush so sweetly against his cock to the hot suction of your mouth, but there's something that's holding him back from taking what he wants.

He wants so badly to bury his hand in your hair and push you down onto him until you're making a mess of yourself, eyes welling with pretty tears and drool dripping down your chin. He needs to tell you what a good girl you're being for him, so desperate for his cock in your throat. He wants to pick you up and carry you over to the bed to show you just how beautiful you are.

He wants you to look up and know it's him.

But he can't. Because who knows when this development started.

You acted platonically just the other day, and now, you're begging for Steven to cum on your tits.

What are you to each other?

If interferes now and messes this up for Steven, you might leave their lives altogether. Damn, how have you lured him into your clutches without even talking to him?

For all he knows, it could be a one-off thing...

---

It's decidedly not a one-off thing.

Marc has barely had the chance to front since the first time you made a move on Steven. You're always coming over, whether it's a spontaneous movie night or an offer to cook Steven some dinner, you always find a way to slither your way back into his bed. Not that Steven minds.

But Marc does.

With each fumbling move that Steven makes, Marc gets pushed closer to the edge. He could do it so much better. Make it clear that you're wanted. Give you the pleasure you deserve.

He cringes inside with every wary arm that gets thrown over your shoulder during a movie (one of Steven's signature moves to get you to cuddle -- somehow it works, every time). With the messy, unpracticed kisses that Steven haphazardly presses against your sweet lips.

He physically holds himself back from taking control of the body whenever you fall asleep in Steven's arms. He wants to hold you, feel your body molded against his, even if you have no idea it's him.

It's painful watching the two of you walk circles around the truth.

"I'm always thinking about you." Just tell her that you like her, you idiot! What is there to be afraid of? She looks at you like you painted the stars and hung the moon!

At this point, he doesn't even know why he tries.

Whenever you're around, Steven has total tunnel vision. He practically follows you around like some lost puppy. He lets sweet words spill from his lips without even thinking first and you lap up any type of affection he'll give you.

It's a vicious cycle of obliviousness.

Steven is a lost cause. But he isn't.

He can't take it anymore. He can't take waking up with a lingering taste of you on his tongue, or seeing your lovesick smile directed at someone else. He can't take the way you treat him like a stranger, like someone to avoid.

He wants you. So he's going to show you.

---

It's been a long day.

Marc's been out, jumping on top of roofs and kicking ass, all while Steven's 'sweetheart' blows up his phone.

Marc narrows his eyes, shuffling through all the smiley faces and hearts that litter your messages (and the thumbs up messages from Steven).

This book made me think of you <3

A cute little picture of you holding a book next to your face stares back at him, painting his face in a soft glow as he stands in the darkness of the night. He wants to crush the device in his hand.

Call me when you get home safe :)

You know exactly where Marc is right now, and what his life consists of, but you always avoid talking about him directly. You're always just waiting for Steven to come home so he can sleepily tell you he's back in bed and give you the green light to come over and snuggle your face into his chest.

Marc likes to think that he makes measured decisions, but what he does next is completely out of character:

Come over.

---

He's a little impatient, sitting on his worn couch as he waits for you to show up. You said you'd be 20 minutes, but it's been 30 since he texted you.

Sory thought the cookies would be done earlier! I'm otw now!

Your hastily typed out text blinks up from the forgotten phone that lies next to him. He read the sheepish reply when you sent it, but didn't bother to text back because of course you baked cookies for Steven.

He's starting to regret tricking you over. All he can think about is the inevitable rejection he'll get once you realize he's not Steven.

Marc leans back against the collection of overstuffed pillows and (your) gifted squish-mallows that decorate the couch, not caring that he's taking up as much space as possible. Flashes of your time with Steven override his doubts, reminding him of the softness that only you can provide.

He doesn't even realize he's unbuttoning his pants until his hand slips himself out of his briefs. Fuck, he's already so hard just thinking about you.

He doesn't want to get himself too worked up so he attempts to take it slow, stroking and squeezing himself until he's teetering at the edge, pretending that it's your hand instead of his. He quickly gets lost in the feeling, floating in a euphoric dream of you and your touch. It isn't until he hears the door click open that he returns to reality.

You're here. The thought alone nearly makes him spill over himself.

"Steven!"

-- And he's good.

"I'm here--oof," He hears you run into a kitchen stool, "why is it so dark in here?"

He should shove himself back into his pants and greet you like a normal human being, but some sick thing inside of him wants you to see what you do to him.

You place a container of freshly baked cookies on the counter with a smile, satisfied with your work and excited to see him try one. You've been working on a new vegan snickerdoodle recipe just for him.

A sweet treat for your sweet treat. You nearly giggle at your thoughts.

You take a second to smooth down any wrinkles on your dress, desperate to look nice for him. Steven has no idea how obsessed with him you are. You want him all the time. You're constantly craving to coax out soft whines and stutters from your favorite boy.

You look around the dim flat.

Where the hell is he?

Usually you'd find him in front of his makeshift desk, sprawling through various books under a harsh lamp, but tonight his spot is empty.

A soft grunt guides you to the couch, your usual movie night spot. No way he's starting without you.

"Ah, there you are." You're slightly put out that he doesn't move to greet you, but maybe Marc's mission just took a particularly harsh toll on his body.

It's only when you're standing at the side of the couch that he meets your eyes. And you meet his...hard cock, desperately throbbing in his hand. What a sight. Your eyes nearly glaze over at the sight of his mussed hair and laid back positioning.

He just looks up at you, casually. He's been expecting you. He wants you to watch him. It makes it that much more delicious.

He doesn't shy back at your presence. If anything, he sits up to give you a better view. His hand moves methodically -- controlled, stroking himself from tip to base as his half-lidded eyes stare straight back at you.

His dark look and posture nearly make him unrecognizable. It's not just the clothes he's wearing, or the 5 o'clock shadow, but the way he furrows his eyebrows and grips himself so confidently, like he does it all the time.

You shake off the odd feeling settling in your stomach and move over to him with the practiced grace that usually makes him weak in the knees for you.

"Mm...Steven...you're quite needy right now, aren't you?"

He raises a dark eyebrow, briefly squeezing himself in his hand as he unabashedly takes in your figure, draped in a soft dress. He's not backing down like you're used to. At this point, he's supposed to be begging for you to touch him, not staring you down like you're a piece of meat.

"M'not Steven, sweetheart." His voice makes you freeze in front of him and all of the confidence you once held rushes out of your body.

"M-marc?"

A cynical smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"You remember me?"

You capture your bottom lip into your mouth, holding yourself back from crawling on top of him and skipping the conversation. The dark and intense version of your lover is serving himself up on a silver platter, and all you can do is watch.

"Why wouldn't I?" He shrugs.

You can tell he's enjoying this, watching you squirm uncomfortably as he teases himself right in front of you. He touches himself like it's an afterthought, something to simply accompany the sight of you.

"W-where's Steven? I was supposed to meet him here..."

"I'm the one who texted you."

You freeze, not knowing what to do.

He wants you here?

He wants you?

"You...?"

"Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna be a good girl for me like you are with Steven?"

What would Steven think?

"I-I don't know..."

"C'mon, you're always dying to suck him off."

Your face flushes at his bluntness. Are you that obvious?

A hand comes up to hold you by the waist before you're pulled closer to him. He looks up at you, eye-level with your chest, looking as predatory as ever, despite his position under you.

"What's the difference, hm?" He slides a warm hand under the hem of your dress, gently caressing the bare skin of your outer thigh. "It's the same body on top of you. The same cock stretching you out..." You shiver when you feel his fingers tease the edge of your panties, the deep red lace you picked out specially for Steven. "...even the same cum filling you up."

You look down, mesmerized by the way his hand moves under the thin fabric of your dress. You watch his shrouded arm pull at the fabric until it barely brushes at your upper thigh as his hand slides up over the softness of your stomach and the dips of your ribs, before stopping at the curve of your breast.

"You want this."

It's not a question, it's a statement. And he's right.

He watches your eyes flutter close as he cups you in his hand. Despite the heat in his eyes, he handles you so softly. Like you're a porcelain doll in his hands. It's a familiar touch, but there's a hint of something more.

"Steven..." You breathe out. It's said out of habit. This feeling inside of you has only been associated with one person. It's always been him. But now, a whole other side of yourself is opening up.

You quickly realize your mistake when his grip tightens around your waist and on your breast, demanding your attention.

"No." His voice is low, "Not him."

"M-marc."

He hums and rewards you with a teasing flick of his thumb over your nipple. You're disappointed when his touch suddenly leaves you, but before you can complain, he begins to work his pants all the way off.

"Don't worry about him, sweetheart." He pulls you close enough that you nearly fall over him, causing you to straddle his lap and sit chest-to-chest. "Tonight's about us." The skirt of your dress falls around your thighs, shielding the way his length presses against your inner thigh.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, flustered by the feeling of his hot body against yours, at the idea that this is really happening.

You breathe in once. Is that..?

And then, once again.

He smells like him.

"You good, baby?" He rubs over the tops of your thighs comfortingly while subtly shoving your skirt up to your waist.

"Mhm..." You hum against his skin, relishing in the feeling of his embrace. You experimentally push your hips against his, grinding your needy center against his. He groans at the contact and cants his hips upwards, forcing you to feel just how hard he is.

Your cunt pulses in desperation as he continues to rut against your clothed clit. You're nearly soaking through your underwear with how wet you are. And by the way he groans against you, he can tell.

An eager hand shoves between your bodies to shove your panties to the side. "Need to feel you." He drags a finger against you, spreading your slick until it runs down the palm of his hand. "Fuck. You're so ready for me."

"P-please." It's a hushed whisper against his shoulder, but he hears it loud and clear.

"Please, what?" He pushes you back, forcing you to look at him as he lines himself up. Heat pricks at the tops of your cheeks before you cast your eyes downwards.

Is he really going to make you say it?

"M-marc." You whimper as he brushes the tip of his cock through the seam of your cunt, covering himself with your lust. He mouths at your neck, ignoring your pleas by keeping himself busy sucking bites and bruises into your skin. "Please, fuck me, Marc."

He barely gives you a second before he's pushing in with a single fluid motion. The feeling is indescribable. How can he share a body with Steven, but make this feel so different?

"So big..." You gasp out, thighs trembling around his.

"Taking me so well, baby. Just let me in."

He pushes up until you're filled to the brim, drawing out a broken moan from your lips. The stretch is exquisite in this position. You feel like you've never felt anyone as deeply as he is right now.

As soon as he's sure you're comfortable, he starts moving, grinding up against you until you're looping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. You're mewls fill the room as his cock drags perfectly against your slick walls. You arch your back and start moving over him, desperate to feel him entirely.

He watches you bounce on his lap, timing his movements so his thrusts meet yours.

"Such a greedy slut aren't you?" His harsh words are punctuated with sharp thrusts, causing you to clench around him involuntarily. The sensation almost leaves him breathless, but he continues talking through gritted teeth. "You couldn't get enough from Steven, hm?"

His pants turn into rough grunts as he speeds up. He thrusting into you like he's taking revenge, like he's proving that he's the piece that's been missing from your life.

You shake your head, "Need b-both."

"Yeah, you do. Always so desperate to be filled by this cock." He holds you in place and begins to viciously thrust up into you.

"O-oh-!" He's hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars. You can't help the way your mouth gapes at the toe curling sensation.

Everything around you quickly fades away and all you can see, hear, and feel is him. You can't even articulate anything when pure ecstasy blooms in your core and permeates throughout your body.

You seize in his hold as he continues to roll his hips against yours, feeling boneless from the pleasure that hums through every nerve. He groans at the flutter of your walls around him, gripping him so tight in your warmth. He can barely get out a handful of thrusts before he's spilling inside of you.

You're a mess on top of him, soaking his lap in a mixture of the two of you. Your hair sticks to your face and neck, but it doesn't matter when you can still feel him pulsing inside of you.

Your eyes flutter open as a gentle hand caresses your jaw and guides you to lean in.

You meet vulnerable eyes framed by dark lashes.

He takes a breath, like he's bracing for the worst, but he doesn't have the chance to let it go before you're pressing your lips against his.

---

You sleep like a rock. It's almost like no time has passed. Why dream when you have everything you want right in front of you?

Or behind you, that is.

You can already tell it's Steven with the way he nuzzles himself against the back of your neck. "G'mornin', darling." He's adorable with his roughened groggy voice.

"Hi, baby." He curls up at the pet name and holds you closer, already flustered before he has fully woken up. You can tell it takes him a few moments to blink the sleep away because suddenly he's stiff against you (and not in a good way).

"W-what. What happened?"

You sigh, "Marc happened."

"Did he hurt you? Oh my god," He pushes away to get a better view, "was he mauling your neck?!"

"Steven, it's fine." You feel your face warm up at the thought of the night before. "I...kinda liked it."

Steven huffs to himself as his thumb lightly brushes over a particularly obvious bruise on your neck, "He's trying to steal my girlfriend."

You nearly choke on yourself, "G-girlfriend?"

"Yes...? I mean, you are, right? Unless," Steven's eyes widen, "I-uh, didn't mean to assume--"

"No, Steven. I-I'd love to be your girlfriend."

[ennkis]

hi, i love your writing can you do one where marc guiu is secretly dating lewandoski's daughter and he finds out?

MR LEWANDOWSKI (marc guiu x lewandowski!reader)

summary : in which the polish barcelona player finds out his daughter is dating his teammate

face claim : no-one exact

notes : ty for the request !! im gonna do some requests asap (theres like twenty so plsplspls be patient <3) also im gonna go on vacation soon so ill be less active.

pairings : marc guiu x fem!lewandowski!reader

BEING THE DAUGHTER of the Polish striker, Robert Lewandowski, came with its perks. Some of the benefits was the opportunity to meet your favorite players, attend exclusive events, and see important matches, such as the World Cup and UCL Finals. But managing the constant media attention and living up to the Lewandowski name were only two of the challenges that came with it. The hardest challenge of them all was keeping your relationship with the Barcelona striker, Marc Guiu, a secret.

You knew dating Marc was going to make you slightly insane. The constant hiding and sneaking around was annoying, tbh.. But if you managed to keep this a secret for over seven months, you sure weren't going to fuck it up now.

Hector quickly caught onto your little facade. All three of you were classmates, and it was clear by the looks you exchanged across the classroom, the way Marc spoke to Hector about you, and just the overall way he admired you. Hector was certain you were dating.

Him knowing would actually come in handy. It was a little easier to keep the secret when Hector was on your side. When needed, he helped cover for you by coming up with excuses in case your dad was on the edge of figuring things out.

One afternoon, while your father was out, Marc came over to your house. It was a unique chance for the two of you to have the house to yourselves, and you both wanted to make the most of it.

You were in your room, cuddling on your bed with Marc as a movie was playing on your laptop. It was relaxing, finally a moment of comfort without any worries or the anxiety of getting caught.

"This is nice," Marc murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I wish we could do this more often."

"Me too," you replied, pulling in closer to him. "But you're aware of my dad's history with my ex-boyfriends. If he found out, he would freak out."

Marc sighed as he played with the strings on your hoodie. "I know. Yet, sometimes I picture us going out on a typical date night. No concerns about your father catching us. You know maybe if he got used to our relationship, he could come along."

Playfully poking Marc with your shoulder, you mocked, "Are you using me to date my father?"

Marc gave you a gentle giggle and an amused look as his eyes met yours. "Maybe I am," he answered. "But in all honesty, I just want to go out with you—no sneaking around, just a regular 'I'll have her home by nine, sir' type date."

"Wow, real cute, Marc." Just as you were about to lean in for a kiss, you heard the front door open. Your heart stopped, as you and Marc exchanged panicked and confused looks.

"Oh fuck. He's not supposed to be back yet," you whispered urgently, scrambling off the bed. "You have to hide. Like now."

Marc quickly got up, looking around the room for a hiding spot. "WHAT?! Where should I go?!"

"Jesus Christ, Marc. I don't know just.. just get under the bed or something!" you whispered, trying to keep your voice down.

Just as your father yelled something from the living room, Marc dove under the bed. "Y/n? You home?"

You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself before opening your bedroom door. "Yeah, What's up?"

He walked down the hallway, a frown on his face. "I thought I left my other keys here. Have you seen them?"

You shook your head, trying to look casual. "Nah, I haven't seen them. Maybe you left them in the locker room after training?"

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe. I'll call someone to check if someone found them. Are you okay? You seem... off."

"I'm good, Dad," you said quickly, hoping he couldn't hear the nervousness in your voice. "Just tired, I guess.."

He looked at you for a moment longer before nodding. "Alright. Well, I'm going to head back out then. Let me know if you find the keys."

As he turned to leave, you heard a muffled cough from under the bed. Your eyes widened in horror as your father stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing.

"What was that?" he asked, turning back to you.

"What do you mean" you said quickly, desperately trying to think of an excuse. "I didn't hear anything. Is your hearing alright?"

"Hey, I'm still only 35 years young. Anyways, I'll just head out, I guess. See you later, honey." He said as he walked out the front door.

As you walked down the hallway to reach your room, you exclaimed, "Marc, what the fuck was that? The one time you NEED to be quiet, you actually cough. How on earth is that possible?"

"Hey, I didn't put all that dust under your bed," he playfully said while hugging you. "Calm down, babe. He didn't even see me."

"Yeah, but he heard your silly ass. Anyways you should just go. He might come back soon."

At least three hours had passed before your dad returned, which was kind of annoying because you had the chance to finish the movie and still had two hours left to hang out without interruptions.

"Hey honey, I'm back home," your dad said as he walked into the house. You were sitting on the couch, watching Suits (a goated show btw).

Your dad's voice startled you, making you jump slightly. You quickly paused the show and turned to face him. "Hey Dad," you replied.

He looked around the living room with a curious expression. His eyes fell upon the hoodie that Marc gave to you. The hoodie that exclusively Barcelona players got. His brow furrowed slightly as he picked it up, examining it with a puzzled look.

"Whose hoodie is this?" he asked.

You swallowed nervously, trying to come up with a plausible explanation. "Oh, uh, that's Marc's," you said, mentally cursing yourself for not changing beforehand. "He gave it to me last week."

Robert's gaze shifted from the hoodie to you, his expression unreadable. "Marc's?"

"Yeah," you nodded, trying to keep your voice steady. "We… we've been hanging out a lot. Last week i was cold so he gave it to me."

He studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to gauge your sincerity. "Hanging out," he echoed, more a statement than a question.

You nodded again, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. "Okay, yeah. So, Dad, we've been dating for.. a while now."

His eyes widened in surprise, shocked expression on his face. But he didn't look angry. Instead, he let out a slow breath and nodded.

As he stared at you for what felt like an eternity, processing the information, he finally spoke out, his voice calm yet tinged with disbelief, "You and Marc... have been dating?"

"I… I didn't know how you'd react," you admitted, feeling a pinch of guilt for keeping it from him. "And I didn't want you to worry."

Robert leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "I see," he said. "And how long has this 'while' been?"

Marc cleared his throat, speaking up, "About seven months, Mr. Lewandowski."

Your dad looked at Marc with a mix of surprise and curiosity. "Marc? What are you doing here?" he asked, seeing him in the living room unexpectedly.

"I'm sorry, sir. Y/n messaged me to come over, so I did," Marc spoke out, trying to explain his sudden arrival.

"Sorry for not telling you sooner, Mr. Lewandowski," he said earnestly. "We didn't mean to keep it from you."

Robert eased his expression and laughed. "I understand," he softly said in response. "While I can't say I'm not surprised, I appreciate your honesty. Also, Marc, we've known each other for some time now. Just call me as usual." Your father joked with his teammate, your boyfriend.

You felt a wave of relief when you realized he wasn't upset. To be honest, he looked more interested than angry. "So, what do you think, Dad?" You questioned him.

Robert leaned forward, a small smile playing on his lips. "Well, if Marc here has managed to win your heart for seven months without my knowledge, he must be doing something right," he said, his tone teasing yet approving.

Marc and you exchanged a relieved smile as you felt the tension ease. Despite his reputation for being serious, Your dad has surprised you today by showing you compassion and comprehension.

You said, "Thank you, Dad," appreciating his understanding.

He chuckled loudly and replied. "Please just promise me that you will keep me updated. I'm happy for you both."

It was impossible not to feel an overwhelming feeling of relief. The secret was finally out.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Consider: mirror sex where you're making one of the moon boys watch themselves! Too many fics where its the resder being made to watch, I wanna pound Steven with the strap and make him watch his pretty flushed face, and babble to the reader and other headmates about how good it feels

This has been considered and is now haunting me, thank you <3

Watch

Steven Grant x Marc Spector x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •

Warnings: Pegging, reader is wearing a strap, anal sex, begging, Steven being into Marc watching, swearing not beta read, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 692

Steven’s fingers dig into the mattress, his grasp screwing up the bedsheets as he holds on for dear life. He gasps and swallows, trying to ride the waves of almost paralytic pleasure instead of constantly becoming caught up and pulled deeper. 

He whines your name, sweat soaking his skin and tears building in the corners of his eyes. His cock pulses, practically burning with his need to come. It slaps up against his stomach with every thrust, its weeping head smearing across his skin. 

Your grip on his hips guides his movements, pulls him back to meet your brutal pace that’s turning his mind into mush. 

It’s so warm where you touch him, his skin tingling and singing and, god, he just needs you to hold him like this always. So sure, and comforting and commanding. There’s no space for self doubt anymore, not with how your fingers squeeze and flex. 

The front of your thighs smack against the back of his as you slide the strap in particularly deeply and he lets out the sweetest moan, a babble of nonsense falling from his lips. 

“You okay?” You breathe hard from the exertion, your smile clear in your voice. 

He whines an affirmative, nodding his head rapidly as you fuck him hard. “Good, good, so, so gooood!”

You take your left hand from his hip and he whimpers, hiccuping at the momentary loss, before you reach forward and run your fingers through his damp curls, gripping lightly and pulling his head up a fraction. 

“Look at how pretty you are, Steven.” You breathe and he groans, his eyes automatically snapping open to stare into the mirror. It’s unintentionally positioned perfectly for him to see everything. How flush his skin is, how taunt his muscles are as you fuck him, how red and swollen his cock is between his kneeling legs. 

He bites his lip as he swallows, desperately breathing in oxygen as he holds back a deep moan. His balls tense, drawing up. White hot pleasure throbs at the base of his spine. 

He wants to see how you sink in and out of him, wants you to sit back so he can bounce up and down on you and watch how you split him open. Wants-

“Steven?”

His whines heighten, catch in his throat as Marc’s groggy voice filters in.

“Wha… oh fuck!” Marc pants low in his ear and Steven’s stomach flutters. 

He glances up, catching Marc’s eyes in the reflection. He looks just as desperate, debauched and wanting. And Steven just can’t look away. 

“How, how, long have we…?” 

Steven groans, arching his back. “A while,” he swallows, his voice thick. “Marc’s here.” 

Your hips stutter a fraction, arousal dripping and pooling between your legs. 

Steven pants as he watches Marc start to fall apart, their body shaking and writhing on the strap. 

You lean down, pressing your chest to Steven’s back. “You like watching Marc?”

He groans wantonly, and Marc gasps. 

“Like watching how well you both take my cock?” 

Marc tenses. “I’m, tell them, I’m gonna come.” 

“Marc’s gonna come,” Steven gasps, pleasure twisting low. 

“And you are too, aren’t you?” You breathe in his ear. 

“Fuck!” Steven shakes, Marc’s moans breaking through his throat. They both come hard, their orgasm rocking through their limbs and leaving them weak. 

Steven spurts onto the bed covers, sobbing in bliss as his arms give out under him. 

You catch him quickly, saving him from falling into his own spend, and sit back, holding him to your chest as you whisper soothing words. 

Steven breathes hard. Groaning softly at the angle change, how the strap slips in fully and so, so deep. 

“You okay?” You ask softly as you kiss his neck. 

Steven nods, humming. He shivers, and slowly looks back to the mirror. Marc is panting hard in the reflection. 

A small, cheeky smile stretches across Steven’s lips. He rocks back shallowly, moving his hips in a figure of eight so that he grinds down against the dildo and your lap. 

You hold his side, bucking up ever so slightly. 

Marc’s eyes snap open, meeting Steven’s with a whine. 

Thank you for reading!

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[nocturnewidow]

hii !! i’m back! i finally finished school fully for the summer!

anyways, this one is a lil suggestive but you can write it with any tone , sitting on moon boys laps pls? <3

tysm , have an amazing day!

-🐞

Moon Knight Personalities x Reader | Sitting on Their Laps

fem!reader if you’d like, but kept neutral unless requested! Slightly suggestive,, SFW-ish with a wink

Steven Grant ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Steven’s cheeks flush instantly when you settle yourself on his lap mid-reading session. One minute he’s softly mumbling facts about ancient Egyptian love poems, and the next, he’s holding the book mid-air with his brain buffering like a Windows 98 computer.

“U-uhm… did you, I mean—do you want more room? I can—”

You shush him with a smile, curling into his chest.

He melts.

His hands hover awkwardly before finally resting lightly on your hips. You swear he’s trembling just slightly, trying so hard to stay respectful while also completely losing it inside.

“Right, yes, lap is… available. Entirely yours. Always.”

You lean in close to whisper something teasing in his ear, and the poor man makes a noise. Something between a whimper and a gasp. He’s not going to recover.

Marc Spector⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

You straddle his lap after a sparring session—sweaty, smug, victorious (even though you technically lost). He’s still catching his breath, hands on your thighs like they belong there, giving you that signature “I know exactly what you’re doing” smirk.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gritty, eyes dark with heat. “You keep climbing into my lap like that, and you’re gonna get more than just a breather.”

You arch a brow, challenging him. “Promise?”

He grins—wolfish, cocky.

Big hands slide over your waist like he owns it, like he’s memorized you a hundred times before.

“Don’t tempt me unless you’re ready to cash in.”

And yeah. You might’ve been planning to tempt him all along.

Jake Lockley ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You don’t even ask, you just drop into his lap in the backseat of the cab after a long night, unbothered by the leather and the dim glow of city lights. His arms wrap around you before you even settle, possessive and easy, like this is second nature.

Jake leans in close, breath warm against your ear.

“Mi cielo… you know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”

You hum innocently, letting your hips shift just enough to feel the sharp inhale he tries to hide.

His gloved hand slides up your back, slow, firm. You can feel the tension in him, the restraint. He could flip the script in a second, and you both know it.

“You sit in my lap like you own it, cariño.”

You grin. “Don’t I?”

His smile is dangerous.

“Sí. But don’t expect me to play nice forever.”

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

The Marvel Comics Characters babysit your dog, Mr. Pickles

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Mr. Pickles: 100 | Marvel’s Most Dangerous Characters: 0

Peter Parker & Mr. Pickles

- Peter Parker thought he had seen chaos. He had battled the Sinister Six, fought off symbiotes, and saved the city more times than he could count. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for babysitting your tiny, fluffy, utterly reckless dog, Mr. Pickles.

- The first incident happened within minutes. Peter had barely set his backpack down when he turned around to find Mr. Pickles teetering on the edge of the kitchen counter, somehow having climbed up without opposable thumbs or logic. A split second later, Peter was diving forward, catching the little menace midair like he was saving a falling civilian from a burning building.

- Webbing became his only salvation. After Mr. Pickles managed to squeeze himself into the vents (how?!), Peter had no choice but to create an elaborate web barricade in the apartment. The place looked less like your home and more like a Spider-Man containment field.

- When he tried to work on some web fluid at your kitchen table, Mr. Pickles took it upon himself to bat at the vials like he was a cat, sending one flying straight into Peter’s hair. “Oh, come on, dude—do you have a vendetta against physics?!” he groaned, now stuck to the chair.

- By the time you returned, Peter was sitting on the couch, hair a mess, web fluid staining his fingers, Mr. Pickles curled up in his lap like an innocent angel. “Your dog is not real,” Peter muttered, voice hollow from exhaustion. “He is an agent of chaos.” But then you laughed, kissed his cheek, and suddenly, he decided maybe babysitting Mr. Pickles was worth it.

Tony Stark & Mr. Pickles

- Tony Stark was a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—and now, apparently, an unwilling dog sitter. He had babysat robots more predictable than your tiny, fluffy terror, Mr. Pickles, who seemed to have a personal grudge against his entire penthouse.

- Five minutes in, the dog had already hacked into JARVIS. “Sir,” JARVIS reported, “Mr. Pickles has managed to override security protocols and is currently sending an email to Pepper Potts.” Tony whipped around. “He what?” The email in question was just a string of random letters and a single attachment: a blurry photo of Mr. Pickles’ own tail.

- The next three hours were spent chasing the demon-dog through the penthouse. Mr. Pickles had chewed through a custom Italian leather shoe, knocked over an entire tray of expensive whiskey glasses, and somehow ended up inside the Iron Man gauntlet display.

- Thinking himself the superior intellect, Tony built a small tracking device for Mr. Pickles. That lasted exactly fifteen minutes before the dog removed it and buried it inside one of Tony’s prized sports cars.

- By the time you came home, Tony was slumped in his chair, his expensive suit now covered in dog fur, while Mr. Pickles pranced happily across the table like he had won the war. “Your dog needs an exorcist,” Tony grumbled. You just kissed his forehead and said, “But you love him, right?” Tony sighed. “Unfortunately… yeah.”

Steve Rogers & Mr. Pickles

- Steve Rogers had fought in wars, led the Avengers, and stared down threats that could destroy the world. But nothing prepared him for babysitting Mr. Pickles, a dog whose only purpose in life seemed to be challenging the laws of nature.

- It started with the shield. Steve had set it down for one minute—one single minute—and somehow, Mr. Pickles had lodged himself inside the strap loops, running across the apartment with it stuck to his back like a medieval knight.

- The escape attempts were relentless. Every time Steve turned away, Mr. Pickles was finding new ways to jailbreak from the apartment. He squeezed under doors, climbed onto furniture he had no business reaching, and at one point, managed to activate Steve’s emergency communicator by jumping onto the counter. Sam Wilson showed up at the door minutes later, breathless. “Did you just summon the Avengers?” Steve sighed. “No. The dog did.”

- Steve had fought entire battles with less stress. When he tried to cook dinner, Mr. Pickles stole an entire steak off the counter and stared Steve dead in the eye as he ate it. When he tried to read a book, the dog somehow ended up inside the couch cushions.

- When you walked in, Steve was on the floor, holding Mr. Pickles upside down like he had accepted defeat. “Your dog has the soul of a war general,” Steve muttered. You just smiled, kissing his cheek. “That’s why I trusted Captain America to babysit him.” Steve sighed, looking at the fluffy criminal in his arms. “Yeah. I guess I kind of like him.”

Thor & Mr. Pickles

- Thor, the God of Thunder, had faced frost giants, dark elves, and cosmic horrors. But none of them were as terrifyingly determined as your tiny, fluffy white dog, Mr. Pickles.

- The moment Thor sat down, Mr. Pickles leapt onto his lap, staring into his soul with his beady eyes. Thor grinned. “Ah! A warrior spirit!” He scratched behind Mr. Pickles’ ears, convinced that this small creature was surely an Asgardian beast in disguise.

- Things took a turn when Thor left Mjolnir on the ground. Mr. Pickles, in his infinite foolishness, tried to pick it up. When the hammer didn’t budge, he began barking at it, circling it like it was an enemy. Thor, amused beyond belief, sat back and watched the battle unfold.

- Mr. Pickles did not win. But he did not give up, either. Thor, impressed by his persistence, lifted Mjolnir just enough for Mr. Pickles to wiggle underneath and emerge victorious. “You are brave,” Thor declared. “And terribly, terribly dumb.”

- When you returned, Mr. Pickles was sitting atop Thor’s shoulder like he was king of Asgard. Thor beamed at you. “Your small beast is worthy! I shall take him to battle!” You simply sighed. “Thor, please don’t take my dog to battle.”

Loki & Mr. Pickles

- Loki, Prince of Asgard and God of Mischief, should have known better. He was the master of deception, the embodiment of chaos—but even he was not prepared for your small, dumb, fluffy menace, Mr. Pickles.

- The trouble started the moment you left. Loki, confident in his abilities, had settled in with a book. Within ten minutes, Mr. Pickles had stolen one of his enchanted daggers and was running laps around the room with it.

- Loki was not amused. He summoned illusions of himself to try and corner the beast, but Mr. Pickles—defying all reason— managed to sniff out the real Loki every time.

- Realizing he had met his match, Loki decided to strike a deal. “You may keep the dagger,” he told Mr. Pickles, “if you agree to cease your foolishness.” Mr. Pickles promptly ignored him and chewed on the dagger handle.

- By the time you returned, Loki was sitting on the couch, holding Mr. Pickles like a defeated king cradling his downfall. “Your dog,” Loki said, “is the single most infuriating creature I have ever encountered.” You just smiled. “But you like him, right?” Loki sighed, reluctantly scratching behind Mr. Pickles’ ears. “Against my better judgment… yes.”

Clint Barton & Mr. Pickles

- Clint Barton thought he had dealt with enough chaos in his life. He had fought aliens, battled crime syndicates, and survived on a diet of pizza and sarcasm. But babysitting your tiny, fluffy, perpetually confused dog, Mr. Pickles? That was an entirely new level of disaster.

- The first mistake Clint made was underestimating Mr. Pickles. “Yeah, yeah, I got this,” he had said as you left. Five minutes later, the dog had vanished. One second he was on the couch, the next, he was gone—like a ghost with bad decision-making skills.

- The next three hours turned into a full-blown tactical operation. Clint used every trick in the book—tracking skills, stealth maneuvers, even an actual infrared scope—only to find Mr. Pickles sitting inside Clint’s quiver, chewing happily on an arrowhead. “Dude, I need those,” Clint groaned, prying the slobbery mess from tiny jaws.

- He tried distracting Mr. Pickles with treats. That worked for exactly two minutes before the dog somehow managed to jump onto the kitchen counter, knock over a coffee mug, and hit the emergency call button on Clint’s burner phone. When Kate Bishop picked up, laughing, Clint groaned, “Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.”

- By the time you came home, Clint was laying on the floor, defeated, as Mr. Pickles slept soundly on his chest. “Your dog is part ninja, part escape artist, and entirely evil,” Clint muttered. You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “But you love him, right?” Clint sighed, reluctantly scratching behind Mr. Pickles’ ears. “…Yeah, yeah. I love the dumb little menace.”

Natasha Romanoff & Mr. Pickles

- Natasha Romanoff was an elite assassin, a master of espionage, and completely unbothered by most things. Until, of course, she had to babysit Mr. Pickles.

- At first, she thought it would be easy. “He’s small,” she had told herself. “He’s fluffy. How much trouble can he be?” Two hours later, Natasha was standing on the coffee table, arms crossed, watching as Mr. Pickles circled her boots like a tiny, unhinged shark.

- She quickly realized Mr. Pickles had a taste for destruction. He tore apart a throw pillow, attempted to climb inside the dishwasher, and somehow chewed through her phone charger within ten minutes. “You’re worse than Clint,” she muttered, watching as he tried (and failed) to jump onto the windowsill.

- Despite the chaos, she found herself impressed by his persistence. When he got stuck in a blanket, he wiggled until he was free. When he knocked over his water bowl, he marched right through it like an unstoppable force. He reminded her, in some strange way, of herself—small but relentless, completely unaware of limits.

- When you returned, Mr. Pickles was curled up in Natasha’s lap, snoring softly. She glanced at you and smirked. “Your dog is dangerous,” she said. You laughed, leaning down to kiss her. “But you like him, right?” Natasha rolled her eyes but continued petting him. “…I tolerate him.” That was Natasha-speak for yes.

Bucky Barnes & Mr. Pickles

- Bucky Barnes had fought in wars, survived decades of brainwashing, and carried the weight of his past like an iron chain. Babysitting your tiny, fluffy disaster of a dog, Mr. Pickles, should have been easy. It was not.

- The first problem was the metal arm. Mr. Pickles was obsessed with it. He barked at it, licked it, and then tried to bite it—only to look extremely offended when his tiny teeth did nothing. “Buddy, I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here,” Bucky muttered, watching as the dog attempted (and failed) to wrestle his vibranium fingers.

- Mr. Pickles had no fear. He ran headfirst into furniture, nearly launched himself off the couch three separate times, and somehow got his head stuck inside a cereal box. Bucky spent a full five minutes just sighing and shaking his head before helping him out.

- By the end of the night, Bucky had fully accepted his fate. He sat on the couch, watching as Mr. Pickles zoomed around like a tiny white blur of chaos. “You’re exhausting,” Bucky told him. Mr. Pickles just wagged his tail, happy as ever.

- When you returned, Bucky was sitting on the floor, Mr. Pickles curled up in his lap, peacefully snoring. He glanced up at you, face unreadable. “We had a long discussion,” he said. “He’s still an idiot. But he’s our idiot.”

Matthew Murdock & Mr. Pickles

- Matt Murdock had dealt with enough surprises in life. He had lost his sight as a child, trained as a fighter, and spent his nights protecting Hell’s Kitchen. But nothing prepared him for the absolute chaos of babysitting Mr. Pickles.

- The first issue was his heightened senses. Mr. Pickles was small but somehow louder than an explosion. Every tiny footstep, every excited bark, every disastrous moment of chaos was amplified to near unbearable levels.

- Then came the smell. Matt had barely turned his back before he caught the unmistakable scent of a chewed-up shoe. He turned, unamused. “You did not just eat my dress shoes.” Mr. Pickles wagged his tail, entirely unremorseful.

- When the dog managed to escape into the hallway, Matt had no choice but to rely on his enhanced hearing to track him down. He followed the tiny, frantic paws to the stairwell—where Mr. Pickles had somehow managed to get stuck between two steps. “You are so lucky I like you,” Matt muttered, scooping him up.

- When you returned, Matt was sitting on the couch, Mr. Pickles resting on his lap. He turned his head toward you and smiled. “You didn’t tell me your dog was a criminal mastermind,” he teased. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. “But you like him, right?” Matt sighed, stroking Mr. Pickles’ tiny head. “…Yeah. I do.”

Frank Castle & Mr. Pickles

- Frank Castle had seen hell. He had been to war, lost everything, and waged a bloody battle against crime. Babysitting your tiny, fluffy, completely clueless dog should not have been the hardest mission of his life.

- It started with the growling. Mr. Pickles hated Frank’s boots. Every time Frank took a step, the dog charged at them like a feral beast, tiny tail wagging in pure, misplaced aggression. “You got a death wish, pal?” Frank muttered. Mr. Pickles barked once.

- Frank was not a dog person. But somehow, Mr. Pickles was determined to change that. He followed Frank around like a tiny, white shadow, completely ignoring the fact that Frank was actively trying to ignore him.

- At some point, Frank gave up. He sat down, glancing at the tiny beast sitting next to him. “Alright, you win,” he muttered. Mr. Pickles immediately rolled onto his back, demanding belly rubs. Frank sighed, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

- By the time you came home, Frank was sitting on the couch, a tiny, snoring Mr. Pickles curled up beside him. He looked at you, completely serious. “Your dog is a menace,” he said. Then, after a long pause, he sighed. “…But he’s a good kid.”

Marc Spector & Mr. Pickles

- Marc Spector has fought gods, mercenaries, and monsters lurking in the shadows. He has survived betrayals, bloodshed, and nights spent drowning in his own mind. But he was not prepared for Mr. Pickles.

- The dog hated structure, which was a problem, because Marc thrived on it. He tried to set a routine—food at seven, walk at eight, no chewing on anything remotely important. Within minutes, Mr. Pickles had knocked over a lamp, chewed on Marc’s combat boots, and somehow disappeared inside a kitchen cabinet.

- Jake Lockley found him first. When Marc blinked, his reflection smirked and said, “El perrito es un desastre.” (The little dog is a disaster.) When he switched to Steven, he just heard a horrified, “Marc, he’s got your cape!”

- By the end of the night, Mr. Pickles was asleep on Marc’s chest, his tiny form rising and falling with each breath. Marc sighed, staring at the ceiling. “I’ve fought Anubis. I’ve walked the path of the dead. And I was defeated… by you.”

- When you returned, you found Marc asleep on the couch, Mr. Pickles curled up against his ribs. You kissed his temple, whispering, “So, how’d it go?” Marc cracked one eye open. “I think we made a blood pact,” he muttered. “Your dog owns me now.”

Johnny Storm & Mr. Pickles

- Johnny Storm thought babysitting Mr. Pickles would be easy. He was a superhero, a celebrity, a professional fun-haver. Dogs loved him. He loved dogs. It should have been a perfect match.

- He was wrong.

- The first issue arose within ten minutes. Johnny had turned his back for two seconds when he heard a crash. He spun around to find Mr. Pickles standing victoriously on top of a knocked-over shelf, a chewed-up sock in his mouth. Johnny pointed at him. “Okay, that’s strike one.”

- Strike two came when the dog managed to climb onto Johnny’s bed, get tangled in the sheets, and somehow turn on the ceiling fan. Johnny barely caught him before he became airborne. “Buddy, you cannot just try to take flight,” he scolded, untangling him.

- By strike three, Johnny had accepted defeat. He laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling, as Mr. Pickles happily licked his face. “You win, little dude. I can’t keep up.”

- When you got home, Johnny was half-asleep, Mr. Pickles curled up in his hoodie. He groaned dramatically. “You didn’t tell me you had a tiny, fluffy supervillain.” You smirked, ruffling his hair. “But you love him, right?” Johnny sighed. “…Yeah, okay. He’s cool.”

Reed Richards & Mr. Pickles

- Reed Richards has solved equations that baffle the greatest minds of the century. He has rewritten physics, built machines that defy reality, and held the fabric of the multiverse in his hands. But nothing could have prepared him for Mr. Pickles.

- It started as an experiment. Reed, ever the scientist, wanted to study the peculiar behavior of your fluffy, oblivious dog. “It’s fascinating,” he mused, adjusting his glasses as Mr. Pickles attempted to bite his own tail and immediately fell over.

- That fascination quickly turned into mild horror when Mr. Pickles found his way into the lab. Within seconds, he had knocked over a beaker, chewed on some incredibly important notes, and—somehow—turned on the molecular destabilizer.

- Reed had to stretch halfway across the room to shut it off before anything catastrophic happened. He picked up Mr. Pickles, holding him at arm’s length. “You, sir, are an anomaly.” Mr. Pickles wagged his tail, completely unbothered.

- By the time you came home, Reed was sitting on the couch, reading quantum mechanics to Mr. Pickles, who was dozing on his lap. He adjusted his glasses. “He’s… quite the experiment.” You laughed, kissing his cheek. “But you love him, right?” Reed hesitated, then sighed. “…I suppose I do.”

Ben Grimm & Mr. Pickles

- Ben Grimm, the ever-lovin’ blue-eyed Thing, had faced cosmic horrors, supervillains, and existential crises. Babysitting your tiny, fluffy, dumb dog should’ve been easy. It was not.

- Within the first five minutes, Mr. Pickles had somehow gotten himself stuck under the couch. Ben sighed, reaching under with his massive hand and plucking the tiny dog up like a stubborn sock. “Kid, I’m tellin’ ya, you got no survival instincts.”

- Mr. Pickles, undeterred, immediately tried to chew on Ben’s massive rocky fingers. Ben raised a brow. “Oh, so you wanna scrap, huh?” The dog growled playfully, yapping at him with all the confidence of a creature who had never faced consequences.

- Eventually, Ben sat on the couch, Mr. Pickles curled up on his lap, snoring. He huffed, crossing his arms. “Ain’t no one better tell Reed about this. I got a reputation.”

- When you came back, you grinned at the sight of them together. “So, did you two bond?” Ben scoffed. “Bond? Nah. But… maybe he ain’t so bad. For a troublemaker.” Mr. Pickles snored louder. “…Yeah, yeah, I get it. You win, furball.”

Susan Storm & Mr. Pickles

- Susan Storm had dealt with far worse than a tiny, fluffy dog. Or so she thought.

- At first, everything was fine. Mr. Pickles wagged his tail, looking deceptively innocent. Susan smiled. “Oh, you’re adorable. This will be easy.” She would regret saying that.

- The second she turned around, Mr. Pickles vanished. Not literally, but it sure felt like it. Susan searched the Baxter Building, using her invisibility to sneak up on him. She found him in Reed’s lab, chewing on a very expensive-looking piece of tech.

- “Oh no, no, no—bad dog!” She swooped in, scooping him up before he could cause an explosion. Mr. Pickles licked her nose. She sighed. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

- By the time you got back, Susan was sitting on the couch, petting Mr. Pickles with one hand while rubbing her temple with the other. You grinned. “So, how did it go?” She gave you a tired smile. “…I love you, but next time, Johnny is babysitting.”

Felicia Hardy & Mr. Pickles

- Felicia Hardy had done a lot of reckless things in her life. She had stolen diamonds from locked vaults, toyed with superheroes, danced along the razor’s edge of disaster. But Mr. Pickles? He was a different kind of challenge.

- At first, she wasn’t impressed. “This is the little menace?” she had said, eyeing him. Then, five minutes later, she was chasing him around the apartment, cursing under her breath as he dodged every attempt to catch him.

- She realized, with a sort of begrudging admiration, that Mr. Pickles was fast. He slipped through her fingers, ducked under tables, and even managed to knock over a priceless antique vase she had definitely stolen.

- By the end of the night, Felicia had completely given in. She sat on the floor, watching as Mr. Pickles happily gnawed on a stolen hair tie. “You’re a little criminal,” she murmured, “and I kinda respect it.”

- When you came home, you found Felicia curled up on the couch, Mr. Pickles sleeping on her stomach. She cracked an eye open and smirked. “He’s growing on me.” You grinned. “So you love him?” Felicia stretched, running her fingers through his fur. “…Yeah. But don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Stephen Strange & Mr. Pickles

- Stephen Strange was one of the most powerful sorcerers in existence. He had traveled across dimensions, held the fate of the universe in his hands, bargained with cosmic entities. Babysitting Mr. Pickles should have been beneath him.

- And yet, here he was, standing in his Sanctum Sanctorum, staring at the tiny, fluffy creature wreaking absolute havoc. “No,” he said flatly as Mr. Pickles climbed onto the Cloak of Levitation, chewed on the enchanted embroidery, and then tried to ride it like a tiny, ill-advised chariot.

- Wong walked in, took one look at the chaos, and turned right back around. “Not my problem.”

- Stephen sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alright, you little menace. You’ve bested gods and mystics alike. What do you want?” Mr. Pickles barked once, wagging his tail. “Of course. Attention.”

- When you returned, Stephen was sitting in his armchair, the Cloak of Levitation draped around both him and Mr. Pickles. He didn’t even look up as you entered. “Your dog has no respect for the eldritch arts.” You bit back a laugh. “But you love him, right?” Stephen sighed dramatically. “…Against my better judgment, yes.”

Namor & Mr. Pickles

- Namor, King of Atlantis, First Mutant, Imperius Rex—babysitting a tiny, fluffy, absurdly dumb land creature was beneath him. He had ruled for centuries, waged wars, and stood against titans. And yet, you had looked at him with those eyes, and suddenly, here he was.

- Within minutes, Mr. Pickles had launched himself into a decorative Atlantean fountain, paddling with all the grace of a drowning pearl diver. Namor, unimpressed, crossed his arms. “You are not suited for the ocean, tiny beast.” Mr. Pickles barked, thrilled.

- The palace was not meant for creatures like him. In the span of an hour, he had chewed on an ancient scroll, attempted to befriend a very unamused sea serpent, and somehow found his way into the throne room, where he proudly sat upon Namor’s throne. The royal guards had never been more confused.

- By the time you returned, Namor stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable as Mr. Pickles wagged his tail at his feet. “Your creature is reckless, absurdly ill-equipped for survival, and entirely too confident for his own good.” You bit back a smile. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

- He sighed, running a hand down his face. “Against my better judgment, I will tolerate him.” You knelt, scooping Mr. Pickles into your arms. “Oh, so you love him?” Namor scoffed, turning on his heel. “Do not push your luck.” But the way Mr. Pickles trotted after him suggested otherwise.

Johnny Blaze & Mr. Pickles

- Johnny Blaze, the Ghost Rider, had made a deal with the Devil himself—but even Mephisto hadn’t prepared him for Mr. Pickles. He was expecting something manageable, maybe even chill. Instead, he got a tiny, fluffy tornado of chaos.

- Mr. Pickles immediately attempted to fight his motorcycle. Not sniff it. Not inspect it. Fight it. The little thing barked furiously at the flaming wheels, jumping up in a wild, futile attempt to bite them. Johnny had seen demons with more self-preservation.

- When Johnny tried to take a nap, Mr. Pickles climbed onto his chest, stared directly into his soul, and promptly sneezed on his face. Johnny wiped his face with a groan. “You’re lucky you’re cute, man.”

- At some point, the dog managed to run off with Johnny’s favorite leather jacket. By the time he caught him, Mr. Pickles was rolling around in it like it was his new personal throne. Johnny narrowed his eyes. “…Alright. You win. It’s yours now.”

- When you got home, you found Johnny on the couch, absently scratching Mr. Pickles’ ears. You grinned. “So, how’d it go?” Johnny sighed. “I think I just sold my soul again. To your dog.”

Eddie Brock / Venom & Mr. Pickles

- Eddie Brock had Venom. You had Mr. Pickles. The problem was that Venom did not understand why Mr. Pickles existed.

- “Is it prey?” Venom asked within the first five minutes. Eddie sighed, rubbing his temples. “No, buddy. It’s a pet.” Venom tilted its head. “We do not eat it?” Mr. Pickles wagged his tail obliviously. “No. We do not eat it.”

- Venom, unfortunately, did not like competition. Mr. Pickles demanded attention. Venom demanded you. The standoff began immediately. Eddie woke up to find Mr. Pickles asleep on his chest, while Venom loomed above him like a shadow, glowering.

- It only got worse when Mr. Pickles stole Eddie’s sandwich. Venom raged. “The creature has taken OUR food! We must retaliate!” Eddie sighed, watching as Mr. Pickles happily chewed on his stolen prize. “Yeah, buddy. I don’t think we’re winning this war.”

- When you returned, Eddie sat on the couch, Venom’s tendrils twitching in irritation, Mr. Pickles napping peacefully on his lap. You grinned. “Venom, did you make a friend?” Venom hissed. “He is an adversary.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “…Yeah. That means yes.”

T’Challa & Mr. Pickles

- T’Challa had fought in battles that shaped history, had led a nation, had outmaneuvered gods and kings. He had not, however, anticipated Mr. Pickles.

- Shuri was absolutely delighted. She took one look at the tiny, ridiculous dog and immediately declared, “He is my favorite guest.” T’Challa, arms crossed, simply said, “He is… something.”

- Mr. Pickles was determined to challenge every Wakandan security measure. Within an hour, he had gotten past two Dora Milaje, slipped into the royal chambers, and was found happily wagging his tail atop the Vibranium throne.

- Okoye was not amused. Shuri was entertained. T’Challa sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “This dog fears nothing.” Shuri smirked. “Much like someone else I know.”

- By the time you returned, Mr. Pickles was curled up beside T’Challa, who was absentmindedly scratching behind his ears. You crossed your arms. “So, do you love him?” T’Challa did not look up. “…I tolerate him.” Mr. Pickles licked his hand. “…Perhaps a little more than that.”

Elektra Natchios & Mr. Pickles

- Elektra had survived assassins, taken down empires, and danced in the dark with death itself. She was elegant, precise, a living weapon. Mr. Pickles, on the other hand, was a small, fluffy ball of pure idiocy.

- He immediately tried to steal one of her sais. She watched, unimpressed, as he grabbed the handle in his tiny jaws and attempted to run away. He tripped, rolled over, and barked at the ceiling in defiance. She had seen warriors with less determination.

- Despite her initial reluctance, she found herself watching him, observing. There was something admirable about his foolish bravery. His absolute lack of fear. The way he took up space despite his size.

- Eventually, he curled up next to her, snuggling against her side. Elektra, without thinking, ran her fingers through his soft fur. She had never had a pet before. She had never let herself want one. But this? This, she could allow.

- When you returned, Elektra simply looked at you, one hand still on Mr. Pickles’ back. You smirked. “So… you love him?” She arched a brow. “Love is a strong word.” Mr. Pickles snored softly against her. “…But perhaps, just this once, I can allow it.”

Victor von Doom & Mr. Pickles

- Doom did not babysit. Doom did not serve. Doom did not tolerate fools. And yet, here he was.

- He stared at Mr. Pickles. Mr. Pickles stared back, tail wagging. Doom narrowed his eyes. “You are beneath me.” Mr. Pickles barked happily. Doom scowled. “Cease.” Mr. Pickles barked again.

- The dog, completely oblivious to the concept of fear, followed Doom around Latveria. At some point, he clambered onto Doom’s throne, tail thumping against the armrest. The royal guards exchanged nervous glances. Doom exhaled slowly. “I despise this.”

- However, when a diplomat dared to insult Doom, Mr. Pickles yapped aggressively, standing protectively in front of him. Doom observed this. “Hmph. At least you recognize greatness.”

- When you returned, Doom crossed his arms. “Your creature is an idiot.” You smiled. “But did you like him?” Doom huffed. “Doom tolerates him. Nothing more.” Mr. Pickles jumped into his lap. Doom sighed. “…Fine. Perhaps a little more.”

Peter Quill & Mr. Pickles

- Peter Quill thought babysitting a tiny dog would be easier than babysitting Rocket. He was wrong.

- “Okay, little dude, let’s make this easy.” Mr. Pickles promptly stole one of his mixtapes. “HEY! That’s vintage!” A chase ensued across the Milano, Star-Lord versus a fluffy menace.

- Eventually, Peter gave up. Mr. Pickles sat triumphantly atop his pillow, the mixtape still in his mouth. Peter sighed. “You’re lucky I got a soft spot for troublemakers.”

- The dog, realizing he had won, curled up beside him. Peter smirked. “Alright, fine. You can stay.” Mr. Pickles snuggled closer. Peter grumbled. “…Don’t tell Rocket about this.”

- When you got back, you found them both asleep on the couch. You whispered, “So, how did it go?” Without opening his eyes, Peter muttered, “I think I just lost my ship to your dog.”

Nova & Mr. Pickles

- Richard Rider had fought space tyrants, cosmic gods, and existential threats. Mr. Pickles, somehow, was worse.

- Mr. Pickles had no concept of galactic law. Within minutes, he had tried to steal a Nova Corps helmet, chewed on an important report, and attempted to fight a very confused alien.

- Richard sighed, picking up the tiny menace. “Okay, dude. I don’t have time for intergalactic incidents. Work with me here.” Mr. Pickles licked his face. Richard groaned. “…I give up.”

- By the end of the day, the entire Nova Corps had begrudgingly accepted Mr. Pickles. Someone even made him a tiny Nova helmet. Richard just sighed. “I am never living this down.”

- When you returned, Richard handed Mr. Pickles to you. “Your dog is now an honorary Nova Corps member.” You laughed. “So, did you love him?” Richard huffed. “…He’s alright.” Mr. Pickles barked happily. “…Fine. Maybe a little more than alright.”

[soft-girl-musings]

Salt & Pepper

Moon Knight System x GN!Reader

cross-posted to ao3

tags: rated T for teasing, domestic fluff, author does not condone touching people's hair without permission, no use of Y/N

wc: 1,078

fic summary: Marc, are you familiar with the term "silver fox"?

A/N: i might have a problem lol

_____________________

“Put. It. Down.”

Marc Spector does not startle easily. So when he nearly falls from his perch beside the bathtub, you’re surprised you have to steady him.

“Jesus, where’s the fire?” Marc picks up the towel and small cardboard box he’d dropped because of your outburst.

Shifting your focus, you zero in on the latter: hair dye, just as you’d suspected.

“So this is what you get up to when I’m away?” You tut, cradling his temples and shaking your head. "What happened to you?" 

"What? Nothing, I'm-"

"-I wasn't talking to you," you sigh, resting your forehead against the crown of his head. "How long has he been treating you like this, you poor things?"

“Ha-ha.”

You release his face to study it. "But seriously, how long have you been dying your hair?”

 “... For a couple of years. Started to turn gray from stress a while back, and I guess it never stopped.” He fidgets with the loose edge of the container.. “You really never noticed?”

You take the box and set it beside him. “You hid it well.”

You’re not judging him for dying his hair, it’s just… surprising. Marc’s never been one to fuss over his appearance, as far as you could tell. When you first saw his closet, you’d half expected it to be lined with the same outfit ten times, like in a cartoon. Most days, “dressing up” means adding a jacket or blazer.

 “Since when do you care? About your hair, I mean.” 

He shrugs. “I’m not gettin’ any younger, honey.”

“Neither am I.” You kiss the bridge of his nose. “You got a problem with that?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Goes double for me, don’t you forget it.” Leaning in, Marc tries for another kiss, but you duck and grab the hair dye before turning away with a mischievous smirk.

“Gotta keep you honest,” you wink and dart out of the room before he can catch you.

_____________________

"Love?"

"Hm?"

"Might fall out if you keep playing with it like that.”

You’d been standing behind Steven for the past couple of minutes, meaning to check in on his preparations for his morning tour but had gotten distracted. Very distracted.

“Sorry,” you sigh, your fingers leaving the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck and trailing down to his shoulder. “It’s just… hm.”

Your conversation with Marc must have taken root: over the past few weeks, you’ve noticed the hair that had been dangerously close to another round of boxed dye abuse steadily turning lighter. A subtle blend of silver strands mix with the darker curls that frame his face, making his hair shine a bit brighter in the light of the desk lamp.

“It’s like starlight,” you finally state, leaning in to rest your head against his.

Steven sputters and puts his book aside. “Starli- that’s a bit much, yeah?” His brow furrows, but there’s no denying the smile tugging at his lips.

“Not if it’s true,” you contend. You adjust the reading glasses that had slid down his face and tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “It’s a good look on you.”

There’s no denying the heat rising to his cheeks when you talk. “This– you don’t–” Steven caves and sets his book down, hopelessly flustered. “Either go away or get over here. Cheeky.”

He makes room for you to settle into his lap, which you giddily accept. Your hands sink back into his curls and he shivers as you scratch his scalp.

“Did I ever tell you I had a thing for my professor, once upon a time?”

“Oh my days–” 

You’re not sure who kisses who, but you’re certainly not complaining. Neither is he.

_____________________

The time apart has been agony.

You check your phone for the fifth time this evening. They’ve been gone for what feels like months (it’s been weeks) handling some business in California, of all places. Marc said he’d call when they were on their way home, meaning no news is sad news.

You’re pulled from your pity party by a knock on the door. It’s late, and you’ve already signed for your dinner delivery. Slowly, you get up and grab the bat you keep by the entrance (with a sock slipped over the end per Jake’s advice).

The knocking continues, getting more urgent. You take a deep breath and look through the peephole. A large brown eye stares back and you yelp, dropping your bat. The unmistakable boom of Jake’s belly laughter mocks you from behind the door.

“You’re hilarious,” you groan, standing the bat back on its head and unlocking the door.

You’re ready to lay into him when you open the door, but you’re stunned into silence. Jake’s smile is highlighted by silvery stubble, dusted with black. He adjusts his cap as his dark eyebrows raise in mock surprise.

“What, no hello?”

You tear your eyes away from his jaw. “Hm? Oh. Hi.” You open the door wider for him to step in. “Marc said you’d call first.”

“No fun in that, is there? Besides, you looked ready to handle some trouble.” he shrugs off his coat as you lock the door behind him.

“Trouble, yes. Nuisance, debatable.” You sidle up to him and drape your arms around his waist. You place a kiss on his cheek; it’d be impossible for him to not notice how you let yours drag along the rough line of his jaw.

“I missed you too,” he laughs again. “But man, is it warm in here…”

He tosses his cap and it takes everything in him to not lose it when your eyes widen at the sight of his hair, now more gray than black and curls longer than you’ve seen them before. You’re too enraptured to be embarrassed at your obvious loss for words.

“Your hair…” You reach up to touch it, but Jake grabs your wrist.

“Tsk, tsk, you threaten and barely say a word to me, then go straight for the goods without so much as a ‘please’? What happened to decorum, hm?”

“You fucking tease,” you huff. “...please?”

“Well, since you asked nicely–” Jake can barely finish his thought before your lips are on his, your hand tangled in his starlit hair as soon as he lets go.

“I take it we should cancel Marc’s haircut?” he murmurs as you catch your breath.

Your free hand grazes the scruff on his cheek and you grin. “I wouldn’t complain if you did.”

_____________________

A/N: marvel you cowards give us gray-haired moon knight

ty for reading <3

event tags:@moonknight-events @spacecowboyhotch @juneknight

addtl tags: @mrs-lockley @lunar-ghoulie @shadystarlightgentlemen @casa-boiardi @nerdieforpedro @queerponcho (lmk if you'd like to be added to/removed from this wee tag list)

[11rosebunny]

KINKS?! | Don, Snuffy x Fem!Reader

summary… don lorenzo & marc snuffy kinks

warnings… smut, p in v, fetishes (lorenzo), veryyy explicit

a/n… never really thought deep into their kinks up until this request haha, but thank you for suggesting me this idea—love you anon!

DON LORENZO

• Lorenzo has a great liking towards girls with cute smiles, resulting in him ultimately having a mouth fetish. He really could not care less if it was off putting for others finding out about it.

• Plump lips, the smooth bone of teeth, saliva, it gets him going like no other.

• The idea of biting/marking absolutely gets him off. Either with intention or not, it gets his mind thinking with his dick.

• Loves overstimulation. Whether it is by fingering or fucking you, thrives off of the feeling. Oddly enough, he only does overstimulation to see you lose your mind, even if he could feel his body giving up on him—he simply does it just for you to be dumb fucked.

• He has tried to do roleplaying and did successfully do so, however he sometimes likes to be immature about it just for the fun of it.

• Mind breaking/corruption…

• Consistently uses saliva as a lubricant. He doesn’t like the actual feeling of lube. He thinks because its artificial it’s gross and hates the cold feeling on his skin when you first put it on.

• Very inappropriate but sometimes imagines the “stuck in a wall” troupe. Though it doesn’t have to be a wall. Can either be washing machine, table, couch, or door. He’s aware of how cliché it is so he wouldn’t mind just roleplaying it with you.

• Fucking while he’s on a call. He plays it off extremely well, replying to the other person with ease. The reason why he likes it because he enjoys the way you’re eyes light up in fear of getting caught and the way you try restraining your moans from being heard.

• Likes it when you swallow his cum.

• Squirting. He loses his mind every time you make a mess. Does not care if it gets all over the bedsheets, floor, or his face. He lives for the moment you lose control and scream into pure abyss.

• Dacryphilia. On some occasions, he fucks you to the point of tears on purpose. It drives him insane when you cry. Seeing your puffy face, swollen lips, and red eyes gets him rock hard.

• Cute panties. Adores all the little designs on your underwear, whether it be the lace, tiny bows, or the colour of them. Sometimes it’s not in a sexual way either, he just likes to see what type of undies you have on and give you a little compliment if he likes them.

“Got yourself some cute panties today dah?”

MARC SNUFFY

• Rough & slow fucking. Can never get enough of the feeling of a good old slow paced fuck. He likes to savour his time in order to feel every inch of your insides.

• Mating press position. It’s old and simple but yet takes him to a whole other planet. He still had plenty of strength in him from football, because of this he knows for a fact that his strength drives you insane.

• Restraining your hands behind your back. Completely loses his mind at the thought of you being helpless under him. Nothing you can do other than to just let it happen.

• Office chair sex. Whenever he finds himself working late at night, he adores you riding him on his office chair as he lazily bounces his hips up to fuck you. Leans his head on the knuckles of his hand while the other lays on your naked thigh.

• Loves praising. He honestly just does it to see you go flustered, sometimes switching to his native tongue knowing it makes you even more red.

• Fucking in uniform. He doesn’t care if you just got home from work still in your uniform, in fact it turns him on even more. The way you’re disheveled from your shift and clothes just wanting to slip off, don’t worry. He can do it for you.

Bonus points if you’re a nurse or business major.

• Sexy perfume. Wear one on a date night and you won’t even make it past the door.

• Pussy spanking. The times he does this is to catch you off guard. If he notices you mind fluttering away during your moments of intimacy, he gives you a small slap.

• Spanking. On days where you misbehave or upset him, you will end up bent over his thighs as his hand repeatedly comes down to land a harsh smack on your ass.

• Using his nose to tease your clit. He honestly developed this on accident. Once he brushed his nose on your pussy while eating you out, he immediately caught on with the way your moan hitched higher. After that, he continues to use it to torment you.

“My, you seem to be enjoying yourself amore?”

please do not copy or translate, thank you!

[angel-of-the-moons]

Bugs in A Rug

Steven Grant x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Fluff! Fluffy stuff! Cuteness! Nudity (somewhat) but nothing sexual. Possibly autistic!reader, implied soft-bodied Steven and Reader, self consciousness.

A/N: this came to me because I hate sleeping with clothes on because of how they make my skin feel all weird n junk so enjoy this very short blurb lol

You and Steven had been dating for a while. The two of you had your dates; you shared tea, snacks and the occasional documentary binge snuggled on your sofa.

You hadn't been intimate--nothing more than a kiss or a cuddle session--you hadn't even seen each other undressed. It's not that either of you weren't ready, per se... you were both so painfully awkward and self-conscious about it.

Poor Steven felt a little embarrassed of how soft his tummy had gotten as of late, the muscles far less defined than they used to thanks to Marc allowing him to "fatten them up", as Marc had jokingly claimed.

No matter how many times you had told him how cute and huggable it made them look, he always got so embarrassed about it. You inwardly cursed society's standards on how they pressured men to be cut like underwear models and body-building thirst traps.

But, at the same time... You felt ashamed and embarrassed about your own body. Too pudgy in the tummy, cellulite in your thick thighs, stretch marks across your delicate skin... Your breasts weren't even as perky as many other women's seemed to be. Wearing bras for long hours pained your shoulders and back and irritated your skin.

Steven caught you looking at yourself in one of his many mirrors (Marc and Jake, too, of course), looking at the soft rolls on your body, a frown crossing your sweet lips as you tugged your shirt down to hang not so tightly against you... And, just like you'd cursed social standards of beauty for men, Steven cursed them on your behalf, too. Society pressured everyone to be beautiful, to be "perfect" no matter that "perfect" was an unattainable goal mortals couldn't gain.

It wasn't easy, but you both tried to build each other up, brick by crumbling brick. Steven became more at ease with his softening physique, and you became slightly more comfortable with the angry lines crisscrossing parts of your body.

Maybe, in time, because of your shared love, you'd be comfortable enough to have sex with each other. But giving time and most definitely consent was the biggest things the two of you focused on. There was time enough to be intimate later on, what mattered more was the two of you feeling safe enough to do it. To be more than physical.

That mattered more.

Tonight, Steven was at your place. You decided it was far more comfortable to sleep in (and far less clutter to clean. Poor guy always felt sheepish of his "messy" flat.).

He placed his duffel on the chair next to your bed, and made a little "ooo" sound at how he sunk into your mattress, squishing his hand down on the comfy foam.

"Pff... I take it you approve?" You laughed sweetly at him.

"Yes, actually! 's like a big marshmallow!" He grinned at you, "I like it. I think I need to buy one... Might help the crick in my neck!"

"I got it on sale, I sleep like a baby on that thing." You smiled, your eyes twinkling in a cute, undeniably adorable way that made Steven's breath catch in his throat.

"I don't get why they say that." Steven snorted, shaking his head as he reached down to fix the top of his sock so it sat more comfortably on his calf. He was already dressed in his "pyjamas"; a t-shirt and some sweatpants, you were still dressed in your day clothes.

"Say what?" You asked.

"Sleep like a baby." He emphasized, "Babies wake up almost every two hours, I hear. Dreadful."

You snorted into your hand at his dramatic shudder, "Well, I mean..."

"Y' should say you sleep like a... a capybara, or a sloth, or something." He added, grinning when you erupted into full blown laughter.

"You're such a dork." You sigh, turning on your telly to pick some idle thing to play for background noise as you both drifted off to sleep.

Steven leaned down, remembering to grab his vapor rub--his allergies were killing him, lately--from his duffel next to your bed.

"So, I was thinking," He started as he screwed the cap off, "that tomorrow, we can head out to the--"

He nearly dropped the jar of jelly when he watched as you just--oh, so casually just--just pulled your top and bra off in one go; your soft breasts dropping free of their confines.

You gasped when he did, indeed, finally drop it, and that's when your brain kicked in.

You were home. But you weren't alone. Steven was here--and you just basically stripped in front of him!

You made an undignified noise and dropped to your knees, hiding behind the edge of your mattress to conceal yourself; your brain too embarrassed to simply tell you to pull your shirt back on.

"Oh, god!" You moaned in shame, "I--I'm sorry! I... When I get ready for bed, I--I usually... I don't sleep well when--I don't wear clothes to bed because they--they feel weird on my skin and I get hot and I--"

Steven placed the jar of vapor rub on the bed and turned, smiling at you patiently, still flushed with embarrassment.

"Love..."

"I'm sorry." You blurt, feeling a knot of anxiety lodge in your throat.

"Love, no, it's okay?" He tried, lowering his voice like he was trying to coax a scared kitten from behind a dumpster. "I understand, you're used to a routine, not used to it bein' interrupted. Your brain kind of went into autopilot, I know you didn't mean anything by it, sweet'art."

You peeked up at him, still cringing with unnecessary shame, as he continued, "Babygirl... I... You don't have to be ashamed. How about--ah! Waitaminute."

You watched as Steven awkwardly fumbled, almost tripping, really; as he pulled his shirt off, his messy curls tumbling over his forehead. He then reached down and tugged his sweatpants off, revealing boxers with cute little kittens and cups of tea on them. Calicos, black cats, tabbys...

It was so... Steven.

He still wore his calf-high fuzzy socks, the hairs on his legs poking through here and there as he grinned sheepishly at you, "There! That way, you sleep in your undies, I sleep in mine. If we're dressed the same, it's less awkward, yeah?"

Your heart squeezed in your chest at his gesture. You looked at him--and how he waited so patiently for your answer, his face a little reddened as he pushed some of his stray dark locks out of his forehead; looking at you with those adorable, wet puppy-dog eyes of his.

Finally, you move to stand, swallowing the lump in your throat as Steven watched you. His eyes weren't heavy with any intent, just pleading. Still patient, and oh so loving.

You drop your shirt and bra, turning your gaze towards the TV, waiting for something else... some sort of verbal blow that you logically knew wasn't going to come, but had come from partners in the past.

You watched him once again as he sat on your bed, his back to you as he applied the vapor rub carefully around his nostrils, and then one by one pulled his socks off to rub the jelly on his feet before putting them back on.

You felt... at ease. Happy, thankful.

You hesitantly wiggled your jeans down your legs and quickly sat down on your bed before yanking the covers up to your chin, looking at Steven as he, himself got comfy in bed.

He turned on his side to look at you, and smiled, "See? Can't say I've ever had to listen to a dress code to sleep, but..."

"You... You don't have to."

"But I want to." He insisted, "I love you, sweet'art. You always tell me to love myself, but I catch you acting the same way I do with myself towards your own body. You're gorgeous."

He reaches out to caress a knuckle down your cheek, the scent of the vapor rub clinging to his finger; the menthol making your nasal cavities tingle.

"And technically speaking.... I mean... It's sort of similar to seeing someone in their swimsuit, innit? Like, imagine I'm in my swim trunks, and you're...." His face twitched, his nose crinkling as he tried to think.

"You're wearing a bikini. And... And a seagull or something flew off with your top?"

You choke on a laugh, "A seagull? Really, Steven?"

"Hey! It's the best I could think of!" He grins, wiggling his hand beneath the blanket to poke at your tummy playfully.

"Or, maybe you undid your top to get a sun tan or... something?"

You laugh again, squirming away from his fingers as he tries to tickle you.

"You're really not uncomfortable?" You peeped.

"I could never be uncomfortable around you, babygirl." He says to you gently, his voice low and calm. "We're just going to snuggle like we do every other day, alright? That's all."

You smile, nodding.

Finally, you relent, tucking yourself against Steven, resting your head on his chest and arm over his midsection as you both sink into your plus mattress; Steven's hand idly stroking the skin of your shoulder as you both drifted off to sleep, watching the documentary you'd picked.

You didn't know why you ever feared Steven would be repulsed or nervous about your body.

And, well... his kitty cat boxers were adorable...

[obvithe-bestsoph]

Hi hun! Could I make a request for Cubarsi x reader?

The reader plays for Barcelona women’s team and she’s known to be the most popular player on the team, not only amongst the fans but also the men’s team too. She’s good friends with players like Lamine, Hector, Pedri and especially Pau as they’ve pretty much known each other since birth. He’s her bestfriend but unlike everyone else around them, she’s blind to the fact that he wants to be more than her friend.

One day Flick organised a training session and chose to combine both the women’s team and the men’s for a simple playful football match. Things go well until reader gets knocked over and injured by a certain male player (you can decide who) and Pau instantly sees red and becomes protective over her, catching her by surprise as she finally sees what everyone else has saw all along, and she’ll reveal she’s felt the same way.

Sorry this is so long, I can’t help but over explain everything😭 please let me know if this is okay, thank you!!! 🤍🤍

"don't touch her."

masterlist requests word count: 1.1k

a/n: i love this request, and i loved writing this! thank you 🧡🧡 genre: fluff. summary: you get tackled while playing a friendly match with the men's team. pau feels angrier than he expected to after seeing you go down. warnings: a teeny tiny knee injury.

You’ve always been the type to win people over without trying.

It’s not just the way you move on the pitch, calculated, sharp, with the flair of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and dares anyone to challenge it, it’s everything else too. The way you laugh easily, tease even easier, and carry that quiet, untouchable confidence. Everyone at Barça adores you. The fans, your teammates, the coaches.

Even the men’s team.

Lamine always daps you up like you’re his idol. Héctor and Marc Bernal act like your personal bodyguards. Gavi’s started showing up to your games unprompted. But none of that ever phases Pau. Not really.

Not that you notice.

Because Pau Cubarsí has always just been there.

You’ve known him since you were kids at La Masia, back when you were both just scrawny and full of dreams. You grew up chasing the same footballs, sharing the same meal tables, sneaking snacks into your rooms and getting yelled at together. If there’s anyone you trust more than your right foot, it’s him.

You’ve always called him your best friend.

You don’t know that it kills him every time you say it.

Today, the vibes are good. Hansi Flick and Pere Romeu have combined the men’s and women’s teams for a friendly mixed match at Ciutat Esportiva. Nothing serious, no tactics, just smiles, bibs, and a whole lot of playful competition.

You get drafted into a team with Pau, Lamine, Ingrid, Ona, and Ferran. You’re grinning all the way through the first half, chirping Pau about his slow passes and yelling “¡AQUÍ, AQUÍ!” every time he has the ball. You can feel his stare on the back of your head every time you joke with Ferran or accidentally bump into Gavi, but you chalk that up to him just being his usual, quietly grumpy self.

You don’t notice the way he’s always hovering a little closer to your side than necessary.

You don’t notice the way he clocks every single guy who dares get too familiar with you.

You don’t notice that the longer the match goes on, the more tense he gets.

What you do notice is when it happens.

You’re flying down the left wing, dribbling past Pedri with ease, already setting up your next move, when a tackle comes flying in from your blind side. You go down hard.

There’s a loud thud as your shoulder hits the turf and your knee twists under your body. You don’t scream, but the breath punches out of you and suddenly everything feels sharp and hot.

“Mierda,” you breathe, grabbing at your knee.

“Oi, what the hell was that?!” someone shouts.

You hear it before you even lift your head, his voice.

Pau.

When you blink through the pain, you see him sprinting over, jaw clenched, eyes livid. And standing over you, awkward and guilty, is Alejandro Balde.

“I didn’t mean to-” Balde tries, but Pau’s already in his face.

“You don’t just slide in like that in a training match,” Pau snaps, voice low and furious. “What were you even thinking?”

“It was mistimed, not malicious, relax-”

“No. You don’t touch her. Got it?”

He says it like a warning. Like a line in the sand.

You stare, frozen, your heartbeat louder than the ache in your knee now.

Pau drops to his knees beside you without another word, brushing your hair out of your face and gently lifting your leg to check the damage.

“You alright?” he asks, but his voice has softened now, just for you. “Can you move it?”

You nod slowly, still stunned. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Don’t force it. Let me get you to the bench.”

“Pau-”

He ignores the protests and scoops an arm around your back, the other under your knees. You’re lifted off the ground before you can blink, your face heating up.

The entire squad is watching, but you don’t dare look around.

Because all you can see is him.

Later, you sit on the medical table with a compression sleeve on your knee and an ice pack in your lap. You’re fine, thankfully. No damage, just a strain.

What’s not fine is the way Pau’s been pacing the room like a storm cloud since they cleared everyone else out.

“You’re scaring me,” you say finally, with a small laugh, hoping to break the tension.

He stops, turns.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I just-” He runs a hand through his curls, frustrated. “When I saw you go down like that, I- I lost it.”

You swallow, heart racing for a completely different reason now. “Yeah. I noticed.”

His eyes flick to yours. Something unreadable passes over his face. Then he sighs, like he’s been holding something in for years.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Your breath catches. “Get what?”

“That I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen.”

The room goes quiet. You don’t move.

“I’ve tried to hide it,” he goes on, voice low. “Tried to just be your friend. But every time you hug Ferran or laugh with Gavi or call me your best friend, it drives me insane. Not because I don’t trust you. I do. But because I want more. I always have.”

You stare at him, speechless.

Pau’s never looked this vulnerable. Not on the pitch. Not in the locker room. Not even when he was twelve and broke his nose sliding into a goalpost.

You suddenly feel like a thousand things are clicking into place. Every time he showed up early to your matches. Every time he walked you to your dorm after late trainings. Every time he stood between you and the world like you were something sacred.

And you were too stupid to see it.

You blink, your voice soft. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to lose you.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

You set the ice pack aside and stand, wincing slightly, but determined. You cross the distance between you and rest your hands on his chest. You can feel his heart hammering beneath your palms.

“I didn’t see it before,” you whisper. “But it’s not because I didn’t feel it. I was just scared to lose you too.”

He looks down at you, startled. “You mean-”

You nod. “I’ve always felt safe with you. Protected. Important. I just didn’t let myself realize why. But today… when you looked at me like that, when you picked me up like I mattered more than anything…” You smile, eyes watery. “It finally made sense.”

Pau swallows hard. “So… what does this mean?”

You lift onto your toes and press your lips to his.

He stiffens in surprise before melting into it, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

When you finally pull away, breathless, you smile.

“It means I’m done being just your best friend.”

[n0vazsq]

For the best | Pau Cubarsi x Reader

pairing . . . pau cubarsi x gf!reader

summary . . . Pau's reaction to you having a day out with his mother

request . . . yes!! based on this request!

word count . . . 631

warnings . . . none!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . short bc i tweaked out so yeah

. . . Training had been tiring as usual, and Pau was using the short break to catch his breath on the sidelines.

He wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve, scanning the pitch out of habit, when he noticed his teammates, Lamine, Hector, and Marc, huddled together over Lamine’s phone.

They were laughing in a way that suggested mischief, never a good sign.

"Pau," Lamine called, turning toward him with a grin that could only mean trouble.

"What is it now?" Pau asked, his tone tinged with suspicious amusement.

Marc could barely keep a straight face as he took the phone from Lamine. "Have you seen what your mother has been posting?"

Pau frowned, straightening in his seat. "No, why?"

Marc stepped closer and held the phone out for Pau to see. On the screen was a picture of his mother and you, standing in front of a boutique, arms draped with shopping bags, both of you smiling like you didn’t have a care in the world.

"When was this?" Pau asked, blinking in confusion, a slight smile forming on his face.

"Today," Hector chimed in, his grin growing. "Keep scrolling."

Pau swiped to the next image, which showed you and his mother at a cafe. The two of you were mid laugh, drink cups in hand, clearly enjoying yourselves.

"You didn’t know they were spending the day together?" Lamine asked, unconvinced.

"No, I didn’t," Pau replied, shaking his head. "Neither of them mentioned anything about it."

"That’s rough," Marc said, with mock pity. "They’ve probably been planning this for weeks, and you’re out here sweating through drills while they bond."

Lamine grinned. "Honestly, I’m impressed. Your girlfriend’s managed to win over your mom so easily, and you’re completely out of the question."

Hector leaned back on the bench, arms crossed, his expression amused. "They’re out there living their best lives together, and you didn’t even get a heads up."

Pau handed the phone back with a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "What do you want me to say? They’re obviously enjoying themselves."

"Enjoying themselves?" Marc repeated, eyebrows raised. "Pau, this is more than that. Your mom has practically adopted her."

"And you’re not worried about it at all?" Lamine asked, clearly fishing for a reaction.

"Why would I be?" Pau replied, his tone even, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "If anything, I think it’s a good thing."

Marc groaned dramatically. "Of course you do. She’s already your mother’s favorite, and you’re just here to carry the shopping bags when necessary."

"You’re making it sound like a bad thing," Pau defended calmly.

Lamine leaned forward, pretending to whisper conspiratorially. "Next time we see them, they’ll probably be wearing matching outfits."

Pau shrugged, unfazed. "And? If they are, I’ll tell them they look beautiful."

The boys stared at him, momentarily speechless. Pau took advantage of the silence, a grin on his face.

"Unbelievable," Héctor said, shaking his head. "You’re really not bothered?"

"Not even slightly," Pau replied. "She’s someone my mother approves of and cares for. That’s all that matters."

The teasing only escalated after that, Hector and Marc mimicking exaggerated phone calls to Pau's mother while Lamine doubled over with laughter. Pau let them have their fun, his smile never fading.

As they finally began to head back to the pitch, Marc clapped Pau on the back. "You’re a better man than I am. I’d be worried they’re plotting against me."

Pau laughed softly. "If they are, I’m sure it’s for the best."

With that, he jogged ahead to rejoin the drills, leaving his teammates shaking their heads in disbelief.

For all their teasing, Pau knew one thing for certain; having you and his mother get along so well was something to be proud of.

taglist . . . @barcapix ,, @f1lover55 ,, @ilovebarcaaa ,, @notm4d1 ,, @httpsdana ,, @paucubarsisimp ,, @bernalswifeyy ,, @nngkay ,, @justaf1girl (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

[emmylksblog]

BUSTED // H.FORT

request: could we do hector x pedris sister and like they’re dating and who’ve never they go in public they hide but it’s like the funniest thing ever cuz they rnt slick abt it and then one day pedri confronts her and like he already knows and is just dying of laughter

content: fluff

words: 2089

a/n: didn’t come up with something better sorry, also noticed that it was all hector’s pov 😭

As Hector catches up with the team, the group of teammates all watch him carefully, a little smirk appearing on their faces, as it is immediately clear that Hector is late for exactly that reason. All the while, Hector blissfully unaware that anyone knows, just continues training like nothing is going on - that is at least until one of his teammates start to tease him.

Lamine approaches Hector, a sly smile on his face. "Hey Hector, you’re late," Lamine says, wrapping his arm around his shoulder in a brotherly hug.

Hector smiles back, trying to act cool. "Yeah, I uh, overslept," he replies with a shrug.

Marc walks up, joining in the teasing. "Overslept, my ass." He says, smacking Hector on the head playfully. "Maybe you should focus more on training and less on your... nighttime activities," Marc grins mischievously.

Hector rolls his eyes, trying to play it cool. "Yeah, yeah, very funny. Can we just focus on training now?"

But the hint of a smile on his face betrays him, and he can't help but think back to the night before, to the memories of being with you. Lamine and Marc exchange knowing glances, they have caught him in the act.

Pedri and Hector are playing a friendly practice match, and Pedri, feeling competitive, decides to give Hector a tough time. In the heat of the moment, he charges forward and accidentally tackles Hector, bringing him down to the ground. As Pedri helps Hector stand up, his eyes wander over to his wrist, noticing the hair tie wrapped around it. A sly grin appears on Pedri's face, and he looks at Hector.

"Nice hair tie," Pedri says, trying to keep his tone casual.

Hector looks back at Pedri, realizing that he's noticed the hair tie. He tries to play it cool, but the colour rising to his cheeks betrays his embarrassment. "Yeah, uh... it's not mine," he mutters, struggling to come up with an excuse.

Gavi, overhearing the conversation, decides to join in on the teasing. "Oh really? Then whose is it?" He says, a sly grin spreading across his face.

Hector pushes Gavi jokingly, trying to deflect the attention. "Hey, it's none of your business," he jokes, trying to brush off the question.

But the other teammates are not buying it. They can see right through his attempt to dismiss the question, knowing full well that the hair tie belongs to his secret girlfriend.

Everyone takes a break from the intense training, taking a sip of water while chatting with the teammates. Feeling the itch to check his phone for any messages, he suddenly realizes that he left it at your apartment. A slight wave of panic washes over him as he curses under his breath.

Fermin, who was sitting beside him, notices Hector's change in expression. "What's going on? You look like you forgot something," he asks, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Hector attempts to play it cool, shrugging his shoulders. "Oh, nothing. I just forgot my phone at home," he replies, trying to keep his voice casual. But his teammates, already suspicious, exchange knowing glances, picking up on the hint of nervousness in Hector's tone.

Marc, who is known for his sharp wit, can't help but tease Hector. "Forgot your phone, huh? Or did you forget your secret girlfriend at home too?" he chuckles, winking slyly at Hector.

The other teammates burst into laughter at Marc's comment, enjoying the banter. Hector's cheeks flush a shade darker, betrayed by his own body's reaction. "Shut up, man," he mutters, giving Marc a playful shove.

In that moment you enter the football field, scanning the area for a familiar face. Suddenly, you catch your brother's eye, and he approaches you, a mix of surprise and curiosity on his face.

"There you are, my favorite brother," you greet your brother with a smile, trying to act nonchalant. He approaches you with a suspicious look, immediately questioning your presence.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, crossing his arms.

You fumble with your words, trying to come up with an excuse. "I um, I just... I needed to talk to you, can’t a sister do that?" you say lamely, avoiding eye contact.

Your brother, Pedri, decides to play along and not let on that he knows anything. He smirks slightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement, and crosses his arms, waiting to see what excuse you come up with. "So what is this all about?"

You take a deep breath, trying to come up with a plausible excuse. "Uh, well... I um..." you trail off, still avoiding eye contact. Your mind is racing, trying to come up with something that wouldn’t make it obvious that you were there to give Hector his phone.

Sensing the tension, Hector quickly approaches you and your brother, trying to salvage the situation. His heart races as he tries to come up with a way to handle the situation while keeping your secret relationship safe.

"Hey, um," Hector stutters as he approaches, his mind racing for a plausible explanation. "Can I borrow her for a sec?" he says, gesturing to you as he gives your brother a casual smile.

Your brother looks between the two of you, his eyebrows raised in question. He gives Hector a sharp look and smirks, clearly enjoying Hector's nervousness. "What for?" he asks, his tone a little too innocent.

Hector scrambles for an excuse, feeling the weight of your brother's suspicions on him. "Um, I just need to ask her something," he says, trying to sound nonchalant. He gives your brother a forced smile, praying that he'll buy it.

She leaned in and whispered, "Really, that's the best you can come up with? In front of my brother?"

"Hey, cut me some slack. It was the first thing I thought of."

Hector steers you towards the training lockers, stealing furtive glances behind him at his teammates, who are watching him with knowing grins and making playful gestures. Pedri stays back, watching the two of you with a sly smile, his mind already putting the pieces together.

Once you are in the training lockers you reach into your purse and pull out his phone, dangling it in front of him as you playfully tease him. "Looks like I made you forget everything after last night, huh?" you say, a hint of mischief in your voice.

Hector tries to reach for his phone, but you hold it just out of his reach, your arms held high above your head. He steps closer, trying to reach for it, and in doing so, unintentionally ends up caging you between his arms against the lockers.

"Come on, give it back," Hector grumbles, trying to keep his voice low so the other players don’t hear. He’s so close that you can feel his warm breath against your skin, and he looks down at you with a mix of embarrassment and desire.

You give him a challenging look and say, "My, my, my boy can’t resist me, can he?" you tease, a smirk on your face. Hector blushes at your words, caught off guard. He’s so close that you can see the way his eyes darken with desire, and his hands fidget with the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing against the skin of your waist.

Hector shakes his head slightly, his eyes darting around to make sure no one saw him. He looks at you with a mixture of longing and frustration, his voice quiet as he mutters, "Not here, baby." He then suddenly leans in and plants a quick kiss on your lips, taking advantage of your momentary distraction to snatch his phone from your grasp.

Hector laughs smugly, his hand holding his phone as he teases you. "Looks like the tables have turned," he grins, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "Who’s the one being distracted now?" he says, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

"Shut up," you grumble playfully, giving him a light shove. "You’re the one who kissed me," you argue, a small pout forming on your lips.

Hector chuckles, enjoying your playful resistance. He pockets his phone and steps closer to you, his hand coming up to cup your chin. "Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t like it," he smirks, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

You pout harder, trying to act annoyed with him. But Hector isn’t fooled. He grins at your expression and leans in to kiss your pout away, his lips warm and soft against yours.

You finally manage to pull away, giving him a reluctant smile. "Alright, I gotta go," you say, backing away slowly. "Go have a good training session."

You stop for a moment and turn back to him, a hint of concern on your face. "Be careful with Pedri," you warn him, gesturing to where your brother was. "He was eyeing us up the whole time, I think he almost discovered us."

Hector nods in agreement, his expression hardening slightly. "Yeah, I caught on," he replies. "I’ll be extra careful around him from now on."

"Good," you say, satisfied that he's aware of the situation. "See you later," you add, giving him one last wave before turning and heading off to your class.

As he rejoins the team, he’s immediately met with a barrage of questions and teasing remarks. Pedri, being the first one to speak up, gives him a sly smirk and says, "So, how’s your girlfriend doing today?"

Hector was about to respond casually when Pedri's words sank in. His eyes widen slightly, and he looks at Pedri in disbelief. "Wait, how do you know...?" he asks, his heart racing at the thought that Pedri had figured out his secret.

Pedri chuckles, clearly enjoying Hector’s surprise. "Please, you’re not exactly subtle, my friend," he grins, "I saw the way you look at her, how distracted you get when she’s around."

The other teammates chime in, agreeing with Pedri and joining in on the teasing. "Yeah, we’ve all noticed," Lamine adds, a smirk on his face. "You’re not exactly being careful."

Hector, realizing that everyone knew about his secret, felt a pang of worry. He glanced towards your brother Pedri, wondering how he was going to react to your relationship. He felt a mixture of anticipation and fear, knowing that Pedri could either be supportive or protective of you.

The teammates continue to tease him, now focusing on the fact that he had managed to land Pedri's sister as his girlfriend.

"Looks like Hector’s got himself a catch," Gavi teased, a cheeky grin on his face.

"Yeah, Pedri’s little sister," Fermin added, chuckling.

"Alright, alright, knock it off, guys," he says, his tone firm but friendly. "We’re talking about my sister here, remember?"

"Right, sorry, man," Gavi says, his cocky demeanor dropping a little.

"Yeah, we didn’t mean any harm," Lamine adds, his expression playful.

Pedri gives them a nod of acknowledgment, appreciating their quick understanding. He glances at Hector, giving him a knowing look that clearly says, "You better take care of her."

"Don’t worry, I will," he assures him, his voice full of determination.

Pedri, sensing Hector's lingering tension, pats him gently on the back and teases him.

"You know, for someone who’s supposed to be good at hiding a secret relationship, you weren’t exactly subtle," he grins. "I knew about you two for a while now."

The other teammates join in with Pedri’s laughter, affirming his words.

"We all did," Lamine says between chuckles.

"You’re not very good at being sly, Hector," Gavi teases, grinning.

"Yeah, okay, I get it, I wasn’t subtle," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "But still, you all could have said something sooner, instead of just watching me squirm for months."

The teammates exchange grins, enjoying the situation.

"Where’s the fun in that?" Gavi asks, a smirk on his face.

"Watching you sweat was much more entertaining," Fermin adds, chuckling.

Hector rolls his eyes, shaking his head in mock annoyance. "You guys are real nice friends, you know that?" he says, sarcasm dripping from his words.

Pedri pats him on the back, a smirk still on his face. "Hey, we’re just looking out for you, amigo."

With that, the teammates playfully go back to their training. Having his secret finally out in the open felt like a weight had lifted off his shoulders, and he focused on the tasks at hand with renewed energy.

The training session goes smoothly, Hector feeling more relaxed and focused, knowing that his friends and even Pedri had his back.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

From the kitchen, Valentino catches the tail-end of an argument, fluttery and high-pitched, unserious—Marc has charred the garlic, or something. Àlex seems indignant. Àlex’s girlfriend has not stopped cackling. Marc’s voice rises over both of them, his ugly, honking laugh.

Valentino hasn’t been included. Rather, Roser Alentá had taken one long, flat look at him and invited him to sit with her, on the porch.

His palm is wet around his wine glass, but she hasn’t touched hers yet—the Grans Muralles bottle Marc said she’d like—so he hasn’t either. Feels his stomach churn, acid and bile rolling around.

“You’ve made it,” she says.

And he could make his way in pieces to the sewers, he gets the impression. Or at least find his way back from whatever hell hole she thinks he crawled out.

Her Catalan is pointed at him, unfamiliar, the vowels only familiar enough to feel alien when Valentino tries reaching out for them. He gives up, settles on Spanish, but even that language slides soapy in his dumb, numb mouth.

“Marc loves spending time with his family.”

It’s easy to wave Marc around, the proverbial white flag. They both know why he is here. They both know Marc never gives up on anything until he can’t take it anymore. Exhibit A: Honda. Exhibit B: Cervera. Valentino isn’t—for some reason—exhibit C.

She raises her eyebrows, though. “And does he need your permission to be here?”

Valentino startles, despite himself. Remembers to smile a moment too late. “Of course not,” he exclaims, his finest smile on show, who? Me? “But he says it’s better when everyone is—ah, involved.”

No sign of thawing. Even the sip from her glass is neutral, cold.

“Do you agree?”

Valentino swallows around a chokeful of bleach. Stefania lives in a house he built for her, carefully tucked in the space he and Luca allowed for her, often with his dogs and his cat, often not. Graziano calls a few times a year, on the wrong days.

“It’s nice,” he lies.

Rather, it’s not something Marc will compromise on—never did. Before, when he’d been twenty and liquid and eager, one of the few times Valentino had managed to really stumble on a knife was when he suggested Marc leave Àlex behind for a couple of days.

Marc is full of things that he will not compromise on, now.

Roser snorts, a quiet, unimpressed noise. “I’m sure you think so. But no matter, are you liking Cervera, Valentino?”

“It’s very much like Tavullia.”

Wrong answer, or wrong language, or wrong everything. Roser only stares. He gives himself permission to drink, does it until his tongue stops tasting like something died there. The wine—Marc likes it just the same, acidic and fruity, rich in the aftermath. Valentino drinks his whites when they’re together.

It is like Tavullia. Small and unimpressive at first glance, dust-drenched dirt tracks dotting the roads nearby, very delighted with its champions. The museum, the murals of Marc. People—overfamiliar—seem happy to leave them be, though. If they have something to say to Valentino, they won’t do it while Marc is around.

But he recognizes when they talk about him.

A cousin, her eyes sliding over him, chilly, before she turned to Marc with raised eyebrows. An aunt, halfway done with her cigar, if I were Roser, I’d spit that asshole out of my house—he’d felt proud, grimly, for getting most of it. The unhappy grumbling from his uncles, or great-uncles, who cares, eyes dark and unfriendly.

“I think he’s just waiting for you to fuck up again and prove him right.” Roser’s voice is crisp, sharp. She’s rolling her glass around.

Valentino flinches.

Inside, Marc and Àlex have started calling her, half urgent, half cackling mama! He can’t quite hear it, through the pounding of blood in his ears.

Roser just leaves her glass and stalks inside the house that feel like a memorial of moments that Marc will never talk about, that he keeps rescuing from interviews that sit in his belly like a mouthful of crunched carbon fiber. Here, the stripped bare walls. Here, the empty shelves. Here, the place where Marc wrestled a journo off him. Here, him lying awake at night, in pain.

It will be a rather long Christmas. Valentino remembers, acutely, why he never bothers with his own family anymore.

[peariote]

sugar mommy! tashi !! again. the torment will never end. i don't particularly want it to. ~350 word blurb.

"Mallorca or Mykonos, darling?" Tashi murmured as she noticed you awakening, seeing those eyes flutter. She adored you sleeping, but she liked you best somnolent and clinging to her. Especially when she could ask you such questions. To see you stumble over the cotton-feel and blearily attempt to articulate brought her more joy than it probably should.

"Hm?" You sound, sleepily into her skin, lips only parting for your tongue to wet them.

You're adorable. It's already midmorning. She's usually out of bed by now, slipping a robe over her negligee to get her routine started. Skincare, breakfast, the news. As it is everyday.

However, this morning she can do nothing. With you sprawled over her waist, head cushioned a silken-covered stomach, she can do nothing more than shift up against the headboard and catch up on her news in bed. She smiles as you melt back into her, yet without giving her the answer she needs.

"After the Roland-Garros. Where are we going, darling? Mallorca or Mykonos?"

She feels your huffing, puffed breath at the question. It slips warmly under the silk, making her thigh twitch minutely under your head. She sighs and rolls her eyes at your petulance.

"Darling, please. You know Roland-Garros is for me, and the trip after is for you. That's why I can't choose for you."

"But... we'll miss fashion week."

Ah. That's what's got you in a twist, isn't it? The tournament already eats away at two of those days, and the thought of relaxing on a Mediterranean beach, far from anyone isn't as appealing as sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with her at yet another show of skill. This time, air conditioned. Hopefully. She still shudders at the remembrance of Marc Jacobs, Spring Collection, 2018.

"...fine, darling. We can stay for fashion week. But we are going to the beach next year. I don't tan quite as well under camera flashes as I do under the sun." Her hand falls to your locks, pushing them from obscuring your visage. You glimmer under the morning sun.

...perhaps she's content to stay in bed a little while longer.