#⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✿⠀⠀headcanons⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

[mwphisto]

Sylus, laughing to himself as he sends you nudes.

Fresh out of the shower, the world’s tiniest towel clinging to his waist, water running down his body in rivets and… oh he’s so hard. The towel pokes out almost comically.

Of course he’s snapping pictures of the sight, arm extended all the way to his right as he snaps photos of his dripping wet torso, annoyingly small waist, and massive hard on. Each one getting sent right to you.

And you? You’re lying in bed, jaw hanging open as picture after picture comes in. You can’t even be mad at him for it. Hell you’re more upset at the fact that you’re alone in your bed in Linkon and he’s bricked up in the N109 Zone.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you, kitten.”

You swear you can hear the seductive purr of his voice as you read the message. “Quit leaving me on read, say something. I see you viewing each one.” And you’re struggling to swallow the lump in your throat.

“You’re a devil, Sylus.” You shift uncomfortably, suddenly too hot, wearing too many layers, your body aches. “You must be pretty needy to be that hard.” You follow up quickly, contemplating how bad of an idea it would be to get out of bed and drive to his place.

Really? Answering the late night booty call of the leader of Onychinus. You’ve lost it… a long time ago. Your legs are swinging over the side of your bed as he types.

“Course I am. Always needy for you, kitten.” You groan, rummaging for your overnight bag as he types something else. “Kept thinking about you in the shower with me.” You’re already drafting the message you’ll send Jenna in the morning. A headache… no, a migraine. Can’t come in.

“What was I doing to you in the shower?” You smiled as you grabbed the bag, you already had it packed just in case. You always kept it packed because Sylus’ schedule was so wishy washy that if you wanted him? You needed to be ready to drop everything at any given moment.

This went for more than just sex of course.

“Nothing, it was everything I was doing to you that got me so worked up.” Your knees nearly went weak, feeling like a newborn dear as you stumbled to your living room.

“Keep those thoughts to yourself, memorize them even. I’ll be there soon, you can demonstrate in person” your bike helmet in one hand, your bag slung over your shoulder, and your keys jingling as you left your apartment.

“Fuck, I love you so much. Drive safe, I’ll be waiting, kitten.” You couldn’t move fast enough at that point. Your entire body lit on fire as anticipation fuels your movement.

[p1girlfriend]

soft tissue therapy ── OP81 .✦

cw: suggestive but not explicit, just oscar piastri squeezing a boob for emotional stability

Oscar is quiet.

Which isn’t exactly unusual — he’s always quiet, even when he’s in a good mood. But right now he’s suspiciously silent. Face buried in your neck. One arm slung across your chest. And his hand… planted very intentionally on your boob.

Not resting. Not passive.

One finger twitches.

You don’t even look at him, just blink at the ceiling.

“Oscar.”

He doesn’t move. Just lets out a long breath against your skin. The hand stays exactly where it is.

“Mm.”

“Are you using my boob as a stress ball?”

His thumb flexes gently — squeeze.

Oh. So that’s what we’re doing.

Oscar finally lifts his head a little, looks at you with those calm, annoyingly unreadable brown eyes. “You’re soft. And I’m stressed.”

You raise your eyebrows. “So you decided to just grab a titty about it?”

He blinks, unbothered. “I decided to regulate my nervous system using a natural tool provided by my environment.”

You stare at him. He stares back, completely serious.

You blink again.

“I hate you.”

He presses a slow, smug kiss to your collarbone. “No you don’t.”

You sigh. His hand doesn’t move. He’s cradling your boob like it’s a warm mug of tea after a race debrief.

“I can stop,” he says softly, “if it bothers you.”

You squint at him.

“But I might die.”

You snort — an involuntary little laugh. Of course that makes him smile, all satisfied and smug and cozy. He squeezes again.

“This is medical,” he adds.

“MEDICAL?”

Oscar nods solemnly. “Better than a foam roller. And less expensive than therapy.”

You shove his shoulder but he doesn’t budge. If anything, he curls in closer.

“I’m serious,” he says. “It’s comforting. My left hand is emotionally bonded to your left boob now. That’s just how things are.”

“You’re so annoying.”

He kisses your cheek. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Silence. His hand stays. Another soft squeeze.

You glance down at him suspiciously. “Did you do this during the race weekend?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“Oscar.”

“…Once.”

“During a race weekend? Like in public?”

“Technically I was inside the driver’s room.”

“Oh my god.”

He grins into your shoulder. “I imagined it, okay?”

You bury your face in your pillow and laugh. He kisses your neck in retaliation.

“I hate that I find this cute,” you mutter.

Oscar hums. “You’re gonna let me keep doing it though.”

You roll your eyes. “Only if you say thank you to the boob.”

He turns his face, gently nuzzles your chest, and whispers with mock sincerity: “Thank you for your service.”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[cameronsbabydoll]

younger!ditzy reader x drew starkey … she does a day in the life with them on tiktok ? well techinally it’s supposed to be her day in life / grwm but he’ll pop in !

the tiktok starts with a blurry shot of your pink ceiling and a very chipper voice.

“okayyy good morning!! i’m gonna do a lil day in my life with my boyfriend but he’s still asleep so shhh—”

cut to: you tiptoeing past drew’s very bare back, tangled in your floral comforter. you zoom in on his ear. “look how cute.”

he groans off-camera. “babe, please.”

“okay sorry sorry!!”

next clip: you in your mirror, glitter rollers in your hair, a heart-shaped brush in your hand.

“i have like three outfit options,” you say. “but drew hates the cowboy boots with this mini skirt so i might wear it just to annoy him.”

cue drew’s voice from the hallway: “i heard that.”

there’s a clip of you doing your makeup—glossy lips, rhinestone clips, cream blush dotted on your cheeks like strawberries. drew walks by shirtless in the background, coffee in hand.

“you’re so hot,” you whisper.

he raises an eyebrow. “me?”

“no, me.”

“ah. yeah, accurate.”

you try to do a haul—“so this is my purse, i got it because it looks like a bunny—” but then drew literally picks you up mid-sentence and tosses you over his shoulder.

you’re screaming-laughing, and the caption reads:

me trying to be a girlboss vs my overgrown boyfriend

there’s a jump cut to you guys at the farmers market. you’re holding an iced matcha and trying to talk about the strawberries you bought, but drew’s feeding you one while you talk and it turns into a whole thing.

“stoppp, i’m filming,” you giggle.

“nah. open.”

“ugh you’re obsessed with me.”

“mhm.”

final clip: you in bed, makeup off, wearing his hoodie. you look into the camera and whisper,

“okay i think he’s finally asleep. i had so much fun today. should we do his day in the life next?”

drew mumbles behind you: “no.”

“he said yes!!!”

“no i didn’t—”

“okay love you bye!!!”

caption: ✨day in my life with my big hot bf✨ #ditzygf #boyfriendsoftiktok #grwm

[just-a-joey]

how do you think itrapped, ellernate, and caleb224’s relationship’s like? also i wanna know how you think what caleb and ellernate think of chance and itrapped

(This is all headcanon and set in the forsaken universe. Ellernate and Caleb are locked up and ITrapped is tryna get them out)

To answer the first question, they are buddy buddy. They did at first become a group because they saw use in eachother, but they actually became friends after a while.

And to answer the second question, ITrapped insists that this is part of his plan to break them out of prison (since Chance’s parents have a key to the banlands) and it’ll all be worth it. Caleb is sceptical, and Ellernate would be lying if he said he wasn’t, but he thinks that ITrapped knows what he’s doing.

Below cut is a crappy continuation of the first image

[tqlepatia]

HEADCANONS | SEVIKA × SLEEPY! WIFE! READER

notes : lol sorry for the long wait, i tried to make it quite long :3

content : pure fluff, the tittle it's self explanatory

You fall asleep in the car every time. Doesn’t matter if it’s a five-minute drive or an hour. Sevika drives with one hand and rests the other gently on your thigh, rubbing circles while you snore softly.

She’s found you asleep on laundry piles, the kitchen table, and even half off the bed. Instead of waking you, she just makes sure you’re warm and safe and takes a picture for her private album.

Sevika secretly times in her mind how long it takes you to doze off during movie nights. Your record is 52 minutes into the film.

You always insist you're not tired. While yawning and curled up in a blanket. Sevika raises one brow: “Sure, babe. Wide awake.”

She loves it when you nap on her chest. Your breath warms the space right over her heart, and she swears nothing calms her nerves like that.

Sometimes you fall asleep mid conversation, You were talking about how hard it was to make a perfect cake, then your voice went slower and lower till the room was in silence. Sevika just chuckles and finishes your sentence for you before covering you with a throw blanket.

She’s developed the stealth of a trained assassin. Walking around the house in near silence to avoid waking you, especially if you’ve been having light sleep.

You always nap after meals. Sevika picks up your empty plate, kisses your forehead, and whispers, “I’ll clean up. Just rest.”

She adores your sleepy voice. That soft, raspy mumble when you call her name with your eyes still closed makes her melt instantly.

You cling to her like a koala in your sleep. Sevika has mastered the art of staying still for hours just so you can rest peacefully.

You fall asleep in public. she just places her hand on your thigh and keeps talking like nothing happened.

She has to carry you to bed most nights. And she pretends to complain, but you catch her smiling every time, remembering how she walked with you in her arms the day of your wedding

You fall asleep while waiting for her to get ready for work, and she sneaks back to the room just to watch you rest ( she tells silco she's reaaaaaly sick that day just to get a whole day with you ).

When you nap on the couch, she watches over you like a guard dog. Anyone who even thinks about waking you up will get the glare.

You sleep with your hand on her chest or stomach. She won’t move a muscle until you shift first.

She has a soft spot for how you mumble her name in your dreams. “Vika…” and she’s feeling her cheeks hot in the dark of the room..

She keeps extra blankets everywhere. One in the car, two in the living room, one folded on her office chair, just in case her sleepy wife gets tired again.

She’s tried to tease you about how much you sleep. But you looked at her with half-lidded eyes and said, “You love it,” and she couldn’t argue.

Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night just to watch you breathe. Then, she kisses your forehead and goes back to sleep.

She’s your favorite mattress. Even in summer, even when it’s too hot, your head always finds her chest or thigh.

You always nap in her worn out T-shirts. Sevika pretends not to notice—but she keeps giving you more of them.

You fall asleep face down during massages. Sevika kisses the back of your neck, adjusts your pillow, and keeps rubbing your back until you start snoring.

Your naps are sacred to her. She rearranges her schedule so she can hold you when you need rest.

If anyone jokes about how much you sleep, she’ll glare at them. “She works hard. Let her rest.”

When you fall asleep in the bath, Sevika gently scoops you out, dries you off, and tucks you in like you’re made of porcelain.

She loves coming home to find you curled up on the couch, book forgotten in your lap. It makes her chest ache—in a good way.

She memorized your sleep patterns. She knows when you’re dreaming, when you're restless, and how to soothe you without waking you.

You always fall asleep first, but wake up with Sevika already watching you. She greets you with, “Hey, sleeping beauty,” and kisses your temple.

When she’s away on business, she knows you have trouble sleeping. So she adopted a fluffy pet for you. It's not the same as her cuddling you, but it works.

No matter how many years pass, she never gets tired of watching you sleep.

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette , @madzorwhatever , @zvmbitegirl , @salsalsusu , @katarandaa, @starrycherie , @moonshimegf , @watermelonshine, @zombieeepup, @laviannasfanfics , @windytulips, @genderfluidlesbain999 , @dulcerbbns

[fear-is-truth]

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐍 ˚. ᵎᵎ your first time with THE BATBOYS .ᐟ 𓂃 ꒰ headcanons ꒱

contains ﾉ dirty talk · cunnilingus · fingering · loss of virginity · protected & unprotected sex MDNI 18+ pairings �� bruce wayne・jason todd・dick grayson・ tim drake・aged up! damian wayne x fem!reader

note ꒱ english is not my first language, ignore the mistakes lol… but i put my whole p*ssy into this. enjoy xo

‣ bruce wayne

his tie hangs limp behind his shoulder, shirt open halfway down his chest, sleeves cuffed at the forearms. the fabric clings, translucent with sweat as bruce wayne kneels between your thighs. you lie bare on the pillows; nipples raised from the chill and nerves, unsure where to look. he hasn’t touched you yet, and you’re already undone.

a few seconds of rustling leather and metal—his armani belt clicks undone. his cock presses against the inside of his boxers, engorged and leaking at the tip. when his gaze roves over you, it flickers to the microexpressions you haven’t yet mastered to conceal. his hand settles between your thighs, sliding one outward.

“keep them open,” bruce commands softly, palm gliding down your ribs, across your abdomen, until it rests above your mound. “tell me if you want me to stop.” a somewhat performative question under this timing—his cockhead is already nudging between your folds.

the first stretch sharpens beyond expectation: dense pressure blooming into fire along your nerves. you clutch his arms, biting your lower lip. he stills, allowing you a few seconds to adjust before moving forward another inch. your cunt throbs around the intrusion, wet but still tight, not used to being filled this way. his breathing is deep and measured, as if he’s trying to stay in control.

“breathe,” bruce murmurs, thumb catching your lip and gently forcing your teeth to release it. distracted, you comply. with one measured push, he sinks fully inside. your walls clench, barely accommodating. muscular forearms cage your head. stillness holds between you.

then he begins to move.

deep, gliding thrusts, pelvis rocking against yours, muffled slaps marking the rhythm. behind closed lids, white sparks bloom like fireworks. his hand slips beneath your thigh, hooks it high over his hip. a hard thrust knocks an unbidden moan from your lips, and bruce dips his head down, lips grazing against your temple before kissing your collarbone, a juxtaposition to the relentless pace of his hips.

“mhm, good girl. you’re doing so well.”

the praise makes you clench again. he groans, the sound deep and strangled, and fucks you in earnest, on a quest to his own release. a powerful tremor ripples through you, fingers clawing at his shirt as your senses narrow to the slick friction and his heavy breathing above. stomach clenching, walls squeezing around him, you fall apart with a sharp cry, wholly and completely undone. a few more thrusts, and bruce follows you to climax, burying himself deep to the hilt. his weight sinks into the mattress gradually—though his arms remain firm so not as to crush you. the room stills. he stays inside you, until your muscles stop trembling. you can feel the flutter of his heart beating against your chest.

‣ jason todd

you’re on your back, legs parted awkwardly, body still twitching spasmodically from the delicious, thick stretch of his fingers. sweat pools in the hollow of your clavicle. your skin’s tacky. overstimulated. jason todd kneels between your thighs, one palm splayed flat on your abdomen.

his mouth glistens, wet from you. so are his fingers.

“you good?” his breath is still ragged from the way he had you mere minutes ago—tongue buried deep, your legs hooked over his broad shoulders, the sound of your moans echoing off the walls.

you nod. or at least, you think you do. because right now, your eyes keep flicking to his cock—thick and girthy, flushed a ruddy pink at the tip, kissing his sculpted abdomen. intimidating doesn’t begin to cover it. you try not to stare. fail spectacularly. jason catches your gaze and dips his face down, level to yours.

“we stop whenever,” he presses a tender kiss on the corner of your mouth. “just say the word.”

you glance down again—at the size of him, the stretch you haven’t felt yet—and it dawns on you that you have no fucking idea how that’s going to fit. but you want to find out.

your fingers curl tight around his wrist.

“i want to, jay.”

he leans forward, and you feel the blunt head of him presses between your folds. you inhale sharply. he pushes, slowly, and the burn is immediate. the first inch makes your whole body jolt, there’s simply too much of him—your body stretches around his girth with painful resistance—it’s too much.

he’s barely inside.

“you gotta relax, baby. it’s okay.”

you nod, forcing your muscles to loosen. your body fights it anyway, not ready for how much of him there is. jason draws out a fraction, then eases in again, incremental. the ache sharpens. your voice cracks when you say,

“too much?”

“mghm—no. k-keep going.”

“brave girl,”

smirking, jason kisses your cheek, then fucks in the rest of the way. the glorious stretch has your vision going white at the edges. he’s everywhere. you can feel every ridge and vein, splitting you in half. his palm slides under your thigh, lifts it higher for leverage. he stays still for a beat, forehead pressed to your collarbone, breathing heavy. your whole body pulses around him.

“i’ll go slow,” he promises. and he does. he slips in deeper, excruciatingly slow. sweat’s already beading at his temple. every time he pushes in, you feel yourself open wider, body forced to accommodate. you bite into his shoulder to stifle the noise that tears out of you when he finally bottoms out. he stays like this for a few seconds, relishing in your warmth, and you swear you can feel the tip of him in your stomach (albeit the logical part of you know that’s impossible.)

“you okay?”

you nod again. he grits his teeth and rears back his hips, then sinks forward again—testing how much you can take. the second thrust feels worse but simultaneously better. your cunt swallows him like it’s been waiting for him. the stretch is total, merciless, but it’s starting to slide easier now. you let him guide your legs higher. let him press his forehead to your collarbone and fuck into you with slow, controlled force.

one hand moves between your legs and rubs your clit in tight, repetitive circles. you whimper, hips starting to jerk up to meet his.

“there she is,” jason breathes. “attagirl.”

you come hard—walls pulsing around him, toes curling, fingers scrabbling at his back. a string of curses fall past his lips, and he’s pulling out. wrapping his fist around the base before spilling hot ropes of come across your stomach. his cock twitches in residual spams as he trembles through it. a few seconds pass. then his forehead drops to yours, and you feel his smile against your cheek.

‣ dick grayson

“we can stop, you know,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing the edges of your jaw. “i still want you. that doesn’t change anything.”

your lips part, but no words come. it is a big deal. not because the “you’re-probably-about-to-lose-your-virginity” part—but because it’s with him. dick. his hair is rumpled from your hands, the rosy flush dusting across his cheekbones still fresh. he’s looking at you without the faintest trace of disappointment. he’s looking at you like he’d wait forever. you know he would.

he cradles your chin in his hand and kisses you—languid, almost chastely. fingers drift down to your throat, brushing along the curve beneath your breasts. your skin sparks under his touch, every nerve recalling how his mouth had latched around your nipple, how that tongue had worked you into a trembling mess mere minutes earlier.

“tell me what you want,” he mumbles, voice thick against your lips.

“i… i want you inside,” you say, breathless.

“then we’ll go slow,” he promises, nudging your nose with his. “you’ll tell me what feels good. and we’ll stop the second you say so. okay?”

you nod. his hand hooks beneath your the crook of your knee, lifting you effortlessly, positioning you astride him. your bare chest against the warm press of his, your slick core on the firm muscle of his thigh. emboldened, you rock against him, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you sure?”

“m’ sure.”

in one smooth motion, he rolls you beneath him, setting you gently against the mattress. his body settles between your thighs, cock flushed and heavy against your skin. he braces one forearm beside your head, presses a kiss to your temple. his hair’s mussed from your fingers, a flush running high on his cheekbones.

he looks so unfairly pretty. you think, as he grabs the base of his cock and rubs it through your slick folds. then he lines himself up and pushes in, inch by excruciating inch. slow enough to feel every maddening stretch of him. the blunt pressure stings—dense, burning in the most exquisite way. you tense beneath him, nails digging pink crescents into his biceps.

“you’re doing so good, but remember to breathe for me, baby,” he coos. “almost there.”

your eyes flutter. the burn intensifies. oh god he’s not even all the way in.

“mghmm.” your nails sink into his biceps. he grunts, forehead tipping against your shoulder.

“fuck—sorry. too much?”

“no. keep going.”

he hums in response, then starts peppering kisses to your collarbone, then underside of your throat. the stretch still burns, but he makes it pale in comparison to pleasure. he rocks into you again, testing. the wet, squelching sounds between your bodies grow increasingly lewd as your walls slowly adjust, contracting around him. you let out a breathy moan. he pauses—one hand cradling your jaw, the other bracing beside your head.

“is this okay?”

“yes—god, yes.”

he nods back, pressing a kiss to your breast before reaching down. his agile fingers find your clit and begin to circle. slow, patient, maddening. the dull ache sharpens into pleasure.

“that’s it,” his voice comes out muffled, sending vibrations through you. “you’re taking me so well.” lips close around your nipple, sucking hard.

you’re so, so close. he knows it too.

“dick—”

“i know. i’ve got you.”

your climax comes in an earth-shattering rush: coiling and snapping in your gut. you arch under him with a cry, muscles spasming around him. he groans into your shoulder, thrusts turning increasingly sloppy.

he doesn’t last much longer.

his entire body seizes—cock twitching deep inside you as he spills, breath held in a shudder. he presses his forehead to yours. both of you are sticky with sweat, chests heaving.

“still okay?” his hand strokes the side of your cheek as he stares at you in starry-eyed adoration.

“yeah,” you whisper. “more than.”

he grins, looking pleased with himself.

‣ tim drake

you lie beneath him, bare but tucked under the edge of the duvet, your legs spread and under the cotton. tim is still half-dressed—shirt rucked up his ribs, boxers pushed low, the weight of his cock resting hot against your hip. he hovers above you, arms braced on either side of your head, the crease between his brows betraying focus. not nerves. calibration.

you’d asked him to fuck you. he’d paused, repeated the question, asked if you were sure—then kissed you until your lips ached and your body melted, his fingers moving with unnerving precision between your legs. he’d made you come once already, two fingers sunken knuckles deep, thumb circling your clit in calculated spirals until your thighs shook and your spine arched from the mattress. he worked your body as if he’s read the manual, and has annotated it.

tim drake is always five layers ahead of you.

he studies your face now, your breathing patterns, the residual tremble in your thighs. “do you want me to go slow,” he asks, quietly, “or do you want me to distract you?”

your brows pull together. “what’s the difference?”

“think about the first one as pain management,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching, “the other’s about cognitive misdirection.”

heat floods your cheeks. you chew the inside of your cheek thoughtfully.

“distract me.”

he nods and retrieves the condom from the drawer without looking. tears it open. rolls it on carefully. then he moves closer, knees nudging yours wider. you feel him line up, the blunt heat of his cockhead parting your folds.

“deep breath,” he says. “it’s going to sting a bit.”

you inhale. on the exhale, he starts to push in.

the stretch is immediate. your body clenches down, instinctive resistance. pain flares—burning pressure around the unfamiliar girth. you dig your heels into the mattress, fingers tightening in the bedsheets.

“fuck,” tim hisses through clenched teeth. “you’re—you’re tight.” his hands slide to your hips, thumbs pressing gently into the crease between pelvis and thigh. he doesn’t push any further.

“doing okay?” he asks, the edge of strain buried beneath concern. you nod, barely. he bends forward, presses his mouth to your temple, then kisses your throat. one hand curves under your knee, lifting your leg higher to angle you better.

“let me take care of the rest,” he says. and he sinks the rest of the way in with a deep exhale, jaw rigid as he bottoms out. his hips still flush against yours, the length of him buried to the hilt. your cunt clenches involuntarily, adjusting around the dense, aching fullness.

he doesn’t move.

“do you want me to start?”

you nod, feverish with anticipation. he leans forward, presses a kiss to your cheekbone, and begins to thrust. the rhythm is measured at first—calculated, even. he’s a analysing your reactions: cataloging how your thighs tighten when he presses deeper, the minute twitches of your mouth when he hits a sensitive spot. finding out the most efficient way to keep your discomfort at a minimum and pleasure at maximum. he adjusts the angle of your hips by half an inch and earns a startled moan in response.

his focus never breaks.

hands cradle your waist, steadying you as he moves—slow, relentless strokes that grind against your cervix with enough force to border on unbearable. the heat in your gut coils tighter. your fingers curl into his biceps, leaving half-moon indents into the skin. he hums, low in his throat, more of an pleasure than a sound of pain.

“you’re taking me so well,” tim murmurs, voice hoarse now. you don’t mean to come then—it ambushes you, heat snapping low in your belly, muscles clenching down in helpless spasms. the cry that tears out of you is sharp, guttural.

his thrusts stutter. he curses under his breath, grips your hip tighter, drives in with less gentleness and more purpose, chasing his own. when he comes, it’s with a soft groan into your throat, his cock pulsing deep inside you, body trembling with restraint even as he spills into the condom. he stays like that—doesn’t collapse, doesn’t roll off immediately. he steadies his breath, forehead pressed to yours.

‣ damian al ghul (aged up)

he undresses without spectacle.

there’s a certain… economy to his movements; efficiency without theatrics. the shirt goes first, unfastened at the cuffs, the collar peeled from his shoulders in a fluid shrug. he folds it in thirds, sets it at the foot of the bed. the belt follows, unthreaded without haste, coiled neatly atop the pressed cotton. his trousers for last.

you stare openly. his body is as disciplined as his manner—lean muscle honed into functional definition. deep, abdominal lines stark beneath skin, a hard taper from chest to the sharp vee of his hip line. a sparse trail of dark hair vanishes into the waistband of his boxers.

“stop gawking,” he says without inflection.

caught, your eyes flick away as heat crawls up your cheeks. but then you glimpse the outline straining against his briefs—thick, unmistakable. he’s not as detached as he pretends.

when he finally climbs onto the bed, he does so with the quiet grace and deliberation akin to a jaguar. knees parting yours. gaze flicking downward. anatomic appraisal.

your legs fall open without instruction. his hand slide between them, deft and unerring. the pads of his fingers part you, learn the shape of your cunt with an eerie composure. already you’re wet. embarrassingly so.

he makes no comment.

his middle finger glides inside, sinking to the knuckle. a second joins, curls. your breath catches, and only then does he glance up—green eyes sharp, studying every reaction.

“this will hurt,” he says eventually. a plain truth, spoken without cruelty. his thumb circles your clit once, then stills. “only the first time,” he adds. “after that, you’ll crave it.”

your eyebrow arches. “confident.”

“i don’t speak in hypotheticals.” he withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing. after a pause, a quieter note:

“tell me now if you don’t want this.”

“i do.”

and that’s the truth.

he strips off his briefs with one hand. his cock springs free, flushed and heavy, arcing toward his navel. it’s too much and somehow exactly what you wanted. he strokes himself—a couple of quick pumps to adjust. then he’s lining up. the blunt head drags slick between your folds, painting you with precome. the contact makes you gasp. he watches your face carefully.

“you’ll tell me if it’s too much,”

and then he pushes in.

one smooth, sustained thrust.

your cunt stretches tight around him, the intrusion sudden—a burning sensation flaring up your spine. it feels impossible, every inch of him prying you open. patiently, damian waits for you to adjust before pushing in deeper. the new angle makes your vision white at the edges.

“breathe,” he says, thumb stroking the hollow of your throat.

“you’re fine. you can take it.” his own breath is steady, controlled through his nose. he doesn’t move yet—waits. watches. only when your eyes flutter open again does he rear back his hips.

the first thrust draws a gasp from your chest. each thrust is slow but invasive, his pelvis slapping yours with muffled force. your hands scramble over his back, nails dragging down the lean line of his spine. he groans into the crook of your shoulder, surprised by it—one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding under your thigh to hold you in place.

“damian—think m’ clo—”

you break off with a moan, pitch slurring upward. you’re already so close to the precipice, pressure building rapidly from the friction and fullness.

“i know, albi.”

he breathes, the nickname raw on his tongue. his hand slips between your bodies, long fingers finding your clit without fail. circles twice, then presses down. you come hard, breath catching sharp in your throat as your cunt tightens around him. he groans low in response, hips stuttering once against the clamp of your body. your hands lock around his shoulders, gasping into his mouth as pleasure finally overtakes you, blinding and hot.

in arabic, “albi” (قلبي) translates to “my heart.”

 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ

[ninisdollie]

more boyfriend Ni-ki with his hyperfemenine gf thoughts (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧

Your boyfriend Ni-ki pretends to judge you for spending so much money in makeup, telling you that you need to save or spend it in something that really worths it, but at the end of the day, he sits through every one of your Sephora unboxings like he’s your assistant. He’ll lay on your pink sheets, black hoodie cap over his messy hair, watching you with a half-lidded gaze as you peel the bubble wrap off your sixth gloss of the week like it’s a treasure. He’ll say things like, “Another one?” or “25 dollars for a gloss is insane” with the driest voice, eyes lazy as he’s sooo bored, but when you flute your eyelashes at him, small smile on your plumped lips, he’s the first to hold out his arm when you start testing swatches.

He lets you paint his entire forearm with shimmer eyeshadows and bronzers and cherry red blushes, grumbling under his breath warning you to not tell the boys later. He even holds still while you paint his thick lips with a shiny, sheer pink gloss, and even smacks his lips together like he’s on a get ready with me video. 

“It’s sweet” he shrugs “Suits you better” and then he kisses you, soft and messy at the same time, the gloss falls from your hand as you kiss him back and fall on your back on the mattress. 

Then a few days later, when you’re stressed because you can’t find your new strawberry lip balm and ask him if he’s seen it, he doesn’t even blink. “What? You have like ten of those” 

“You literally stole it. It’s mine!” he just looks at you, so nonchalant, and goes, “Yeah, but it makes my lips soft. Plus… it smells like you.”

You ended up finding it on his desk. Not tucked away or hidden, just lying there like it belongs next to his wallet and keys. Like he didn’t swiped it from your vanity and started using it like it was his all along.

Ni-ki used to groan every time you said “Just ten more minutes” before a date. He would lean against your bedroom doorframe with his arms crossed and a dramatic sigh, saying things like “How are you not done yet?” Or “It looks good, I’m hungry” But instead of actually getting mad, he started watching you. Watching how your hands moved when you did your eyeliner. How your lip combo needed to be layered just right. How you curled your hair in sections and flipped the ends out naturally. 

And one day, he just… asked. “Which one makes it wavy?” You paused, mascara wand mid-air, staring at him. “You wanna help me get ready?” “I wanna help you get faster,” he said flatly. But you saw the little spark in his eyes.

So you handed him your curling iron.

Your boyfriend Ni-ki watched one tutorial on YouTube from a beauty blogger, and then practiced on a doll head you had from your childhood “just for fun,” but secretly he wanted to get it perfect for you. He learned to section your hair, to twist and hold, to use the glove so he wouldn’t burn his fingers, though he totally did once and blamed you for distracting him by being “too pretty.”

He now stands behind you while you sit on your vanity and do your makeup, tongue between his teeth in concentration as he wraps a strand of your hair around the barrel. You’ll be focusing on your eyeliner and hear the soft click of the iron turning off, then his voice: “Next section.” Sometimes he clips your hair back with one of your frilly pink claw clips, totally unfazed by how cute and domestic he looks doing it. Other times, he hums Enhypen songs under his breath while working, casually asking, “Big curls or soft waves today?”

To be fair, he still says, “You take forever to get ready,” but now it’s while he's smoothing a section of your hair down and checking the back with his phone camera to make sure it’s even.

Ni-ki is one of the most dry texters in the world, but you don’t care that much, because when he’s on tour, he doesn’t say “I miss you” too much, but always comes back with something for you tucked in his bag.

Not big things. Not the kind of gifts meant to impress or flex. But cute things. Thoughtful things. Things that say “I saw this and thought of you” in the quietest way. Like the time he was in Japan, and you sent him a half-joking, half-serious message at 2 a.m. that just said, “Bring me back something My Melody or I’m breaking up with you.” But forgot about it immediately, he didn’t. 

He came home with a little box wrapped in pink tissue paper, handed it to you without a word, and inside were three keychains—Hello Kitty, My Melody, and Kuromi—each one in a tiny outfit matching the city he’d been in. There was also a fluffy pouch with sparkly zippers and a note in his handwriting with pink pen that just said, “Don’t break up with me.”

Or the time that he went to Milan for the fashion week and rolled his eyes when you told him to buy you something expensive. But when he came back, he handed you a pink Prada purse and a silk scarf with little hearts woven into the trim. 

“This reminded me of you. The memory was prettier tho” You punched his arm and he kissed your cheek.

He’s too cool to gush but always notices. Always remembers. He never forgets that you love sparkly keychains and girly pouches and lip balms shaped like desserts. And even when he’s thousands of miles away, he walks through each airport, each city street, each backstage area wondering what tiny, soft thing he can bring back to make you smile. And when you tease him, “You miss me that bad, huh?” He’ll just click his tongue, toss a plushie onto your lap, and mutter, “Shut up. It was cute. And you like cute things.”

Your boyfriend Ni-ki pretends to be soo bored when you push him into your bedroom to try on new clothes. He flops onto your bed like he’s been inconvenienced for the millionth time, phone in hand, legs crossed at the ankle, but the truth is? He lives for this. For the way you light up when you’re in front of your closet. For the way you model outfits for him like you’re on a runway made of pink carpet and perfume mist. He barely looks up when you walk out in the first dress, just gives a quick glance and hums, “Cute.”

But by the third outfit, when the top dips a little lower and your shorts hug a little tighter, he suddenly forgets how to breathe normally. You know what you’re doing. You twirl slowly, hands on your hips, acting innocent. “Too short?” you ask, lifting the hem just slightly to adjust it. He sits up straighter. “You’re trying to start something.” You just flutter you eyelashes. “I’m just trying on clothes.” 

Ni-ki is so whipped for you that he starts biting his lip by the fourth outfit. You come out in a little skirt with bows on the sides and a cropped cardigan that’s one button away from scandal, and he’s already shoving his phone into the sheets and leaning back like he’s trying to stay calm.“Babe,” he warns, voice low, “what is this, a fashion show or a test of my self-control?” You smirk. “Depends. How am I doing?” He drags a hand down his face. “Terribly.” 

He breaks the second you spin around in front of the mirror and bend a little too far while adjusting the neckline, the skirt showing the perfect curve of your ass. He’s behind you before you even realize he moved, hands sliding around your waist, lips brushing your ear.

“You know I’m not gonna sit there like a good boy when you parade around looking like that.” Your outfit ends up on the floor. He never gives his opinion. You both forget you were even getting ready.

Your boyfriend Ni-ki doesn’t just say “You’re pretty” when you’re writhing under him, he says it like a prayer, like it hurts him how pretty you are.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.” “Look at you… look how perfect you are for me.” “Made just for me, huh? That’s it, baby—show me.”

His voice never raises. It stays soft, reverent, like he’s telling you a secret that only the two of you should know. Even when he’s breathless. Even when he’s deep inside you, thumb brushing your bottom lip while he watches your eyes flutter and roll.

“Such a good girl for me… always take me so well.” “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?” “You make me lose my mind, princess. Fuck—look at the mess you’re making.”

He says the filthiest things while holding your jaw so gently, like he’s cradling something delicate and priceless.

“You’re dripping just from my voice, aren’t you? You like when I talk to you like this.” “You want me to make it worse? Want me to ruin this little body while I tell you how much I love it?”

Because he does love it. Every inch of you. And he says it, over and over, between kisses and thrusts and choked moans.

“I love you so much, baby. So fucking much.” “No one’s ever gonna touch you like this. No one’s ever gonna talk to you like this.” “You’re mine. Say it. Say it again.”

He gets off on your pleasure more than anything. The sound of your voice, the way your fingers curl in his hair, the little gasps you make when he presses deeper.

“That’s it, my pretty girl… you gonna come for me?” “I want you to fall apart, yeah? Be good and make a mess for me.”

And when you do, when your voice breaks and your body trembles and you cling to him like he’s the only thing anchoring you to this earth, he kisses you everywhere he can reach. Your cheek. Your shoulder. Your chest. The side of your neck.

“You’re okay, baby. I got you.” “You’re my princess. My everything.” 

And when he finishes, he doesn’t just roll over and catch his breath after, t’s like the second you fall apart, he pulls himself back together just to take care of you. Because he knows.

He knows that after you finish, your voice goes quiet. Your fingers reach for him, searching without words. You blink slower, lips parted, too overwhelmed to speak. And he knows that’s when you need softness the most. So he gathers you up. Instantly.

Ni-ki wraps his arms around your trembling frame and pulls you into his chest, skin to skin, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s shielding you from the world. “Hey,” he murmurs, lips brushing your forehead. “You’re okay.” He kisses your temple, your eyelids, your damp hair, even the tip of your nose, like he needs to cover every part of you in warmth. In reassurance. He speaks softly, over and over, even when you’re too tired to respond.

“I’ve got you.” “You’re so perfect for me.” “Still with me, pretty girl?” “I love you. You’re my everything.”

His fingers draw lazy shapes on your back, his legs tangled with yours beneath the blankets. When he feels you start to drift, he kisses your shoulder and tightens his hold. “Don’t disappear yet,” he whispers, teasing but gentle.

And when you finally look up at him with hazy, fluttering eyes and a sleepy pout, he smiles like it physically hurts how much he loves you. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and presses his forehead to yours. “Still my princess,” he murmurs, voice low, “even when you’re all messy and dazed like this.”

Boyfriend Ni-ki, who gets up just to grab a warm cloth and clean you softly, slowly, never rushing, like he’s touching something sacred. Then helps you into his hoodie, kisses your cheek, and pulls you back into bed with a quiet “Come here, need you close.”

Because he knows you go small after. And there’s nowhere safer to be small than wrapped in him.

[classjezter]

Guide to cybertronian carriage

Part 1

More below 🔽

First event - Creation

Term one

Second event - Descension

Part 2 (WIP) - Term 2 and Third event: emergence

[xbeababyx]

Pov: You are Pedro's girlfriend and this is your camera roll.

[mwphisto]

With the way Caleb cooks? You’re bound to put on a couple of pounds even with your rigorous work schedule.

You’re grumbling one morning, an early workout session before you go on with your day. The number on the scale is a bit higher than it was last week… it bothered you.

Not because you feared the weight gain but because you couldn’t understand how it was happening.

“What’s up, Pips? You look bummed out.” The pout is still present on your lips as you look over your shoulder. “I’ve gained weight.” And for a split second, you swear Caleb’s eyes light up. “That’s not a bad thing. I’ve been pushing you with weight lifting. It’s probably muscle.”

But you want to scoff, you hadn’t been gaining muscles. No, you’d been gaining fluff. Your belly had gotten a bit softer, your curves a little curvier. You couldn’t tell if you were upset about it or intrigued by your new shape.

“Not true at all. Look!” You poke at your stomach, and Caleb’s mouth waters. "Don't be ridiculous, pips. You look great." It's like reading an open book. Your eyes narrow as you stare at him, the cogs in your brain twisting and turning as you put two and two together.

"Caleb Xia." and the look that flashes across his face confirms your sneaking suspicions. "Have you been over feeding me?" It sounds far harsher than it really is, he simply makes good food and always puts seconds on your plate before you can even utter a word.

He just wants you to be well fed, is that so bad?

"Yes, it is!" Oops, must of said it out loud. "What in the world are you putting in your meals that I'm gaining all this weight despite working out and being a damn hunter!?" And the towering 6'2 man seems to shrink in on himself. "You've got an appetite, Pips! I'm just feeding you until you're full!" Okay, maybe he also likes you being fluffy.

There's just... more to grab. More to hold, more to kiss and bite and love on. More for him to knead, to bury his face into, to get a grip on as he pounds... shit shit shit his cover just got blown and he's daydreaming? "Caleb Xia, answer me!"

He can't, he absolutely can't. So, instead, he stalks forward and buries his face into your neck. "Caleb!" But he's holding you tighter, grabbing the plush of your waist and grounding you to him.

Your anger is melting fast. It feels... good having him hold you like that. Your cheeks are burning as you huff, holding him with a pout. "I'm going to start loading you up on sweets, say goodbye to that six pack. You'll have a dad-bod by the time I'm done."

And Caleb is 100% okay with that.

This isn't like... full on feeder content. I hope it doesn't make anyone uncomfortable. I am just a firm believer that Caleb would be a Chubby girl connoisseur. He loves them thick, plump, stretch marked and jiggly.

[p1girlfriend]

you’re awkward with PDA and physical affection – f1 grid reactions ── .✦

lando norris ── .✦

he thinks it’s adorable grabs your hand in public just to watch you short-circuit

“you can hold it back if you want. i’m not letting go though.” hugs you from behind constantly. gets you used to it slowly — one pinky touch at a time and every time you finally give in and hug him back? he whispers “progress.”

oscar piastri ── .✦

he notices it instantly — but he’s patient doesn’t force it, just offers the affection when you awkwardly pat his shoulder after a kiss he goes

“…so romantic. i’m swooning.” softly teases you, but reassures you every time “you don’t have to be good at it. i’m just happy you want to try.”

charles leclerc ── .✦

took it personally for 0.5 seconds

“do you not like holding hands?” “…are my hands sweaty??” but once he gets it, he adjusts. completely. kisses the top of your head instead presses his knee against yours gives you micro touches you barely notice until you realize how comforted you feel “i don’t need you to be touchy. i just need you near.”

lewis hamilton ── .✦

a king of reading your energy he knows you want to be close — just doesn’t rush you whispers things like:

“can I touch you?” or “do you want to hold my hand, or just walk next to me?” lets you initiate 100% of the time but when you do? his whole face lights up like “thank you for letting me in.”

carlos sainz ── .✦

he’s so touchy — and you’re so not he tries to wrap an arm around you and you do the awkward lean

“you’re so stiff. are you okay??” teases you nonstop but never mean calls you “mi cactus” (sharp and avoidant) lowkey melts every time you get comfortable enough to kiss his cheek on your own

daniel ricciardo ── .✦

oh he’s obsessed. wraps you up in a hug and holds you hostage while you panic

“look at her! she doesn’t know where her arms go!!” laughs so hard and kisses your face anyway but also… respects your space when you need it and whispers “i’ll wait forever if it means i still get your awkward little hand pats.”

gabriel bortoleto ── .✦

doesn’t push at all leans into your pace you accidentally touch his arm once and he goes

“tô ganhando.” (“I’m winning.”) treats every little touch from you like it’s a precious gift secretly keeps count of how many times you reach for him

franco colapinto ── .✦

he’s affectionate but lowkey likes to sit near you and brush your hand with his fingers

“you don’t have to do anything. i’m good like this.” but when you do finally hug him back fully, tightly, on your own? he stares at you like you just told him you love him for the first time

max verstappen ── .✦

he notices, doesn’t comment but adjusts immediately his affection becomes quiet and indirect — passing things to you, standing close, gentle hand at your back but the first time you gently wrap your arms around him at home? he leans into your chest and whispers

“i knew you’d get there. worth the wait.”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[okwonyo]

REAL MAN ，lhs

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄, 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌

𝟏𝐎𝟑𝟕𝒾──── downbad!heeseung 𝗑 f!rea ✿ fluff 𓂋 mention of alcohol kissing skinship ❞ 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆 ｡ ⠀

rbs ！ ✶ 𝗔 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦 for @yeokii ◜ ᴗ ◝

you never realized how heavy heeseung was until tonight.

“t—thank you,” he giggles when you throw him on the bed.

you stretch, having his arm around your shoulder and his entire weight on you during fifteen minutes wasn’t the best time of your life.

you look down at him. his cheeks are rosy pink, his tie is askew and his shirt is missing a few buttons. he looks at you with a lovesick smile plastered on his lips.

“baby, c’mere,” he holds your wrist, pulls you on top of him in a second—the alcohol got him forgetting his strength.

you hold yourself with a hand on the matress, you sigh, “hee…”

your boyfriend runs his thumb on your lower lip in a way to shut you up.

heeseung giggles every time he speaks, “you’re so pretty,” he cups your features, gaze wandering on your face until stopping at your lips. he hiccups, “let me kiss you.

heeseung leans in. for a second, you get distracted by his breath hitting your lips. then you remember that it’s the man who drank enough to not be able to walk straight.

you turn your head to the side, “heeseung, no.”

the man’s bambi–like eyes widen, they follow you as if you were their savior, “why not?” his grip on your jaw doesn’t release a single bit.

in the contrary, before you can answer his whiny question, his other hand cups the other side of your jaw. he makes you face him once again, his face already close enough to give you a peck.

“d—do you have a boyfriend?” your literal boyfriend asks. his voice is so small and sad, it makes you break a smile. however heeseung isn’t the kind to give up on what he wants.

he leans in even more. as if you being in a relationship was a challenge he needed to overcome, “we’ll find him another girlfriend, mh?”

your mouth falls in disbelief, “what?”

heeseung groans when you get out of his grip, “what?” he hiccups. “he won’t find out!”

you get stupidly offended at his remarks, “you are my boyfriend, idiot!” heeseung seems to have been hit with a storm. you continue, getting off the bed, standing straight, “if you think i would cheat on you, you are crazy.”

heeseung catches your wrist once again before you can leave the room.

“wait,” he pulls you back to him. his expression is serious, as if he just sobered, “i’m sorry, i—i” he hiccups, “wouldn’t think i’m lucky enough to have you.”

you sit on the edge of the bed, “you’re dumb.”

heeseung looks at you, mouth falling agape. then he giggles. he hides it behind his hands but it’s still loud enough to echo in the entire room.

“i c—can be what—ever you want,” he says when he calmed down a bit, “i can even kiss you.”

“no,” you answer. voice firm.

he cups your face again, “please,” he pleads.

you let him guide you closer to his face, “heeseung, you are drunk.”

his mouth reeks of alcohol when he answers, “so what? i’m still a ve—very good kisser.”

“i’m not going to kiss you,” your protest are becoming weaker and your eyes linger in his mouth too much.

his lips brush yours, “c’mon, pretty girl,” he whispers, “just one.”

you don’t realize how easy you gave in, how quickly you let your eyes flutter shut until the peck isn’t happening anymore.

however, since heeseung is greedy like that, he can’t help but want more, “another one, please.”

you don’t answer, you let him kiss you once again. this time, the kiss last a few seconds longer then the other and you can taste the liquor remaining on his lips.

he doesn’t pull away to ask for more, “please, just one last kiss.”

heeseung often gets hungry when drunk. you think he is starving right now. the kiss he gives you is beyond eager and passionate— as if his waited his entire life to kiss you this way.

it makes your stomach twist with nothing but pure satisfaction while heeseung’s eyes brow furrows and pulse gets higher.

he tilts your head to the side to kiss you even better. if you weren’t halfway laying on him, you think your legs would simply give in.

the kiss makes you wonder why you even refused in the first place.

heeseung giggles when he pulls away makes you remember immediately. you groan, mentally scolding yourself for being so easy.

“no—no wait,” heeseung hiccups when he feels you pulling away once again.

“why did you even drink so much?”

“the guys said i wasn’t a real man if i couldn’t handle alcohol,” he pouts, “and wanted to be a real man, for you.”

your mouth is stuck open. such a stupid reason. such a lovely gesture. it makes you like him even more.

“you are such an idiot, really,” you laugh.

heeseung’s giggles may be your favorite thing in the world, “i love you.”

the world stops. your smile drops slowly. processing the information makes your brain work in a hurry. it’s a big deal: your drunk boyfriend telling you he loves you for the first time.

“huh?” is your answer. you are not sure if you heard that correctly.

“i said, i love you,” he repeats. very sure of himself. sounding as sober as ever. “i may be drunk, not able to walk, stumble over my words and giggle a lot, i know that i love you.”

you stay silent for a minute.

“i will tell you again tomorrow, and the after and for how long you let me stay by your side,” he continues, eyes staring into your soul. “you are not obligated to say anything back—”

your lips seals his. he sighs against your lips, sounding desperate, kissing back like the three kisses you exchanged a few minutes before never happened.

“i love you,” you say against his lips.

“i love you,” he repeats. then kisses you again. “i love you,” kiss. “i love you, i love you,” kiss. “i love you, i love you, i love you...”

he is soon indulging in his glee and his giggles take over you too.

maybe it’s the love he carries for you that makes him so heavy.

분지 ܃ ( early ) happy birthday hana ♥︎ i love you mwah !

taglist open 。

[prince-crimson]

when Damian has his hair down he also has middle part..he once ran out of gel and all everyone saw was an angry little Tim walking around the manor threatening people with death by his sword if they spoke about his hair..Tim found it adorable and took a picture to keep reminding himself that everyone in the family wasn't actually that different..

[wetforsylus]

– teasing drunk sylus, gone wrong! ༯ 

"sweetie..." he groaned, reaching his hand towards your face, lightly caressing on your warm skin, before pulling you against his lap, holding onto you for dear life.

"sh- shouldn't have drank that much..." he murmured, pupils twisting in desire, breathy pants escaping his lips as he tried to contain himself before snapping out.

"c'mon you're wrecked after that many drinks?" you tease, sliding your fingers through his hair, tangling the silvered locks through your bristled fingers.

"'m not."

"yeah you are, how cute."

"not."

"ar-"

before you could even finish what you were going to say he pressed his padded lips against yours, sinking himself in a hungry kiss. as if the drinks weren't enough he felt like he needed more.

already drunken by your sultry voice and lips, a whimper- a fucking whimper left his lips, the beautiful sound humming through your throat.

"sy- oh?"

and before another teasing remark could leave your lips, he had already passed out on your lap, sleeping like a little baby.

[allsteddie]

Steve being the worst patient possible whenever he’s sick.

He’s so used to taking care of everyone that he seems incapable of understanding that, sometimes, he’s gonna be the one needing to be taken care of. This drives Eddie absolutely insane.

Eddie comes back from work, expecting to see Steve sleeping off the fever he had woken up with that morning, just to find his husband up and scrubbing the bathroom tiles with a fucking toothbrush.

“The hell are you doing? Go back to bed!!”

“There’s mold here, Eddie. Mold!”