#and then i started reading balloons stuff

[johnnysuhbmarine]

Too Good to be True

Pairing: Jaemin x reader Description: Description? You want me to give you a description and ruin the fun? No way. It’s best if you just go into this one with no hints. Content warnings: None :)  Word count: 3,515 A/n: This is the epilogue to Too Good to be Fake, which you can read here if you haven’t already - thank you all for showing so much love to that fic, I swear my heart has never been so full. So, this is my gift to you in return. Please enjoy :))

“No, you know what? I can’t do this anymore, I’m done.” Your broken voice rings throughout the unoccupied space of the apartment’s living room, but you know it reached where you needed it to. 

“After everything we’ve been through?” Jaemin yells back from his bedroom. “You’re giving up on this? Just like that?” 

You shake your head as tears provide a healthy glaze over your eyes, frustrated that he wasn’t out here to actually have this conversation with you because now you felt stupid. “I’m tired, Jaemin,” you reply in defeat, trying your best not to let the tears roll down your cheeks. You hated that this was the state you were in, but you were so drained and you had to do something about it, even if each embarrassed word you spoke brought every tear closer. 

“Oh, and now I have a name-?” Jaemin shoots back in great offense as he finally leaves his bedroom and rounds the corner to continue talking, but the second he sees your figure, his face drops into worry. “Hey…angel,” he says softly, rushing to wrap you in a hug and place a kiss on the top of your head. “You are tired, huh?” He echoes in understanding, leaving you to just nod into his chest as the tears finally fall down your cheeks.

“We’ve been working all day- and I get why, and I get that we’re supposed to finish this all up soon, but I can’t,” you reply miserably. “Not today.” 

The thing was, you and the guys were throwing Haechan a surprise party, his birthday now just days away. The rest of your friend group promised to keep Haechan busy and out of his shared apartment with Jaemin for the day, and under the guise of a date between the two of you, you and your boyfriend were using the time to roughly set up decorations and start putting things together, where everything would then be kept in Jaemin’s room until the actual party. 

That being said, you both had been running from party store to party store all day today, trying to get decorations to match the vibe you had in your heads. You had spent the past two hours unpacking everything, trying to set up the space in a way that looked good so that you could take a reference picture before tearing it all down again to keep hidden for the next few days. Less of a decorator than you were, Jaemin took on the job of continuously blowing up balloons in his room to make a balloon tower. Altogether, the entire concept of the surprise party was something you were really pumped to do for Haechan…until about two minutes ago when you hit your breaking point, leaving you to cry in your boyfriend’s arms.

Jaemin gives your figure a fond look, lightly rubbing a hand up and down your back as he tries his best to comfort you, any element of playfulness now completely gone from his being. “You’re okay. We can rest,” he assures gently. Slowly, he removes one arm from around you to instead place it lightly on your cheek, guiding your face up so he could make eye contact with you. “Do you wanna go back to your place so we can be away from all this party stuff?” He suggests, and the idea of it sends more relief through your system than you could’ve imagined.

“Sure, thank you,” you say with a light nod of your head, bringing your own hand up to wipe the remaining tears from your cheeks. Jaemin does his part in swiping a thumb under your eye on the side where his hand was already placed, and then he leans in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Anything for you, sweet girl,” he responds, pulling back to look you over again. “I’m sorry today took a lot out of you.” He grimaces as he continues, looking genuinely regretful knowing that all of this was his idea in the first place. 

You shake your head to dismiss his guilt, as if wanting to throw a surprise party wasn’t already a huge indicator of how big his heart was - your inability to decorate for hours on end was not for him to feel bad about. “No big deal,” you assure, and then a smile finally paints itself across your lips again as you stare back at him. “At least I’ve been by your side for the entirety of it.”

Jaemin shakes his head in disbelief, a breathy laugh escaping him as he smiles brightly back down at you. “I love you so much,” he states, unable to help himself from leaning down to catch your own lips in an actual kiss. Then, he fully lets you go from the hug, switching his grip to instead grab your hand in his own and lead you around to gather his things before heading out of the door with a soft, “come on.”

As soon as Jaemin started his car, he whipped his head towards you in the passenger seat. “Oh, hey, you have your key, right?” He asks seriously, but you look back at him as though he were crazy.

“Yes…? Don’t you also have your spare key, though?” You ask in return, and watch as Jaemin shakes his head.

“No, it’s in my room right now, which is why I was asking before we got on the road so that I could go get it if need be; so you can either wipe that look off your face, angel, or I’ll kiss it off you, cause I’m not as crazy as your stare would lead anyone to assume,” he answers with a playful taunt. You roll your eyes at him to combat the heat that went to your cheeks at his tease. Still, you lean over the center console and press a firm kiss to the side of his face, though Jaemin catches you before you’re all the way settled in your seat again, and instead pulls you back so he could actually kiss you, too - somehow, he never got enough of you…you thanked your lucky stars for that one every single day.

As he finally lets you go and shifts to actually start driving, you occupy yourself by playing with his hand that found its home on your thigh. Quickly, though, another thought crosses your mind and you furrow your brows. “Hey, wait-” you start, focusing your gaze back on his face and watching as he chances a quick glance back over at you to urge you to continue. “Do you not carry my spare key with your own house keys?” You ask skeptically, knowing that if it were you, having one key automatically meant you had the other.

Jaemin shakes his head in response but cuts it off promptly as he chooses to just explain himself instead. “No, well- yes. Normally I keep both keys in the same place, but my keychain broke the other day, so I only have my car keys and stuff while everything else that used to be on my keychain sits on my desk until I can get a new one.” 

Your mouth forms an ‘O’ at his explanation as you pull out your phone and add ‘keychain’ to the list of gift ideas for him that you had in your notes. Then your attention turns back to his fingers tapping rhythmically against your thigh as you bring one hand to cover overtop his own, and Jaemin risks one more fond glance at your figure before pinning all his focus on not missing the turn into your block of housing. 

As Jaemin grabs your hand and helps you out of his car, you’re instantly confused by the sight that greets you. Tons of rose petals were scattered on the pavement and seemed to lead up to your front door. You give a small shake of your head and laugh. “Was it super windy earlier today?” You question, eyeing the rose petals which you assumed had definitely made their way over to the wrong walkway. “Someone’s gonna be disappointed when they find out all their roses ended up on my doorstep,” you continue with a laugh. Jaemin lets out his own soft exhale of laughter, squeezing your hand slightly tighter in his as the two of you walk up and you begin unlocking the door.

However, as you swing the door open, all of your awkward laughter abruptly stops and you take in the state of your living area. None of your actual lights were on, but the room was filled with the golden glow of numerous candles, illuminating the rose petals that continued from your front door to eventually circle your dinner table, soft music playing from a source you couldn’t yet lay eyes on. You finally remember to breathe, and a heavy exhale leaves your gaping mouth as you turn to your boyfriend in question. “Jaem…what-” you cut off your words as you look up to meet his eyes and catch the brightest of smiles playing against his features.

“Happy five months, angel,” he says fondly, squeezing your hand in his for a moment before bringing it up to his lips so he could kiss the back of it. Realization dawns across your face all at once.

“Oh my god, today’s the 2nd,” you breathe out, your eyes wide in horror at the fact that you weren’t conscious of the date until now. You knew Haechcan’s birthday was getting close, but the last thing on your mind as you got things ready for his party was that today was June 2nd.

Jaemin throws a smirk in your direction. “That it is,” he began assuredly. “Thankfully, somehow, I was able to distract you from that fact for the entire day,” he continues, his tone as though it was the biggest accomplishment in the world. He breaks into more explanation with a small laugh. “I was terrified it’d be the only thing on your mind and then I’d be an asshole for pretending to not know what day it is.” As he continues, he squeezes your hand in his once more, turning your attention fully back to him rather than where your gaze had been wandering around the room again. A shy smile paints his lips as he continues softly. “I know it’s a weird one to celebrate so grandly, but I really wanted to surprise you, and no other birthdays lined up well enough for my plan to work.”

Of course, surprises had to be planned, but the addressing of the word sent your head spinning. This was the plan. A thousand thoughts run through your head as you look up at him in confusion. “So Haechan’s surprise party-” You begin, but Jaemin’s eyes go wide in an instant and he rushes to cut you off.

“Wait-!” His attempt is overshadowed by his own words getting interrupted.

“I’m getting a surprise party?!” Haechan questioned from the kitchen, excitement coating his voice and making Jaemin sigh. You whip your head towards where his voice came from, but still can’t lay eyes on him in just the candle light.

“You’re here?!” You question in shock, and Haechan finally steps out to where you can see him, clad in a suit and his head ducked in embarrassment immediately after making eye contact with an unimpressed Jaemin.

“Sorry,” he begins lowly as he seems to resume a role of sorts. “Don’t think of me as Haechan. I’m just supposed to be a server tonight.” His words and sure tone only serve to confuse you even more.

“Are you all here?” You ask, and at once, the rest of the guys pop up from behind the kitchen counter, all in matching suits and with idiotic grins on their faces.

“Chenle and Jeno are cooking, Renjun’s on dessert, Jisung and I are your trusty wait staff, and Mark brought his guitar over so he can play live music tonight,” Haechan explains calmly. You take in their presence, along with all the information that Haechan just recounted to you, and your head drops to the floor, sucking on your bottom lip as more starts clicking into place.

“This is why you don’t have your spare key,” you say underneath a sigh of disbelief. 

Jaemin lets out a small chuckle as he tracks your train of thought. “Well, my keychain did break but- yeah,” he cedes, continuing softly. “It’s currently in Mark’s pocket…figured he was the most trustworthy. And-” he breaks off with another exhale of laughter before looking down at you with a fond grin. “To answer your previous question, Haechan’s party is definitely a thing, but there’s no way we could’ve blown up balloons already, half of them would be deflated by the 6th. I just needed a reason for you to be out of the house…and to not question why Haechan was also out all day, so I figured setting up for his surprise party would do the trick.” He drops his head after his explanation and begins to fumble for more words, his thumb gently rubbing against the back of your hand. “Again, I’m sorry it wore you out,” he says sincerely, then popping his head back up to give you a weak smile. “I just needed to make sure they had time to get everything ready over here.”

You take in the living room again alongside his words, and being completely filled in now, you can’t help it when tears make their reappearance in your eyes. “Baby…” you manage to whimper out, and Jaemin lets out a fond laugh as he pulls you into him again so he can fully hug you.

“Hey, angel, it’s okay,” he reassures for the second time that day, placing another kiss to the top of your head. 

“I love you so much,” you mumble into his chest in return.

Jaemin places a hand on your cheek and guides your face back up towards his slightly until he can rest his forehead against your own. “I love you,” he replies seriously, a smile straining at his lips before he just leans in to kiss you softly. 

“I can’t believe I’m getting a birthday party!” Haechan exclaims from the kitchen, with nothing but joy in his tone and a complete neglect for what was happening in front of him.

“Haechan, not the time!” The rest of the group groans in chorus, Jeno swatting at him with the back of his hand.

“Right, right,” Haechan relents, now rubbing away at the sting in his bicep. You and Jaemin break from the kiss with a laugh, but Haechan’s input did a good job at reminding you both that you weren’t exactly alone tonight, and dinner was just getting started. So, Jaemin took your hand and led you to the table, where Jisung greeted you both with water and Haechan took actual drink orders which, surprisingly, wasn’t just whatever you already had stocked in your fridge. 

As far as an actual dinner meal went, Jisung informed you both that there were two options on the menu; and when you and Jaemin ordered different meals from each other, Chenle and Jeno popped their heads up over the kitchen counter and informed you that they actually could only make two servings of one meal rather than one serving of two meals, and then when you and Jaemin decided on which dish truly sounded best, Chenle and Jeno informed you that you picked the wrong one, and it was the other which was going to be served. Jaemin dropped his head into his hand, but you just let out a fond laugh and nod of your head. Then, Chenle and Jeno got to work on finishing cooking what they had already prepped for before the two of you ever got there.

Renjun rolled his eyes at the boys, but it wasn’t as though your dessert was in a much different boat, it’s just that he wasn’t going to even pretend there were other options than tiramisu. 

As your dinner conversation started winding down and you moved onto dessert, Mark stopped terrorizing his friends in the kitchen and instead moved over to an armchair in your living area to actually start playing his guitar. 

With the last bite of tiramisu and Mark still humming a melody, Jaemin looked your way intently, rolling his lips inwards before spitting out a question.

“Do you want to dance?” He asks, a little more awkward than normal for Jaemin. You look back at him as some shock runs through you at his question, but before you even think about responding, your gaze subconsciously darts over to where the rest of the guys were anxiously awaiting your answer from the other side of the kitchen island. Jaemin follows your gaze and then drops his head with an embarrassed laugh. “Just pretend they aren’t here- except for Mark, who’s, you know…playing the music.”

You let out a small laugh of your own before shifting your gaze back to Jaemin, eyebrows raised as you give the question back to him. “Do you want to dance?”

A wide grin tugs at Jaemin’s lips as he gives a solemn nod of his head. “I’d love any excuse to hold you,” he replies softly, and you just let out a heavy exhale.

“You’re too good to be true,” you say in return, shaking your head in disbelief as you look at Jaemin across the table from you.

His smile grows to reveal his teeth, but he drops his head as a blush takes hold of his features. “Funny,” he begins thoughtfully, guiding his gaze up to eventually meet yours again. “I think the same thing every time I look at you,” he admits sincerely, and now it’s your turn to blush. “Come on,” he begs softly, standing up from the table and leaving a hand out to take your own. “Come dance.”

As you place your hand in his, the boys scurry out from behind the counter to quickly push all the furniture back in the living room and give the two of you more space; then immediately darting back into the kitchen again and leaving Mark to be the one to smile up at you guys from where he was situated on the chair before aiming his focus back on his guitar.

The two of you held each other in the living room and swayed back and forth to whatever love song Mark remembered he could play on guitar, Jaemin sometimes grabbing your hand to spin you around as an excuse to look you up and down in your entirety, your diamond necklace catching in the candlelight as you turn and he’d lose all his words trying to understand how he ever got so lucky as to have you love him. You were an absolute dream, from your smile and your laugh, to the way you looked in his clothes and the things he’s bought for you, to the way you retaught him what love looked like (the answer was simple now, love looked like you). Jaemin was sure there’d never be enough softness in his eyes to convey how fond of you he was. That didn’t stop him from trying, though. His eyes glazed over with love as he stared after you tonight, the most tender smile on his lips each time he pulled you back into him from your spin so that he could hold you some more.

A few songs in and the boys decided you both had enough time to settle into the mood that their presence would no longer affect things, and as such, they stopped hiding behind the counter and instead leaned over the island in admiration as they watched the two of you dance, their own whispered conversations being the only thing to keep them even a bit distracted. Though, for some, those side conversations weren’t enough to keep their evening light. Renjun shot his head over to his right the second he heard a sniffle. “Are you crying?” He whisper yells in shock.

“No. Shut up,” Chenle dismisses with a firm shake of his head, but then he turns his head back to you and Jaemin and throws his hands up in defeat. “They’re just so in love.”

Renjun does his best to stop his laugh from shattering the atmosphere, and instead he just raises his eyebrows at Chenle. “You used to cringe at that, you know?” He teases, nudging Chenle in the side with his elbow. Chenle can’t buy into the banter, and instead is trying his best to stifle his sob. It doesn’t get past the rest of the guys though, who make wild eye contact with Renjun before they all bear hug Chenle, able to finally turn his tears into embarrassed laughter. As for you and Jaemin, you were in your own world, completely unaware of what was going down in your kitchen. The obliviousness wasn’t your fault, Chenle was right, after all - the two of you were just so in love.

Taglist: @fullsunstrawberry @neocitytime127 @dowoonwoodealer

[michameinmicha]

I love my fwiends😭💙💗🤍💗💙

[poisonofthepaint]

total control

after a wild shift, you head back to jack's apartment to hang out like you usually do, but today, something feels different. inspired on the song total control by djo :)

cw: age gap, lots of exposition, kissing, dryhumping briefly, fingering, pet names (baby, sweetheart, good girl, honey,), jack calls reader young lady in a nonsexual way, jack is an old man and it shows, dom!jack, sub!reader, lmk if i missed anything

wc: 3.8k

It wasn’t completely unusual to go back to Jack’s apartment with him after a shift. It had become a habit after the PittFest casualty. You had been put in the red zone with Robby, Abbot, and Samira, and you and Jack had hit it off immediately. You flowed together so easily, it made you switch to night shift. The way he taught was more attuned to you than the way Robby taught. All excitement, all thrills, unconventional medicine, doing stuff you probably weren’t exactly ready for, but Jack was standing beside you the whole time. It wasn’t that exciting surgical stuff didn’t happen on the day shift, because it definitely did. But, when your mentor doesn’t have the boss breathing down his neck every hour, you can get away with a few more things. Jack let you do procedures that you had once believed you would only ever read about. Anytime there was something interesting going on, he’d pull you from the bedside of a patient just so you could perform it.  Ellis joked that he was playing favorites, but he didn’t seem to care.

The first night shift you worked after PittFest, he had let you do a REBOA. The patient had fallen onto a wooden fence after a night of drinking, and he came in with the piece of wood still inserted right next to his pelvis. Jack stood at your shoulder, carefully walking you through everything. How to remove the wood, where to place the balloon, how much to fill it up. He described everything that was happening while you performed it. He was huddled behind you, almost whispering it into your ear. To say Walsh was pissed was an understatement, but after that? You never wanted to work while the sun was out again.

Despite the age gap, it had slowly divulged into a friendship rather than a mentorship. Jack was really, really fucking funny. He had always seemed like a hard ass to you when you saw him for the brief transitions from night to day, but on his shift, he was a lot looser, less tense. There had been times you had to step away to gather yourself. It was mostly that he didn’t bullshit people. He once told a disorderly patient that he was going to give him a spanking if he didn’t stop being a jackass to the nurses, and you thought you were going to die. 

You started hanging out after your third week. At first, you would just go out to a diner after. A lot of time all you wanted after a shift was sugar, and you knew the waitress at the small joint. She would fire up the milkshake machine for you, even though it was seven in the morning. Jack gave you shit for it, but you didn’t care. He was more simple, just some scrambled eggs and sausage, maybe a black coffee if it was an especially difficult shift, and he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping anyway.

But, you two were drawn together, it was a nice friendship. You trusted him to tell you what to do, and he trusted you to listen. And that was that.

The first time you went to his apartment, you were shocked by how empty it was. He was a simple man, to say the least. A recliner, a nice couch, a huge, mounted flatscreen, and a framed photo of some of his army buddies. Eventually, you convinced him to get a small, fake plant for the corner. He told you no at first, saying he didn’t need decorations, but the next time you came over, you saw a big, fake Monstera in the corner. He mumbled a quick, don’t even say anything, and you kept your mouth shut. 

Hanging out with Jack after work in his apartment made you feel like a guy. He would hand you a beer some days, and turn on the TV. He watched old man shit, like Gold Rush, or American Pickers. You realized this was his equivalent to doomscrolling. It was his way to turn off his brain. At first, you found the hangout a bit strange. But then, you also realized that he probably didn’t know how to hang out with a woman half his age, so he just treated you like he would any of his guy friends, which you found inexplicably endearing. You would hang out for a few hours, talk about the shift, and then head home. 

But today was different. Today, you felt the tension between you two. For the first time, you realized, oh, I might actually like this guy. Not in the friend way, not in the mentor way, but in a crush way. Usually, after a shitty full moon shift, you just wanted to be alone, but not today. All you wanted to do was watch American Pickers, drink his beer– well, drink the type of beer that you liked, that he had started buying for you– and sink into his couch. You realized, you didn’t just want company after this shift, you wanted Jack.

You push off the feeling as you exit the hospital together. Jack doesn’t live far, a fifteen minute walk down the street. It was nice out today, the sun shines down on you, it makes the top of your head feel hot. After the horrible winter, it felt really nice to see the big star again. You let out a content sigh.

“Sometimes I think the sun fixes everything.” you say, the vitamin D seeping into your skin. 

“Why the hell are you on night shift then, kid?”

“Dumb question. Because if I work the day shift, then I can’t be outside while the sun is shining, duh.”

He opens his mouth in a dramatic way, raising his eyebrows, “Wow, you finally made a good point.”

You scoff at him, “Oh, c’mon,”

He looks over at you and gives you a small smirk. Like he knows exactly how to push your buttons, and he does.

“I cannot believe how many people were in tonight with dumb shit. Like, how do you even get a whole wine glass stuck in your foot? Literally, how is that possible?”

Jack shakes his head, “I used to think the full moon shit was a joke, but I don’t know anymore.”

The rest of the walk is quiet. You hadn’t even discussed going back to his apartment, it was just part of routine now. 

When you reach the door, he unlocks it, and swings it open, heading to the fridge first to grab the two cans. 

He settles into his recliner, and you go to your spot on the couch. You notice he folded the blanket you always use. You lay it across your body, and it smells, clean? Like fresh cotton.

“Did you wash this?”

“Yeah, you’re gross after your shift, didn’t want it on my couch.”

You scoff again, appalled at his truthful statement. “You’re one to talk, old man.”

“Old man?”

“You heard me.”

“I’ll tell Robby to put you on day shift if you keep talking like that, young lady.”

You don’t want to admit that the nickname makes your face feel hot, “God, please no, I cannot deal with Gloria.”

He huffs out a laugh, the TV is playing low in the background, the volume almost completely mute. 

“Could you imagine if she saw how we dealt with that patient in chairs?”

“I think we would have to get the crash cart for her.”

He laughs again, and you both settle into silence. You want to talk more, you want to ask him if he feels this too– the pull to each other, like the moon and the tides. But you don’t know how far to push it. You want to do something about this crush, you don’t want to shove it down and let it get worse, and then really have to go back to day shift. But, you’re unsure how Jack feels, if he thinks of you that way, or if he just thinks of you as a young lady, as he put it. 

After a while, when you’re almost drifting into a soft sleep, Jack speaks, “Hey, when that teen came in, and needed to be intubated, you didn’t start until I told you to, why?”

While Jack didn’t bullshit patients, he also didn’t bullshit you. He didn’t believe in biting his tongue, in letting things slide, if he wanted to know something; he asked.

“I don’t know, it’s complicated, and weird.” You didn’t want to admit the truth to yourself, much less to your boss.

“What’s complicated? You’ve done a million intubations. What stopped you?”

“Sometimes I feel, um–” You sneak a look at him and he’s already looking at you, his hands locked on top of his head. You notice his biceps bulging through the t-shirt he’s wearing, and it makes your throat feel dry. You reach for the beer, and take a long sip, needing some liquid courage. “Sometimes, I feel like I can’t do something unless there’s someone guiding me through it. I think that’s why I like learning from you so much. You’re always right behind me, telling me what to do. I know that I know how to intubate, but I’m used to being— told by you, I guess.”

He nods, a signal for you to keep talking. You’re sitting criss-cross now, body facing him. You stare straight down at your hands, twisting your fingers together in anxiousness. 

“I just like to be guided sometimes. Maybe that makes me a bad EM specialist.” You leave out the part where Jack is really the only person you want to tell you what to do. If anyone else had told you to intubate when it was obvious to, you would’ve shot daggers through them. You feel the sudden urge to defend yourself, “I would know what to do if you weren’t there, I really would.”

“I know, that’s why it shocked me that you didn’t start.” Jack says, sitting forward a bit, “It doesn’t make you a bad EM specialist. You’re only in the second year of your residency anyway, you shouldn’t be doing everything by yourself.”

You nod, trusting what he says. “Is that weird?”

“No,” he says, and you swear you see his jaw tick. “No, it’s normal to want to be guided.”

“You’re very good at it.” you blurt out. “At guiding– teaching. I always just want to follow your lead, and do what you tell me.” You laugh; shake your head. “Sorry, I think I’m being weird. Maybe it’s the full moon.”

“Not weird, kid. I’d tell you if it was.” Jack gets up from the recliner and comes and sits next to you. “Can I ask you something else?”

You nod, and he doesn’t talk. He lowers his head so you can see him out of the top of your eyelids. You realize he wants you to look at him, so you do. “It’s your turn to tell me if I’m being weird, okay?”

You don’t move a muscle. Like you might scare him away.

“Does that translate to anywhere else in your life?”

“How do you mean?” You think you know, but you want to be sure.

He tilts his head in a quick flick, like he thinks you’re being obtuse on purpose. “In your personal life, y’like to be told what to do? Like to be— guided?”

“I think.” your voice is as low as the television. “I’ve never really done it, though. Never done it, like that, I mean.”

“You’ve never done it?” He has a small smirk on his face.

You groan and dramatically fall back on the couch, hands covering your face. “Yes, Dr. Abbot, I have done it.” You say, muffled, from the palms pressing into your mouth. 

You sit back up. “Just not in the way you’re asking.” 

“Yeah, because the people you’ve been with don’t know jack shit. I clocked it the first time we worked together, during PittFest.”

“I am not that easy to read.” You say it like it’s a fact.

“I hate to break it to you, honey, but you are.” He places a hand on your thigh, his thumb rubbing deep circles, and you think you might combust right there, on his couch. “You followed me the whole night. Not a bad thing, it was nice knowing you were right there, ready to follow, to assist.” 

His words are going in one ear and out the other, all you can focus on is his hand on you. 

“Hey, you with me?” He inquires; reading you again. “I want to make sure this is okay, I can stop right now, and we can act like it never happened, okay?” 

“Yes, it’s okay. More than okay.” You nod, locking eyes with him, so he knows.

“I want to treat you right. I want to turn your brain off, so you aren’t thinking about anything but me. Following my orders, doing exactly what I say. Do you want that?”

“Yes,” 

That’s all it takes for Jack to kiss you. 

He isn’t gentle with it. He kisses you hard, like he’s been waiting years to do it, despite only knowing you for a few months. You have trouble catching up at first. It’s true what you told him, that no one else seems to know how to treat you. It’s not that your other partners were necessarily bad, they just couldn’t read you like Jack can. No one else is able to.

He pushes you gently back onto the couch until you lay flat. His chest presses against yours and it’s comforting, like a weighted blanket. You try not to wriggle your hips too much, not wanting to jump too far ahead, but you can’t help yourself, they press up into his growing bulge and he groans into your mouth. He winds down on you quickly to meet you halfway, the lower halves of your bodies mold together. The friction it’s creating makes you think you could come just like this. It’s all so hot. There’s no other way to describe it. 

Jack groans again, this time in dissatisfaction. His hand comes down fast between your bodies to press you back into the couch, his thumb digs into the spot of skin right next to your hip and you whine, the pressure sending a wave of arousal through your body.

“Not yet, honey.” His tone of voice is a lot kinder than the cruel hand pressing you down.

You feel like you’re in a club with the way your heart is thumping, you can’t help but count the beats of it, taking your own pulse into account. Jack moves away from your mouth to your neck, sloppily trailing kisses all the way down. You can’t believe that you were so close to sleep a few minutes ago, now you feel like you’re running a marathon. 

He gets off of you, fully stands up. You’re out of breath, you try to make a noise of protest but nothing comes out, you stare at the ceiling for a second until he clears his throat.

“Are you sure–”

You jerk your head to look at him, “If you ask me if I want it again, I’m gonna scream.” Jack lets out a low laugh. “I’m just regaining my sanity.” you express.

“The whole point of this is you won’t have any sanity left. C’mon, let’s go to the bedroom.”

You stand and follow him back, you realize you’ve never seen his bedroom until now, and it’s the same as the rest of the apartment. Plain, minimalistic. He has black sheets with a white comforter, and his bed is made perfectly, probably a habit from serving.

You stand awkwardly in front of the bed, twisting your hands in front of you.

“Nervous?” 

You hum in response, keeping your eyes on him.

“You know me, it’s the same as working. Just follow me, do what I tell you, yeah? Just be a good girl.”

The praise goes straight to your legs and you feel your knees wobble a bit.

“Take this off for me.” He tugs on your shirt, “And these too, while you’re at it.” He puts his pointer finger into the top of your pants and swipes in across your stomach, the digit edging on the top of your underwear. If you knew this was going to happen, you might’ve tried to wear better undergarments, but this felt better, in a way; more natural. You knew you didn’t have to play it up for Jack. It was nice that he didn’t need all the fuss, he just needed you.

Obviously, you do what he says, stripping the shirt and pants off. You take your bra off too, letting it fall onto his floor. He lets out a deep sigh and shakes his head at the sight of your chest. “So beautiful.” Jack says, mostly to himself.

He walks towards you, until his body is pushing you back onto the bed. You sit instead of lay down, eyes staring straight into Jack’s. Sometimes his eye contact intimidated you, but not today, you wanted to catch every slight movement, every small inclination of what to do. His eyes shoot up to the top of the bed and then back at you, and you move yourself up until your head rests on his pillows. You feel loose, like your body has water running through your veins instead of blood. You feel like your limbs have connected to Jack’s mind, ready to do whatever he asks. Your brain feels a bit fuzzy, and all you register is that he’s climbed on top of you again, his eyes staring holes into yours. His shirt is off now, but he keeps his pants on. The vein on his bicep is prominent and it makes your mouth water. 

He places his hands on the sides of your head. His lips ghost over yours, but he pulls away when you reach up to catch them. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to have you like this. I see how you are with Shen instead of me, how cocky you are, how independent you are. But anytime we’re on a case together, I know you’ll follow my lead. It’s not just about guiding, huh? It’s about me.”

You swallow harshly, knowing he’s right. Knowing that you’re independent when he’s not the one in charge of you. 

“It drives me fucking crazy, sweetheart. Knowing that you only get this docile for me.” One of his hands starts trailing down your body, tracing your curves before it flows to the middle of your stomach. He rests his palm right on top of where you need him most, pressing gently. Your brows furrow, and he smirks. 

He pulls your underwear off with one hand, and you lift your hips to help him. Once they're off, he slips a finger through your folds, feeling the wetness. He doesn’t say anything, just nods his head, eyes still locked to yours.

“I’m gonna make you come so hard that there won’t be anything on your brain after, okay?”

“With your fingers?”

“Is that doubt I hear?”

“No!” You protest. “Sorry, just— usually people care about themselves.”

“I’m not like other people, baby.” He makes a ‘tick’ noise with his tongue. “Thought I made that clear.”

That’s the last thing you hear before he stuffs two fingers in you. His mouth falls open at the same time that yours does. You throw your head back in pleasure, and your hand flies up to grip his arm. Your body writhes below you, like you’re chasing his fingers, making sure they won't stop.

“There you go, just like that.” he says, low, into your ear. “Tell me what you like about this. About us.”

You moan, trying to push out the words through the noises that involuntarily leave your mouth. “I like that you know I want you to take control. I like that you’ll always go to the diner with me, or let me come over when I have a bad shift, even when I can tell you want to be alone.”

“Yeah? What else?”

“I like that you call me sweetheart. Even before this, it’s always made me–god– always made me mad when other people did it. But it’s not condescending from you. I like how you look out for me at work. You can tell when I need a break before I do. I like how your fingers feel inside of me. I like when you take control.”

You pant, the ramblings taking the air out of you. You can feel his hard cock pressing against your leg and it makes you feel even hotter. Your orgasm is creeping up on you, your stomach tightening into a coil before you know it.

Jack moves quickly, so that he’s sitting on his knees. You wonder briefly if it hurts him to sit like that, but the thought leaves your brain when he brings his other hand onto your clit.

“Jesus Christ, Oh—”

“Not him, all me.” Jack says, cockily. You huff out a laugh before it’s taken over by another moan.

“You gonna come for me, baby?”

“Yes, please Jack.”

“God, you sound so good moaning my name. You’re fucking perfect.”

He picks up the pace, and you can feel the pressure building up behind your clit, your all familiar tell that you’re about to finish.

“Please, I need to come, please.”

“Asking so nicely. Of course you can, Go ahead.”

You preen; zero in on the feeling of your orgasm and let it wash over you. 

“There y’go. Yeah, just like that.” His words barely register in your head. 

It takes you a while to come back down, your brain still a bit fuzzy when you do.

“Good?” Jack asks once you’ve regained your breathing.

“Good.” You answer.

He makes you go to the bathroom before you get too comfortable in bed.

When you lay back down, your head falls harshly on the pillows, your body bouncing the bed lightly. He moves up next to you so that his head is on the headboard. He’s stripped out of his pants now, just his boxers on. He took the prosthetic limb off too, so that he could be more comfortable. He opens his arm and you scoot over to lay your head on his chest. He kisses your forehead, in a soft way. In a way that tells you this will happen again, that it wasn’t a fluke.

“Another question.” He says, softly, just loud enough to stir you from the sleep that was trying to take over your body again.

“Mm?” you reply.

“How long have you felt this way?”

“I think I always have, but last night was the first time that it was really obvious to me. You?”

“Yeah, same, actually. It was always in the back of my head but, wasn’t sure how to make it real until today.”

“Must’ve been that full moon.” you say, groggily.

He pets your head and laughs, “Yeah, must’ve.”

[giuliannna]

LOST & FOUND

before you started dating hamzah, old memories resurfaced, making you realize they might still mean something.

firstboyfriend ! hamzah masterlist

the basement smells like dust and old laundry detergent. all you see is cardboard boxes and forgotten memories shoved into corners. it’s not exactly where you pictured spending the first real day of summer - your last summer home, the one dangling between high school and college - but your mom had other plans for you.

“just go through the boxes,” she said, waving you off with a knowing look. “some of that stuff’s yours and you’re not leaving it all here.”

so of course you dragged hamzah down with you.

he’s sitting cross-legged on an old blanket now. there’s a frayed bandaid on his knee and grass stains on his shorts from being outside before this. his curls are messy from biking over, his shirt slightly damp from how fast he pedaled.

“your basement is scary,” he says, tapping the side of an unlabeled box with his fingertips. “it smells weird.”

“it smells like your room.”

he gives you a flat look. “i cleaned my room.”

you laugh. “since when?”

“since you told me to,” he mutters under his breath, sheepish.

everything feels so easy with him. the kind of easy that makes time feel like it doesn’t really exist.

you open up a box. inside is a jumble of old notebooks, little trinkets made from polymer clay, a crooked photo of you and hamzah at someone’s birthday party - his toothy grin front and center, your eyes half-closed mid-laugh.

he looks over your shoulder at it now. you feel the heat from his body cascading down your back as he stands behind you.

you keep digging. there are pokémon cards, friendship bracelets, art supplies, and a beaded ring you thought you’d never see again. you hold it up. “oh my god, remember this?”

hamzah half-gasps, half-laughs. “you made that for me and i thought i lost it and you were mad at me for, like, two whole days.”

“i thought you betrayed me,” you say, glancing back at him with a grin.

“i cried over that, y’know.”

you did too - but you don’t say it out loud. instead, you pick up the box and place it on the floor, both of you sitting down to keep rummaging through it.

then hamzah makes a noise. a tiny oh? of curiosity. he’s holding something - a folded piece of paper, slightly yellowed, the edges worn.

“what’s that?” you ask.

hamzah squints. “m’not sure.”

he unfolds it gently, revealing large, lopsided handwriting in blue marker. at the top, underlined and bolded it reads, “CONTRACT.”

you freeze, your eyes going wide. “oh, no. no way.”

hamzah’s already smirking, his eyes scanning the page. “oh my god. we were actually insane.”

“read it,” you say, scooting closer until your knees bump his.

he clears his throat. “this says - if we are not married by age thirty we have to live together forever anyway because we’re best friends and we would be really good roommates and maybe we can get a cat too.”

you burst out laughing. “we wrote that?”

hamzah holds up a finger. “wait. there’s more.”

he flips the paper around, and there, at the bottom, is a scribbled drawing. stick figures - one with brown curls, one with what looks like pigtails or braids - standing under a crooked arch made of what might be balloons or clouds. they’re holding hands. there’s a tiny heart above them.

“i think that’s pretty good,” hamzah says proudly, eyes scanning his own art.

you smile, stifling a laugh. “you drew us getting married.”

“and?” he says, raising a brow. “it’s a legally binding contract.”

you look at the drawing again. and then - maybe it’s the dust or the heat or the fact that you’re leaving soon, that everything’s about to change - but something in your chest does a weird little flip.

“do you think we actually believed we’d do it?” you ask softly.

hamzah’s quiet for a second. then he says, “i think i wanted to.”

you don’t say anything else. neither does he. because if you do, it might become too obvious that you’re both thinking the same thing.

you kind of still want to.

you stare at the paper a second longer, thumb brushing over the crease down the middle, right through the hand-drawn heart. it’s so silly. ridiculous, even. the kind of thing two kids write in secret when the world still feels small enough to promise forever in.

but now that you’re older, legally an adult, “forever” doesn’t feel silly anymore. it feels like something real, something you don’t want to mess up.

you clear your throat, forcing a laugh. “well, then i guess we’d better start house hunting in, like, over a decade.”

“you think i’m gonna make it that long on my own? who’s going to tell me to clean my room?”

you roll your eyes. “i’m not your wife yet.”

yet.

he smiles at that. a real, slow, warm one. “not yet,” he echoes, voice teasing. but then he goes quiet, like he’s said too much or maybe exactly enough.

it’s always like this lately. these moments that feel like they’re almost something. like if one of you just reached just a little further, you’d tip right over the edge into something new.

hamzah gently places the contract in your lap like it’s fragile. then he shifts back to sit against a box, arms stretched behind his head, and looks up at the ceiling like he’s trying not to look at you.

you glance at him. he looks relaxed, but you can see the little things - the way his foot bounces, the slight twitch in his fingers. it’s all very subtle. anxious.

“do you think we’ll still talk every day?” you blurt out. “when we’re at different schools?”

hamzah doesn’t hesitate. “obviously.”

“you say that now, but..”

he turns to look at you, brows furrowed like you’ve insulted him, deep in his core. “stop. don’t even think like that.”

you nod, averting your gaze to your lap. “okay. yeah, you’re right.” you both go quiet again. the air is charged with dug-up memories. your knee is still brushing his, just barely. neither of you move away.

“i think,” hamzah says suddenly, voice quieter, “even if we hadn’t written that.. i still would’ve picked you.”

your chest tightens. your eyes flicker upwards to meet his, and your heart stutters in your chest.

“to live with,” he adds quickly. “i mean. as roommates. because you’d probably never leave dishes in the sink. and you don’t snore.”

you laugh, a little breathless. “you do.”

“i don’t.”

“you do.”

and then you’re laughing again, full and warm, and it feels like the kind of laugh you might look back on years from now, just like how you’re looking back today. the kind you’ll remember when you’re sitting in a dorm room alone and missing him so much it aches.

you fall back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. “i feel like this summer’s gonna go by fast, isn’t it?”

hamzah stretches out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, so close you can feel the buzz of warmth of his skin against yours.

“yeah,” he says. “i think so.”

neither of you say it out loud, but the same thought hangs between you two anyway: we can’t waste it.

a/n: yay hii new au!!!

xoxo giulia

taglist: @gulicore @slushedup @arroganceisherfavoritecolor @layzerzlovesu46 @babysitter19 @marixoa @starjely @viennawaiits @h-yalexaaaa @freakzah444 @anginluv @gabwilliams @sturniyolo @screamertannie @brlwla @yourstrulykiya @hamzaholic @isathefantastic @divinesturn @forestlv4r @mayapuma20 @ottakugirl @hamzahsbestone @pulcen @rustnroll @venus-planetof-love @hamzahsn1gf @rock678 @wandas-lovey @guiltyfemcel @axetheboyboss @harrys0nlyange1 @ttlynotme @yassqueen1303 @animalcrossingshameless @opiumfidgetspinner @pictureperfectblue @slushingmynoob @vampzah @ilovezah

[joaosnovia]

okay next, i js wanna laugh. okay so, were at a charity event or something, and im volunteering, helping hand out juice boxes, signing people in, keeping children from using cones as swords, that typa stuff. until FRANCO COLAPINATA shows up, he's js being annoying really, until shes had enough and YEET the juice box at his head, and then he's all nonchalant and shit like "UH HUH I DESERVED THATTT AHAHA" .... and then you can tell the juice box turned him on bc you can like tell he wants her, and thennn WEEKS pass, and he DM's her. "saw apple juice today. thought of you. still flinch when i see boxes. wanna hang out?” MUWUAHAHSNA

❦ - manzanas contigo.

warnings:: none, maybe cussing..?

writers notes:: pls send more franco/f1 reqs bc i loved writing this sm and hes so fun to write for!

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

you don’t even want to be here.

the email had said volunteers needed, and your overly kind soul had said sure, why not, and now you’re seven hours deep into wrangling children hopped up on fruit snacks and sun. the charity event is cute in theory, music, booths, a little track set up for games, and a bounce house, but in practice? it’s a battlefield.

you’re stationed at the welcome tent, handing out wristbands and juice boxes and fake smiles.

your feet hurt. your shirt is sticking to your back. a toddler is crying because he dropped his balloon into a bush. and some guy just tried to cut the line because he ‘swears his cousin is already inside.’

you’re not proud of how close you came to smacking him with the clipboard.

but then, because life has a sense of humor, he appears.

franco colapinto.

and you know it’s him, because who else shows up to a local charity event in an alpine cap, looking like he walked out of a sports magazine and directly into your personal hell?

you glance up at the exact moment he’s brushing a curl out of his eyes, all casual and oops i’m hot and didn’t mean to beenergy.

he scans the crowd, sunglasses pushed up on his head, mouth curled like he already knows he’s being stared at. and of course he is. a group of teenage volunteers behind you are whispering, one of them literally smacks the other on the arm and goes that’s him. that’s that guy. the car one.

sigh.

maybe if you stay perfectly still, he won’t notice you.

but of course, you are not blessed with that kind of luck.

his eyes land on you. direct. intentional.

and he starts walking over.

great.

you busy yourself with the juice boxes, shuffling them around pointlessly as if they need organizing, as if you’re not seconds away from face to face contact with a walking headache.

‘so,’ he says, leaning against the table like this is his full time job. ‘what does a guy gotta do to get one of those?’

you glance up. ‘a wristband?’

‘nah. a juice box.’

you stare.

he smiles.

you hold one up. ‘take it and leave.’

‘whoa. feisty. is this how you treat all guests, or am i special?’

you blink. ‘i’ve been here since 6am. i have zero patience and less charm left.’

‘good thing i’ve got enough charm for both of us.’

you raise a brow. ‘that supposed to work on me?’

he shrugs, peeling the wrapper off a straw. ‘worth a shot.’

he doesn’t leave.

he just stands there, sipping slowly, watching you like he’s never seen anyone pass out juice before. his gaze trails across your face, not in a creepy way, just annoyingly observant. like he’s trying to figure out what kind of person signs up for this kind of chaos and doesn’t run away screaming.

you try to ignore him. you really do.

but then he starts helping. like… physically taking wristbands from your hand to hand them to kids, leaning way too close to read names off the sign in list, nodding solemnly at the parents like he belongs here.

and the worst part? people believe it.

‘you two are adorable,’ one lady says as she signs in her daughter.

you nearly choke. ‘we’re not—‘

‘thank you,’ franco cuts in, smiling like he just won an oscar. ‘we try.’

you give him a look. he winks. kill me, you think.

it gets worse when a small child asks for apple juice and franco picks one up, does a dramatic gasp, and goes, ‘apple! the superior juice. i like your taste, kid.’

you break.

you don’t mean to. you truly don’t. but something inside you snaps, and the next thing you know, you’re yeeting a juice box straight at him.

it arcs through the air with surprising grace, smacks him right in the shoulder, and bounces off harmlessly onto the grass.

a moment of silence.

he blinks.

then he laughs. hard.

‘okay,’ he says, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘i deserved that. i fully, absolutely, one hundred percent deserved that.’

you cross your arms. ‘you think?’

he’s still grinning as he bends to pick it up. ‘apple again. symbolic.’

‘you’re ridiculous.’

‘you like me though.’

you scoff. ‘i like peace and quiet.’

‘you’re blushing.’

‘i’m hot. it’s eighty degrees.’

‘you threw a juice box at me.’

‘you were annoying.’

he tilts his head. ‘admit it. it was kinda satisfying.’

you bite back a smile. ‘maybe a little.’

he grins, stepping back finally. ‘i’ll leave you to your cone wrangling duties. but don’t be surprised if you see me again.’

‘god help me,’ you mutter.

he strolls away, sipping the slightly dented juice like it’s champagne.

and yeah. maybe your heart is doing something dumb.

maybe you do glance up once or twice, wondering if he’s still watching you.

maybe he is.

you don’t expect to see him again.

honestly, you’d hoped the juice box incident would be enough to scare him off. but two saturdays later, at a completely different event, you’re there, collecting raffle tickets and babysitting the world’s most chaotic face paint station, and there he is.

franco colapinto.

wearing a hoodie this time. hood up. trying and failing to blend in, as if his stupidly nice smile and the way he walks like the world was made for him don’t give him away instantly.

you see him from across the lot.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. just lifts his hand in a little wave and starts walking straight toward you like this is a planned reunion and not a complete surprise.

you look around. as if there’s someone else he could be greeting. spoiler: there isn’t.

‘you again,’ you say when he reaches you.

‘me again,’ he grins, pulling down his hood like he’s revealing a secret identity.

you sigh. ‘are you following me?’

‘you wish.’

‘so this is a coincidence?’

he shrugs. ‘or fate.’

you deadpan. ‘you’re insufferable.’

‘you say that every time.’

‘i mean it every time.’

he gestures around, like he’s settling in. ‘need help again? or do i have to earn my juice box rights this time?’

you narrow your eyes. ‘don’t you have a job?’

‘i do. it’s off-season. i’m thriving.’

‘this is how you spend your free time? crashing fundraisers?’

‘not crashing,’ he says, very seriously. ‘contributing. i donated five bucks to the bouncy castle. i’m basically a hero.’

you don’t laugh. you don’t.

okay, maybe a little.

he’s already rolling up his sleeves and jumping into whatever task you’re doing, like last time, and suddenly you’re stuck with him for three hours again.

he helps a little girl glue pom poms onto a paper crown.

he nearly gets paint on his nose and doesn’t notice.

he lets a five year old draw a blue lightning bolt across his cheek and calls it his new racing stripe.

and every now and then, he looks over at you like you’re the funniest thing in the world, even when you’re just frowning at a clipboard or trying to untangle a balloon string from a folding chair.

you pretend not to care.

you pretend really hard.

the third time is the worst.

mostly because… you kind of expect him now.

you’ve made the mistake of mentioning your volunteer schedule to a friend on your story. and it’s fine. really. except now, when you show up to the saturday pet adoption drive with a clipboard and a tight ponytail, you scan the crowd. like an idiot.

he’s not there.

you tell yourself you’re relieved. that you don’t need another afternoon of his smug little comments and stupidly good hair.

but you still keep checking.

twenty minutes pass.

an hour.

two.

he doesn’t come.

you keep busy. hand out flyers. try not to cry when a little dog named charlie gets adopted. organize leashes by size.

and you don’t look at the time more than seven times. promise.

at some point, you’re wiping your hands with a napkin behind the tent when your phone buzzes.

it’s a dm.

from franco.

you blink.

sorry i couldn’t be there today. doing actual job things. tragic.

you stare at it.

then another:

but saw apple juice earlier. still flinched.

and another:

still want to hang out sometime. even if you hit me with stuff. maybe especially because you hit me with stuff.

you can’t help it. your lips twitch.

you don’t reply right away.

you finish your shift. take the long way home. drink half a juice box you saved from the cooler, even though it’s lukewarm now.

and when you’re lying on your bed, staring at the message, you finally type:

you’re impossible.

three dots.

impossible but charming?

you:

debatable.

him:

you didn’t say no though.

you stare at your screen for a second too long.

then:

one coffee. you pay. no weird pickup lines.

his response is immediate.

deal. i’ll try to behave. no promises.

you tell yourself it’s just a coffee.

one coffee. thirty minutes, max. maybe forty five if he says something dumb and you need time to drag him for it.

it’s not a big deal.

except it is. because you spend too long picking an outfit. change your shirt twice. then change it again. then panic change it back to the first one and tell yourself to get a grip.

you meet at some small place he picked, half hipster café, half bookstore. it smells like cinnamon and old paperbacks. you hate how nice it is.

franco’s already there.

and of course he looks… stupidly good. hoodie, again. curls poking out. one hand lazily spinning his coffee cup. and that grin, that stupid boyish grin, when he spots you.

‘you came,’ he says, standing.

‘don’t sound so surprised.’

he does a little half bow. ‘welcome to the least boring hour of your life.’

you roll your eyes and sit across from him. ‘don’t flatter yourself.’

‘not flattering. manifesting.’

you try to look annoyed, but the truth is, you’re already smiling. just a little. traitorous.

you talk.

not about anything huge at first. just… dumb things. favorite drinks. worst airport experiences. why he thinks pineapple on pizza should be illegal (you argue passionately against this).

he tells you about crashing a go kart once when he was twelve because he was ‘trying to wave like a champion’ and forgot to steer.

you tell him about the time you accidentally walked into the wrong class and sat through fifteen minutes of astrophysics before realising.

he laughs with his whole chest.

and it’s easy. too easy. every time your fingers brush reaching for the sugar, it feels like something electric. every time he leans in a little, like he’s really listening, your heart stutters.

you should not be this into him. and yet.

you’re both halfway through your drinks when he goes quiet for a second, then says, ‘i almost didn’t message you.’

you blink. ‘why not?’

he shrugs, looks down, spins the empty cup between his hands. ‘i dunno. didn’t want to be annoying.’

‘you already are.’

he grins, but it’s softer now. ‘yeah, but like… in a cute way.’

you shake your head, but your cheeks are warm. ‘you’re such a menace.’

‘you threw juice at me.’

‘because you were asking for it.’

he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes on yours. ‘maybe i was.’

your breath catches. just a little. just enough.

you clear your throat. ‘you’re not smooth, you know.’

‘i don’t need to be. i just need to make you smile.’

you hate him.

you really, really don’t.

you leave the café two hours later.

two.

neither of you wants to say goodbye yet, so you walk. just… around. your shoulder brushes his once. then again. then a third time, and this time, it stays there. just for a second longer than it should.

he doesn’t let go first.

eventually, you end up back where you started.

he looks at you like he wants to say something. then looks away. then back.

‘can i see you again?’ he asks, soft.

you nod. and for once, don’t try to be clever.

‘yeah. i’d like that.’

the second date happens faster than either of you expect.

you’d planned to wait. play it cool. but then franco sends you a picture of a strawberry smoothie and says ‘looked gross. thought of u,’ and you end up laughing so hard in the middle of your kitchen that you just… cave.

you text him:
you free tonight?

he replies in literal seconds:
always. pick the time. i’ll teleport.

you meet again at the same café. but this time, he’s not already sitting.

he’s waiting outside. leaning on the wall. hoodie again, he really only owns five of them, he tells you later, and his curls are just barely damp from the light rain that’s started falling.

he sees you and that grin hits his face like clockwork. like he’d been saving it just for you.

‘you came,’ he says.

‘you say that every time.’

‘yeah, but like… every time you do, it messes me up a little.’

you pretend you don’t hear that part.

it’s darker inside. quieter. the same table’s free, but this time, you sit next to each other.

close.

too close.

he smells good. not in an obvious, cologne drenched way. it’s something warmer. shampoo and sugar and the kind of scent that lingers even after he leaves.

your knees touch under the table.

neither of you moves.

you talk again.

about bigger things this time. pressure. travel. burnout. he admits he sometimes feels like everything’s moving too fast, and he’s scared he won’t be able to hold on.

you nod. you tell him about how you fake confidence half the time. how sometimes you feel invisible until someone needs something.

he listens. really listens.

then says, ‘you’re not invisible.’

you blink. ‘okay?’

‘just saying. i notice you. always have.’

you laugh a little. ‘that’s creepy.’

‘yeah,’ he says, smiling into his drink. ‘but like… romantic creepy.’

you don’t mean to stay late. but time’s slippery around him.

by the time you realize it’s almost midnight, you’re both sitting outside the café, sharing a leftover pastry and watching the rain slide down the windows.

you don’t want to go.

he doesn’t want to say goodbye.

so he walks you home.

he stops outside your door.

you both kind of hover there. like two idiots waiting for someone to do something. say something.

‘this was nice,’ you say quietly.

‘yeah,’ he says, and then, softer, ‘i wanna kiss you.’

your breath catches.

he doesn’t move closer. doesn’t touch you. he just stands there, all warm eyes and soft voice.

you whisper, ‘then why don’t you?’

he grins. all teeth and nerves and too much hope.

‘cause the minute i kiss you, i’m not gonna stop thinking about it. and i want you to wanna kiss me back. like really want to.’

you stare at him.

he shrugs. ‘just being honest.’

you nod. heart in your throat.

then say, ‘next time.’

he smirks, already backing away.

‘i’ll hold you to that.’

you tell yourself you’re not waiting.

not waiting for a text. not waiting for a call. not waiting for the memory of him saying i wanna kiss you to stop looping in your head like some kind of cursed romantic ringtone.

but when his name flashes on your screen two days later, your whole face warms.

what if we didn’t do coffee this time?

you stare.

what do you wanna do then?

he replies instantly.

drive. music. idfk. i’ll bring snacks. you bring the vibe.

you:
so i’m the vibe?

him:
always.

he picks you up at 7:03.

he’s in a black hoodie this time, and his car smells like mint gum and the ghost of bad fast food. there’s a half eaten bag of crisps on the passenger seat, which he tosses in the back when you open the door.

‘you’re late,’ you say.

‘you’re early. time’s fake. get in.’

he drives like he thinks he’s in a movie.

one hand on the wheel. other messing with the aux. windows down. hair wind-blown and wild. he sings under his breath to every second song. raps to the third one badly. you don’t stop laughing the entire first hour.

you don’t know where he’s going, but you don’t care.

being next to him feels like its own kind of destination.

eventually, he parks by the water.

some random lookout. the city’s lights glitter below, far enough to feel small. the kind of view that feels too beautiful to deserve.

you sit on the hood of his car. shoulder to shoulder. knee to knee. the air’s cold, but not too cold. and everything’s soft. quiet.

for a second, neither of you says anything.

and then, gently, he says, ‘i think about kissing you a lot.’

you blink.

he keeps staring ahead, like he didn’t just drop a bomb. ‘not in a creepy way.’

you laugh. ‘do you always think you’re being creepy?’

‘only when i like someone too much.’

the words settle in your chest like warmth. like lightning.

‘franco,’ you say.

he turns.

‘kiss me.’

his eyes go wide. like for a second, he’s not sure if he heard you right.

then, slowly, he leans in.

he kisses you like he’s afraid to mess it up. like he’s been waiting exactly this long, and not a second less. soft, steady, sure.

and when he pulls back, he just rests his forehead against yours.

neither of you speaks for a minute.

you break the silence. ‘not bad.’

he huffs a laugh. ‘that’s it? not bad?’

‘seven out of ten. you’ll need practice.’

‘cool. guess i better keep showing up.’

you’re not sure when it shifted.

when the maybe turned into definitely. when the texting turned into facetime turned into mornings with your feet tangled under his on the couch. when the almost turned into always.

but now, here you are, franco at your door with a half-melted milkshake and a stupid grin, like he’s been thinking about this all day.

‘you’re late,’ you tease, taking the drink.

‘you’re still hot,’ he says, walking in like he lives here.

(he kind of does.)

you’ve been soft ever since the drive.

he kisses you now like he needs to. like he missed you, even if it’s only been a few hours. like kissing you is just a normal part of his day, something between brushing his teeth and ruining your kitchen by cooking you breakfast at 2 a.m.

sometimes, you wake up to his hand resting on your waist, his face buried in your shoulder. like his body forgets how to be without you.

you don’t say it. not yet. but you feel it.

you think he does too.

it’s been weeks.

weeks since franco colapinto got beaned in the forehead with apple juice and decided that was the hottest thing that had ever happened to him.

weeks since he dm’d you with that dumb message:
saw apple juice today. thought of you. still flinch when i see boxes. wanna hang out?

weeks since you said yes.

and now here you are, propped up on his couch, socks mismatched, face lit by the glow of a documentary you’re not watching, because franco’s lying with his head in your lap and he keeps dragging his fingers along your leg like he can’t believe you’re real.

‘what,’ you murmur.

‘nothing,’ he says. then, quietly: ‘just thinking about the juicebox.’

you snort. ‘again?’

he nods, sleepy and fond. ‘you threw that thing with intention. it was beautiful.’

‘you’re so weird.’

‘you’re the one who assaulted me with a children’s drink.’

‘you flirted with me for two hours while i was working.’

‘you looked hot with a clipboard. sue me.’

you roll your eyes. he reaches up, brushes your hair behind your ear.

‘you know i really did think about you every time i saw juice after that?’

‘you said that already.’

‘i mean it. i’d be in a store and be like… damn. i miss her aim.’

you swat him. he laughs. kisses your wrist.

later, when you’re brushing your teeth in his oversized hoodie, he pulls you into his arms and rests his chin on your head.

‘should we save the juicebox?’ he asks, voice muffled in your hair.

‘what, like… frame it?’

‘yeah. put it above the bed. shrine to our origin story.’

‘you’re so dumb.’

‘dumb for you.’

you groan. he grins.

he still gets teased by his friends about the Incident.

he still buys apple juice ‘for the bit’ and lines the fridge with it like a threat.

but when he kisses you goodbye before his next race, all soft and slow like he’s imprinting it in his memory, he says:

‘thanks for hitting me.’

and you say,
‘thanks for being annoying enough to deserve it.’

and maybe, maybe, that’s just your love language now.

[amethystarachnid]

Hope you're doing awesome!

I read a lot of stories of tony spoiling y/n, or comforting her, taking her on a vacation etc. I want to see y/n comforting and taking care of tony stark now. Like her being the most sweetest person in the world to him and babying him after media pressures or when he's back from missions and stuff like that. From little things to notable surprises. Can you write this please?

Thanks ✌️

BUBBLE BATHS

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 6k

ᯓ★ Summary: where Tony Stark learns the true meaning of luxury: being spoiled rotten by the love of his life. Between bubble baths, snacks, and excessive cuddles, world-saving can wait.

ᯓ★ TW(s): one spicy scene at the end, Tony is tired and just needs some love, so much fluff It needs a TW

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You hear the click of the elevator long before you see him.

It's past midnight, and you’re curled up on the couch in one of Tony’s oversized MIT hoodies—well, technically yours now, considering how often you steal it—and a pair of fuzzy socks. The lights are dimmed low, save for the soft glow of the lamp beside you and the muted blue flicker of the TV, playing some late-night documentary you haven’t been paying attention to. You’ve been waiting. Hours pass differently when Tony’s gone. Slower. Quieter. A little heavier.

The elevator chimes again and your head turns toward it instinctively. Your body’s already moving before you even register it fully—blanket discarded, feet padding softly across the marble floor. The doors slide open and there he is.

He looks tired.

Not just the usual “I’ve been flying in a metal suit for hours” kind of tired, but something deeper, weightier. The kind that clings to his shoulders and hides in the corners of his eyes. His posture is straight because he makes it that way, because it’s Tony Stark and he’s always got to act like the wear and tear doesn’t get to him. But you know better.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you say, voice gentle.

He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes find yours, and there’s a pause—a beat, two, three—and then his shoulders drop the tiniest bit. He exhales like he hasn’t since he left for the mission three days ago. And then he says, “Hey.”

You walk up to him slowly, careful not to rush, like approaching a frayed wire. His suit’s off already; FRIDAY probably helped him out of it in the lower levels. He’s in a black shirt, sleeves pushed up, smudged with grease and maybe soot, and jeans that look like they’ve seen better days. His hair is a little messy, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, but he’s here. Safe.

You reach up and cup his face with both hands. His stubble is scratchy, warm under your palms. “You okay?”

Tony closes his eyes and leans into your touch, just a fraction. “Not really.”

“Come on,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

You guide him through the living room and down the hall, your hand brushing his as you lead him. He doesn’t resist. He never really does when it comes to you, not when you’re soft with him like this, when you speak like he’s something precious, like he’s not carrying the world on his back half the time. He lets you pull him along like a balloon on a string, tethered only by the warmth of your presence and the quiet affection in your voice.

In the bathroom, you flip on the soft light and start the shower. You don’t have to ask; you know the water temperature he likes, and he always lets you fuss. He stands there watching you, silent, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to decide whether or not to smile. You peel off his shirt first, careful not to brush too hard against his ribs when he winces.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask, already checking him over.

“Just bruises. Nothing’s broken,” he says, and then adds, “I think.”

“Let me see.”

He lets you. You step closer, fingertips ghosting along his sides, eyes narrowing at the darkening mark on his left side. You hum softly, disapproving, but don’t scold him. He’s had enough of that from the rest of the world. With you, he gets something else entirely.

When he’s finally undressed, you help him into the shower, making sure he’s steady before stepping back and letting him be. You give him space but stay close, sitting on the edge of the tub, listening to the water and the way he sighs beneath it. You hear the thud of his forehead hitting the tile, and your heart clenches.

He doesn’t cry. Not where you can hear, anyway. But he gets quiet. Withdrawn. That’s how you know something’s wrong.

After a few minutes, you get up and grab one of the warm towels from the dryer, the one you tossed in earlier just in case he came home tonight. When he steps out, you’re there, wrapping it around him like he’s something fragile, drying his hair with soft fingers, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Bed?” you ask.

He nods.

You help him into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a worn t-shirt—and tuck him into bed like he’s a kid home sick from school. He doesn’t even fight it, just lays back and watches you move around the room like you’re the only solid thing in the world. You grab the lotion he likes, the one that smells faintly of cedar and clove, and sit beside him, lifting one of his hands.

“Give me five minutes,” you murmur, already massaging the lotion into his palms.

His eyes flutter closed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he says quietly, and it’s the easiest truth he’s spoken all night.

You take your time, moving from his hands to his forearms, rubbing gentle circles into his muscles, soothing away the tension. You press kisses to his knuckles, to the little scar near his thumb, to the place where skin meets arc reactor on his chest. You don’t ask him to talk. Not yet. You just stay close and pour your affection into every little touch, every whisper of care.

When you finally slide under the covers next to him, he turns toward you immediately, arms going around your waist, head tucking into your neck like it’s instinct. You wrap yourself around him, one hand in his hair, the other stroking down his back.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“Missed you more,” he breathes, his voice barely audible.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

He shakes his head. Not yet. Maybe not tonight.

You nod. “Okay.”

And you mean it. He’ll talk when he’s ready. Until then, you’ll hold him like this, like he’s the most important thing in the universe. Because to you, he is.

---

You wake up to the feeling of something warm and heavy draped across your back, anchoring you in place like a human paperweight. For a few seconds, you can’t move. Then you realize it’s Tony, all six feet of him wrapped around you like he’s trying to fuse into your spine.

He’s snoring a little. Not loud, just a soft rumble near your ear. One of his legs is thrown over both of yours. His arm is curled tightly around your waist, his nose buried in your hair. If you shift even slightly, he makes a noise that can only be described as a grumpy bear being disturbed from hibernation.

You smile into the pillow. You’re not going anywhere.

The room is bathed in early morning light, the golden kind that makes everything look soft and expensive. The windows are slightly fogged from the contrast between the chilly morning air outside and the warmth inside the penthouse. The sheets are a tangled mess, mostly kicked to the bottom of the bed, because Tony clings like a koala in his sleep and always ends up stealing most of the blanket.

You try to stretch one arm toward the nightstand to check the time on your phone, but Tony tightens his grip like a sleep-deprived anaconda.

“Babe,” you whisper.

He grumbles.

“Tony.”

He grunts, face still smushed against your neck. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Don’t care. No.”

You stifle a laugh. “I need to pee.”

There’s a long pause. Then, with the gravitas of a man making a life-altering decision, he mumbles, “Fine. But hurry. I need you for… survival.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm-hm,” he says proudly, releasing you with the enthusiasm of someone surrendering their last slice of pizza.

You slide out from under his arm and shuffle to the bathroom, hair a disaster, legs a little sore from being wrapped around like a pretzel all night. When you return a few minutes later, Tony is lying on his stomach, face buried in your pillow, arms and legs sprawled out like he was dropped from a helicopter and landed in a starfish position. His hair is sticking up in about five different directions. One eye cracks open as you approach.

“You abandoned me,” he says hoarsely, voice thick with sleep.

“You let me go.”

“Under duress.”

You roll your eyes and climb back into bed. He immediately rolls onto his side and reaches for you again, pulling you close until your face is squished against his chest. He smells like sleep and cedar and just a hint of motor oil, because somehow, even after showering, there’s always a bit of workshop left on him.

“Hungry?” you ask, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“Starving. But not for food.”

You swat his side. “Gross.”

He chuckles, the vibration buzzing under your cheek. “I meant cuddles. Obviously.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tony hums contentedly and strokes his fingers along your back. “You’re warm.”

“I’m a human, Tony.”

“No, you’re a space heater wrapped in a girlfriend. It’s perfect.”

You grin and press another kiss to his chest. “Let me make you breakfast.”

“Why? When I have everything I need right here?”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And yet, somehow, you’re still dating me.”

You sit up, straddling his waist and gently brushing the hair out of his eyes. “That’s because I’m the most patient person in the world.”

“You’re the best person in the world,” he says without missing a beat.

Your smile softens. His eyes are still heavy-lidded with sleep, but there’s something clear behind them now. Less weight, less noise. Like a knot’s loosened somewhere behind his ribs.

“I’m making you breakfast,” you say, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “No arguments.”

“Fine. But I’m going to sit there and make dramatic love eyes at you the whole time.”

“That’s a threat.”

“That’s a promise.”

You laugh as you climb off of him and grab your robe. “Don’t fall asleep again.”

“No promises,” he says, already halfway there.

You pad into the kitchen, hair wild, socks mismatched, humming softly as you pull out eggs and toast and fruit. You know his coffee order by heart—black, with just a splash of that ridiculously expensive hazelnut creamer he pretends he doesn’t like. You make it without asking, setting it down on the counter where he always leans.

Right on cue, Tony appears a few minutes later, wrapped in a blanket like a very grumpy, very billionaire burrito. His hair is still a mess. His face is scruffy. His eyes squint against the morning light like he’s never encountered daylight before.

“Are you… wearing the comforter?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“It’s called fashion,” he says, voice rough. “Look it up.”

You snort. “Coffee’s on the counter, diva.”

He shuffles over to it, dragging the blanket like a cape, and picks up the mug with both hands like a Disney princess cradling a woodland creature.

“You’re a menace,” you mutter fondly as you flip the eggs.

“You love this menace.”

“Unfortunately.”

He leans on the counter, sipping his coffee, watching you cook. For a few minutes, it’s just comfortable silence—the smell of food, the hiss of the stove, the occasional sip of coffee. Then he speaks.

“You know… I don’t know how I did all this before you.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Made breakfast?”

He smirks faintly. “Existed.”

You turn back to the stove quickly, cheeks warming. “Don’t get sappy on me, Stark. It’s too early.”

“I’m serious,” he says, quieter now. “You’re the only part of my life that doesn’t come with caveats. The only thing that feels… easy. And good. And like it’s mine.”

You set down the spatula and walk over to him, slipping between his arms and the counter. He pulls you in, coffee mug still in one hand, and rests his chin on top of your head.

“I’m yours,” you say, simple and true.

He nods. “Yeah. You are.”

A few minutes later, you serve him a plate of eggs, toast, and strawberries, and he looks at it like you’ve handed him the keys to the kingdom.

“You cook like a goddess,” he says reverently.

“It’s eggs.”

“You touched them. That makes them better.”

“You’re so full of it.”

He grins and digs in like he hasn’t eaten in days, which honestly, knowing him, might be true. You sit across from him, sipping your tea and watching as he alternates between shoveling food in his mouth and telling you about some dumb thing Rhodey did on the mission. He’s more animated now, more alive. It’s like every minute with you recharges him a little more.

When he finishes, he pushes the plate away and reaches across the table to grab your hand.

“So what’s the plan for today, Nurse Y/N?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Nurse?”

“Well, you did take care of me. Bathed me. Fed me. Snuggled me. Pretty sure this is a wellness retreat now.”

“I charge extra for spa services.”

He smirks. “I’ll pay in kisses.”

“Rejected.”

“Hugs?”

“Denied.”

“Uninterrupted access to the Stark credit line?”

You pause.

He winks. “I knew that would get you.”

You laugh and squeeze his hand. “The plan is: you’re resting. No lab. No suits. No new tech. You’re staying in bed and letting yourself recover.”

He groans dramatically, slumping in his chair. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re lucky I don’t lock the workshop doors.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. FRIDAY, remind me to—”

“Miss Y/N is already authorized to lock the lab, sir,” FRIDAY chimes in cheerfully.

Tony stares at the ceiling. “Traitor.”

You grin and stand up. “Come on, you big baby. I’m running you a bubble bath.”

He perks up. “With the lavender stuff?”

“Yes, with the lavender stuff.”

“And the candles?”

“I’ll light the candles.”

“Marry me.”

“Finish your bath first.”

“Damn.”

---

You don’t rush the bath.

You never do when it’s for him.

You take your time in the bathroom, pulling out the lavender bubble soak that Tony pretends he doesn’t like but secretly adores—because he always exhales differently the moment the scent hits the air. You pour it into the stream, watching as the water froths up with soft clouds of bubbles, warm steam curling into the air. The candles go next—four of them, arranged on the counter and the ledge near the tub. Vanilla, sandalwood, something vaguely cinnamon that you don’t even remember buying but smells like home now.

The lights are dimmed. The towels are warm. And when Tony walks in, he stops in the doorway and just… stares.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So when I said bubble bath, I didn’t realize you were going to summon a whole spa.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, smug. “Only the best for the most dramatic patient in the tri-state area.”

Tony’s still wrapped in his comforter-cape, hair a mess, face soft with something halfway between affection and disbelief.

“You spoil me,” he says, stepping closer.

“You make it really easy.”

You test the water one more time and then gesture to the tub. “Alright, Iron Man. In.”

Tony drops the blanket and strips with absolutely no shame. He never has any, really. You’re the one who blushes for both of you. He’s got a few bruises along his ribs, some darker patches on his shoulders—signs of the mission you haven’t asked him about yet—but he moves fine. Tired, but fine.

He slides into the water with a groan so exaggerated you’d think he was melting into the seventh circle of paradise.

“Oh my god,” he says, eyes fluttering shut. “This is illegal. You’re a sorceress.”

You perch on the edge of the tub beside him, reaching for the shampoo. “Tilt your head back.”

His eyes crack open. “You’re going to wash my hair now?”

“Yes. It’s crusty.”

“It’s sexy bedhead.”

“It’s grease, Tony.”

He sighs theatrically but leans back anyway, his head cradled in your hands as you scoop water over his scalp. You work the shampoo into his hair gently, fingertips massaging his scalp, careful around a healing cut near his temple. He makes a sound that’s not quite a moan but definitely in the same neighborhood.

“Remind me why I don’t make you do this every day?”

“Because you’d be impossible to deal with.”

“You already think I’m impossible.”

“Correction: I know you are.”

His smirk melts into something softer as your nails graze through his hair again. “This is my favorite thing.”

“You say that every time I do anything nice.”

“That’s because you keep one-upping yourself.”

You rinse the shampoo out slowly, tilting his head back to pour water from a plastic cup down the back of his hairline, careful not to splash his face. He watches you the whole time, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted just a little.

“Come in,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“Come in the tub.”

“I don’t have my—”

He splashes water at your arm. “Excuses.”

“You’re such a child.”

“And you love me.”

You hesitate for a beat, biting your bottom lip as his grin grows wider.

“Come on,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m lonely. It’s cold. You made all this hot, bubbly magic. Come share it with me. For the sake of the planet.”

You snort. “That’s a stretch.”

“You’ve seen the Avengers’ mental health scores. Me naked in a bubble bath with you is a public service.”

You laugh, but the truth is, it’s not like you needed convincing. You pull your robe off, peel out of your pajamas, and slide into the tub across from him. The water is perfect—warm and soft and just the right kind of relaxing. You settle in, knees brushing his under the bubbles.

Tony’s already grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“There she is,” he says.

“I was gone for thirty seconds.”

“Felt like a year.”

He leans forward slightly and tugs you closer until your legs are over his, knees to chest. You roll your eyes but let him, resting your arms on his shoulders, hands slipping into his damp hair again. His own hands find your waist under the water.

You stare at each other for a moment, soft steam rising between you, bubbles clinging to his arms. His face is warm and relaxed in a way it only gets around you.

“I wish I could freeze this moment,” he says.

You smile. “You’d get wrinkly.”

“Worth it.”

You cup his cheek and lean forward, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re so sappy in the mornings.”

“Only with you.”

You sit like that for a while. No rush. No chaos. Just the occasional slosh of water and the muted sound of the city below the tower. At one point, you pick up a loofah and start scrubbing gently at his shoulders, and he groans again like you’re performing actual miracles.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says against your collarbone, arms wrapped lazily around your waist under the water.

“Probably not.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

He grins and nips lightly at your neck. “I’m going to marry you.”

“You say that every time I run a bath.”

“Because every time you do, it becomes more true.”

You lean back and raise an eyebrow. “What, like you’re going to propose in a bathtub?”

His face goes mock-serious. “Do not test me. I will absolutely make that your origin story.”

You burst out laughing and splash him. “Please don’t make my proposal soggy.”

“No promises.”

You settle back against him, your back to his chest now, his chin resting on your shoulder. His arms curl around you underwater, fingertips drawing lazy circles on your hip.

“I hate the press,” he says quietly, voice closer to his real self now.

“I know.”

“I hate the way they make me feel. Like I’m not allowed to just… exist. Without performing.”

You tilt your head to rest against his. “You don’t have to perform for me.”

“I know,” he whispers. “That’s why I love you.”

You cover his hands with yours. “You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to feel small sometimes. I’ll carry you when you need it.”

“I’d like to see that. I’m like, 180 pounds of pure trauma.”

You chuckle and kiss his knuckles. “Good thing I’m strong.”

He tightens his arms around you, and for a while, you both just sit there. Quiet. Warm. Safe.

The bubbles eventually start to fade. The water cools. But neither of you move. Not until Tony presses one more kiss to your shoulder and whispers, “Okay. Now I’m ready to get out. Only if you promise to wrap me in one of those ridiculous fluffy towels.”

“They’re Egyptian cotton.”

“They’re sentient clouds and I want five.”

You laugh and nod. “Deal.”

---

Getting out of the bath is harder than it should be, mostly because Tony refuses to move unless you promise at least two of the following: a pre-warmed towel, a cozy robe, a snack, or a kiss every thirty seconds for the rest of the day.

You promise all four. Not because he demands it—but because you want to. Because he’s looking at you with wet hair flopping into his eyes, bubbles clinging to his chest, and that rare soft look he only lets you see. He’s your favorite brand of ridiculous.

You step out first, wrapping yourself in your towel and reaching for his. You hold it open like you’re waiting to swaddle a very large, mildly spoiled baby.

Tony steps out with all the regality of a retired king and walks into the towel like it’s a five-star treatment.

“Oh, yeah,” he says as you start rubbing at his hair. “This is the life. Love, pamper, repeat.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Lucky? No, no. That’s part of the Stark brand.”

You give his hair an affectionate scruff and roll your eyes. “Come on, drama king. Into the robe.”

“I better get snacks.”

“You’ll get them when you stop dripping on the floor.”

Eventually, you both make it back to the bedroom, towels exchanged for soft robes—his navy, yours white, both stolen from a Stark-owned resort somewhere in Maui. Tony keeps brushing against you like a cat, bumping your hip with his and pretending it’s an accident every time.

You toss a couple of snacks onto the bed—grapes, crackers, little chocolate pieces—and crawl under the blankets. He follows instantly, wrapping himself around you like he’s part blanket himself.

“Grapes me,” he mumbles, head resting against your chest.

“You have two hands, Stark.”

“Yeah, but I’m emotionally fragile.”

You pick up a grape and hover it over his mouth. He opens obediently like he’s been training for this moment.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love.”

You pop another grape into his mouth and stroke your fingers through his damp hair. He’s heavy against you, all warm limbs and relaxed breath. His eyes are closed now, lashes brushing your collarbone.

“You gonna fall asleep on me again?” you ask softly.

“Maybe,” he mumbles. “You’re comfy. Smell good. And you’re warm. This is a trap, and I’m willingly walking into it.”

You kiss the top of his head. “You should nap.”

“I should do many things,” he murmurs, already fading. “But you’re winning right now.”

He’s out before you can tease him again. His body slackens, jaw unclenching, breath evening out. He looks younger when he sleeps—less armor, less weight. Like the man under all the noise is finally allowed to exist for a few minutes.

You don’t move.

You just lie there with him, his cheek against your chest, his arms curled around your waist. Occasionally, he makes a little sound in his sleep—like a sigh or a hum. You stay like that for nearly an hour, stroking his hair, watching the light change through the curtains. The world stays quiet.

Then you slip out of bed carefully, tucking the blanket around him like you’re wrapping up a treasure. You make sure FRIDAY keeps the room warm, dim, peaceful. He doesn’t even stir when you leave.

Time for the surprise.

You’ve been working on it for days—well, more like planning it. Coordinating, sneaking around his workshop schedule, getting FRIDAY’s help to intercept some of his appointments. He doesn’t know yet. You wanted to wait until after the mission, when he’d be too tired to argue, too soft to deflect. Now’s the perfect moment.

The rooftop is already prepped.

It’s still early enough in the day that the sun hasn’t started to set, but the light is warm and golden, the city below alive and buzzing. You’ve set up a little lounge area—blankets, a heater in the corner, a tray of his favorite snacks and drinks, and an old projector set up to play the first movie you ever watched together. There's even a little string of lights hanging over the edge of the glass.

You light a few candles—because he’s secretly obsessed with the vibe, and you like seeing him try to pretend it’s not affecting him—and make sure everything’s perfect.

Then you go back downstairs.

Tony’s still curled up in bed, one arm flopped across your pillow like he’s hugging it. His hair is a mess again, and the robe’s slipped off one shoulder. He looks peaceful. It almost feels cruel to wake him.

You sit down beside him and gently run your fingers through his hair.

“Hey, baby.”

He stirs, makes a noise like he’s arguing with a dream.

You press a kiss to his forehead. “Come on, sleeping beauty. I’ve got something to show you.”

His eyes crack open slowly. “If it’s not more bubble bath, I’m rioting.”

“No more baths. But you’ll like this.”

He grumbles but sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Is it food?”

“There’s snacks.”

“Sex?”

You give him a look. “You’re wearing a robe. And still slightly damp.”

“Not a no.”

You laugh, grabbing his hand. “Come on, Stark. Trust me.”

“I always do,” he says simply, letting you pull him to his feet.

He follows you without question, robe dragging behind him, hair sticking out in every direction, like a very expensive puppy.

When the elevator doors open onto the rooftop, he pauses.

“Oh,” he says.

Just that.

He steps out slowly, eyes sweeping over the setup—the lights, the blankets, the movie screen flickering quietly in the background. The soft pillows. The tray of snacks. The fact that it’s all just… quiet. Peaceful.

You watch him as he walks forward, robe still half open, hair blowing a little in the breeze.

“You did all this?”

“FRIDAY helped.”

“Traitor AI.”

“Don’t blame her for loving you.”

He turns to look at you, eyes soft and something else—something you can’t name yet, but it makes your heart ache in a good way.

“I just thought you deserved a break,” you say. “Not a press conference. Not a celebration. Just… this. Quiet.”

Tony takes your hand, pulls you gently down onto the blankets beside him. “You made me a fortress.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I made you a fortress.”

He kisses you—soft, slow, grateful. No teasing. Just the kind of kiss that says thank you without needing to say it out loud.

The two of you curl up under the blankets as the movie starts. Half the time, he’s not even watching it—just looking at you, touching your hand, brushing his fingers down your arm. At some point, he feeds you a grape in revenge, grinning like an idiot.

You end up tangled together again by the end of the movie, his head in your lap, your fingers brushing over his cheekbone. His eyes are closed, smile lazy.

“You keep surprising me,” he says quietly.

“Is that a good thing?”

He opens one eye. “It’s the best thing.”

You lean down and kiss him again, long and deep, the kind of kiss that makes the city disappear, the rooftop vanish, the noise drop off the edge of the earth.

When you pull back, he smiles up at you, sleepy and safe.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he says again.

You raise an eyebrow. “You keep saying that.”

“And one day, it won’t just be a bath threat.”

You laugh, and he closes his eyes again, melting into your lap like he was built for this—like this is where he belongs.

You think he might fall asleep like this—his head in your lap, arms curled around your waist, the sky turning shades of orange and pink behind him.

But then his hand moves.

Slowly, fingers tracing along your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and deliberate. His eyes are still closed, but his mouth twitches at the corners, and you know that look. That sly, sleepy Tony Stark brand of trouble.

“Don’t start something you’re too tired to finish,” you murmur, combing your fingers through his hair again.

“I’m never too tired for you,” he says, voice low, lazy. “I’d rally from the grave.”

You huff a laugh, but your heart skips a little when his hand slides higher. His thumb brushes your skin under the hem of your shorts, and the way he looks up at you—soft, hungry, familiar—makes your whole body react.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper.

He grins. “And yet you keep climbing into bed with me.”

“This isn’t a bed.”

He shifts up to sit beside you, one arm sliding around your waist, his lips brushing your neck now. “It could be. Temporarily.”

“We’re on the rooftop.”

His teeth graze your skin, and you shiver. “All the better.”

“Tony,” you breathe, half a laugh, half a warning.

His hands slip around your waist, pulling you gently into his lap. You straddle him, warm in your robe, hearts pressed close together under the heavy knit blanket. His eyes are darker now, focused entirely on you.

You kiss him. Slowly, deeply. He groans into your mouth, hands tightening on your hips like he’s grounding himself. You feel his pulse under your fingers, the way his body shifts toward yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth.

The world disappears again—just the two of you, the golden haze of sunset, the quiet flicker of the projector forgotten behind you.

But then his hand slides up your back, and your robe shifts. You break the kiss, breathless, blinking down at him.

“Tony.”

He hums against your collarbone.

“We’re still… on the roof.”

He pauses. “Technically, yes.”

“I love you, but I am not making you moan my name where a security camera might still be working.”

He groans dramatically, flopping back onto the blankets like he’s been wounded. “You ruin all my dreams.”

“I save you from your own lack of foresight.”

“You could’ve just let me have this one.”

You stand, pulling him up with you, trying not to laugh. “Come on. Bedroom. Now.”

He perks up instantly. “See? Still got the magic words.”

You lead him back inside, fingers laced with his, and he’s suddenly all boyish energy again—grinning like he’s already ten steps ahead of whatever’s about to happen. But the moment the bedroom door closes behind you, something shifts.

It’s quieter in here. Softer.

Tony lets go of your hand only to cup your face with both of his, eyes scanning yours like he’s grounding himself again.

“I really love you,” he says quietly.

You kiss him instead of answering, your hand sliding behind his neck to pull him closer.

And then you push him gently toward the bed.

He goes willingly, sitting back against the pillows as you climb into his lap again, your knees on either side of his hips. You pull his robe open slowly, watching his breath hitch as you lean in to kiss down the line of his jaw, across his throat, the hollow of his collarbone.

You take your time. You always do with him.

Because for all his bravado, all the ego and flash, Tony melts under gentleness. Under care. And no one gets to see him like this—so open, so trusting—except you.

You strip him down with slow hands, lips brushing over every new inch of skin you uncover. He touches you like you’re a miracle, like he still can’t believe you’re real. His hands don’t roam like they used to. Now they worship. He maps you like a blueprint he wants to memorize by touch alone.

When he tries to flip you over, you stop him with a shake of your head.

“Let me take care of you.”

His eyes go wide, then soft. He nods.

You guide him down against the pillows, straddling him again, hands braced on his chest. His arc reactor pulses beneath your palm, warm and steady, and you lean down to kiss just beside it.

He groans softly, fingers flexing against your thighs, but he doesn’t try to take control again. He just watches you, eyes full of awe and something deeper.

You kiss him as you move, as your bodies align and slide together, breath hitching in tandem. He breathes your name like a prayer when you sink onto him, your hands on his chest, your forehead pressed to his.

He touches you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like this—this slow, reverent kind of love—is something he doesn’t know how to ask for.

You give it to him anyway.

You rock together slowly, mouths meeting again and again, his hands never leaving your skin. He whispers your name into your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. Every time, it sounds like I love you.

When he comes, it’s with a quiet, broken sound, his head buried against your neck, his arms wrapped tight around you. You hold him through it, stroking his hair, pressing kisses wherever you can reach.

You don’t move right away. You just stay like that—tangled together, warm and safe, the world shrinking down to nothing.

Eventually, you shift, easing off of him slowly and reaching for the towel you’d left on the nightstand earlier. He watches you with heavy-lidded eyes as you wipe him down, gentle and sweet, still brushing your fingers through his hair every now and then.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, pulling you down beside him.

“You’re spoiled.”

He hums. “Only by you.”

You kiss his temple and press the towel aside, grabbing the lotion you keep in the drawer—part of your usual post-mission care kit. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue when you push his hair back and start rubbing it into his shoulders.

He sighs like you’re massaging heaven into his bones.

“Seriously, marry me.”

“You say that every time I touch you with lotion.”

“Because I’m emotionally impressionable when I’m moisturized.”

You laugh, and he turns his head to kiss your wrist.

After a few minutes, he flips you both over gently, reaching for the same lotion. “Your turn.”

“You don’t have to—”

He gives you a look. “Don’t argue with the genius billionaire giving you a shoulder massage. You’ll lose.”

You melt under his hands, laughing quietly as he works the lotion into your back, his touch just as careful as yours had been. His kisses are soft and warm against your spine. Every inch he touches feels lighter.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says quietly.

“You’re never gonna have to find out.”

He pulls the blanket over both of you when he’s done, settling beside you again, one arm tucked beneath your neck, the other around your waist.

You stay like that, hearts still racing, breath slow and steady.

He falls asleep before you do.

And when you finally drift off, it’s to the sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and the feeling of his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go.

[digitaldaydreamm]

omg i just read rafe’s love languages for the unspoken claim series, and what if he does romantic things for valentines day, her birthday and other holidays. for example on valentines day he decorates her room with balloons, flowers, luxurious gifts and when people try to tell her how cute and romantic that is she doesn’t see it because he has been doing stuff like that for her since they were kids, but she what she also doesn’t realize is that he has only ever done stuff like that for her and never anyone else.

also thank you for taking the time to read this and i absolutely love your writing !!🫶🏽💗

rafe loves spoiling reader!

rafe x childhood friend!reader

headcannons 2

masterlist

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

★ You wake up to find your entire room filled with red and pink balloons, fresh roses covering your bed, and a neatly wrapped box on your dresser. Inside? A designer bag you casually mentioned months ago, and a handwritten note in Rafe’s messy scrawl: Happy Valentine’s, kid. You don’t question it—you never do. Rafe always does stuff like this. But when Topper and Kelce start teasing him, saying it’s basically a confession, you just laugh. “He’s always been like this with me.” You don’t realize that he’s never been like this with anyone else.

★ For your birthdays, Rafe goes all out. Always has. Always will. A private dinner, a new piece of jewelry, “just something to match the necklace I got you last year,” he says, and a cake from your favorite bakery. When people gush over how romantic it is, you shake your head. “It’s just Rafe.”

★ While everyone else gets standard gifts from Rafe for christmas—expensive, but impersonal—you always get something thoughtful. A framed picture from when you were kids, a playlist of songs that remind him of you, a handwritten letter (that he almost didn’t give you). You don’t think twice about it, but Sarah does. “You realize he doesn’t do this for anyone else, right?” You just shrug. “That’s just how Rafe is.” But deep down, you start to wonder.

★ If it’s important to you, it’s important to Rafe. Got a big test coming up? He stocks your fridge with your favorite snacks. Feeling sick? He’s at your door with soup before you can even text him. Celebrating something small? He acts like it’s the biggest deal in the world. And yet, you still don’t see it for what it is. But Rafe doesn’t care. As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters.

★ While everyone else is getting flowers and cards for graduation, Rafe hands you an envelope with two things inside—a custom necklace with your initials intertwined with his and plane tickets to anywhere you’ve ever wanted to go (for both of you, of course). “Figured you deserved something big,” he says with a shrug, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t spend weeks planning it. And when people swoon over how sweet it is, you just laugh.

★ It doesn’t have to be a holiday for Rafe to spoil you. He’ll show up unannounced with your favorite coffee, leave designer shopping bags on your bed without a word, or randomly drive you to the beach because “you’ve been stressed, kid.” It’s second nature to him. He doesn’t even think about it. And neither do you.

★ The parties, the fireworks, the countdown—it’s always the same. But every new year's, right at midnight, Rafe finds you first. He wraps his arms around you, tucks you into his side, and murmurs a quiet “Happy New Year, bub.” No matter who else is around, no matter who he was talking to before, you are always the first person he celebrates with.

★ If something upsets you, Rafe is the first to notice—even before you say anything. And before you know it, he’s dragging you out of the house, forcing you to clear your head with a drive, a late-night swim, or just sitting in his truck, eating takeout in silence. It doesn’t matter what you need—he just knows. And while others might call it romantic, to you, it’s just Rafe being Rafe.

★ The moment you tell him about your new job, he’s prouder than anyone else. Louder than anyone else. He’s already making plans to celebrate, already telling people “I knew she’d get it” like it was a fact, not a hope. And when you call him out for acting like you’re the only one who’s ever done something good, he just shrugs. “Well, you’re the only one that matters.”

★ It doesn’t hit you all at once. It happens in little moments—when you see him brush off someone else’s excitement, when you hear Sarah say “He never even did that for his ex,” when you catch him watching you like you’re the only person in the room. And suddenly, all those gifts, all those gestures, all those traditions don’t seem so casual anymore.

[artbyblastweave]

Haven’t read many comics, but I’ve started reading stuff you post about, so I’ve read immortal hulk and 20th century men, and am going to start ultimate spiderman. Do you have any recommendations?

Here's a few that run the gamut from "quasi-foundational" to "I personally thought it was neat:"

Superhero:

Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons- the comic every superhero comic published since the 1980s has had to reckon with in some way, and which half the genre spent the 90s trying to emulate.

Superman: Birthright by Mark Waid and Lenil Yu- the bespoke canon origin story for Superman that was canon in the early 2000s through the twenty-tens. Remains one of the stronger attempts to do a retelling of his origin.

Batman: Year One by Frank Miller and David Mazzuchelli- a four-issue storyline covering Batman's extremely early career in Gotham.

Batman: The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller. Conceived as "The last Batman Story," features a fifty-something Bruce Wayne after he comes out of retirement to fight against an enormous crime wave against the backdrop of incipient nuclear war with the Soviet Union. This is the other grim and gritty superhero deconstruction that half the genre spent the 90s trying to emulate, and although it hasn't aged as well it's a useful read for context.

Runaways by Brian K Vaughn and Adrian Alphona. A marvel-universe excursion about a group of six teens and tweens who learn that their parents are actually a coven of incredibly powerful supervillains functionally running the entire west coast. They proceed to, well. This was one of those franchises that got zombified and pingponged between different creative teams, but the Vaughn parts are pretty strong.

Ex Machina By Brian K Vaughn and Tony Harris: The world's first and only superhero stops one of the twin towers from being destroyed and parlays this into a successful bid for mayor of New York.

Invincible by Robert Kirkman, Corey Walker and Ryan Ottley. Son of the most powerful superhero, yadda yadda, if you'd dodged awareness of the amazon adaptation I'm not sure how

Astro City by Kurt Busiek, Brent Anderson and Alex Ross- an anthology set in a constructed superhero universe, alternating between one-shots and longer arcs covering an enormous cast of characters over the settings 80-year internal chronology.

Rising Stars by J. Michael Strazynski- follows the rise and fall of the Pederson Specials, 113 children who were granted superpowers in utero when a meteor exploded over their home town-narrated decades later by the last of their number standing.

Marvels by Kurt Busiek and Alex Ross. A retelling of the first 30 years of the Marvel Universe from the perspective of photojournalist Phil Sheldon. On top of being an excellent story it's useful as a recap/primer for much of golden and silver age marvel.

Kingdom Come by Mark Waid and Alex Ross. In the future of the DC universe, A jaded Superman comes out of retirement after the superhuman population balloons out of control and causes a nuclear detonation as a consequence of their cavalier approach to heroics. Unfortunately, his old-school approach isn't much better...

DC: The New Frontier by Darwyn Cooke. Retells the founding of the silver-age justice league against the backdrop of the red scare and following the collapse of the golden-age superheroic community after world war two.

Non-Superhero

Bone By Jeff Smith- Lord of the Rings by way of Mickey, Donald and Goofy. Three cartoon-creature cousins are run out of town and into a remote valley that's the site of a sprawling fantasy epic.

The Walking Dead by Robert Kirkman and Charlie Adlard- The zombie comic. There really hasn't ever been a runner-up

Monstress by Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda. Steampunk Dark Fantasy thing about a woman forced to share a body with a horrifying elder-parasite thing. Hard to summarize. If you thought RWBY handled the Faunus with insufficient gravity and thoughtfulness this is a good comic for you

East of West by Jonathan Hickman and Nick Dragotta. Weird-west alternate history where the U.S. balkanized after the Civil War. In the resultant cyberpunk urban-fantasy dystopia, three of the four horsemen are attempting to end the world; Death has defected and is attempting to stop them, in the hopes of reuniting with his missing wife and child.

Once and Future by Keiron Gillen and Dan Mora. A seventy-something retired monster hunter breaks out of her nursing home and press-gangs her hapless academic grandson into helping her prevent the return of King Arthur.

The Department of Truth By James Tynion and Martin Simmonds: In a world where reality is affected by consensus by collective belief, a deep state organization works to prevent conspiracy theories from being willed into existence by weirdos on the internet. Notable in that it's very visibly an exercise in trying to grapple with the uglier implications of the postmodern "reality-shaped-by-belief" tropes present in works like American Gods.

Saga by Brian K. Vaughn and Fiona Staples. The indie comic everyone wouldn't shut the fuck up about. Star crossed lovers attempting to navigate their mutual defection from two star-spanning empires locked in an eternal galactic turbowar.

Chew By John Layman and Rob Guillory. Tony Chu is a police detective with the power of Chibopathy- the ability to gain psychometric impressions from whatever he eats. Kept on retainer to partially cannibalize the corpses of murder victims to find out who killed them, his abilities ultimately see him drawn into a bizarre conspiracy surrounding an outbreak of bird flu that killed millions and resulted in the criminalization of poultry products.

Atomic Robo by Brian Clevenger and Scott Wegener The high-octane adventures of action-scientist Atomic Robo, an android constructed by Nikola Tesla in the 1920s who runs a think-tank of science-heroes. Described as "applying the Indiana Jones model to every other field of study." Very fun comic.

We Only Find Them When They're Dead By Al Ewing and Simone Di Meo: follows the exploits of a freelance crew of miners who work to extract tissues from the corpses of gigantic humanoid entities found floating in space, and their captain's heretical goal of being the first to find a living specimen.

Literally Any Comic Written By Kyle Starks, including (lightning round time) Rock Candy Mountain, Old Head, Sexcastle, Kill Them All, Assassin Nation, and Fuck this Place/I Hate This Place (title dependent on retailer squeamishness)

This list isn't exhaustive but I've been typing for a really really long time here

[why-i-love-comics]

just a heads up starting this week I want to change how the new comic stuff works, basically I want to pull it way back I just feel like it's really ballooned and takes way too long for me to read all the new stuff (I also definitely feel like they've been releasing more new comics weekly than ever recently) and I miss posting the stuff I used to post, especially the vintage stuff

I still want to post new stuff but basically I'll only be reading the big ones, event stuff and stuff I think will be good and skipping most of the filler and less popular comics, if there is a comic that I don't read that you really want me to post stuff from you can ask for it but I want to be way more selective because I really want to cut the new stuff back down to one or maybe two days

I'm also going to turn the queue back up to get stuff out faster but everything is going to be tagged spoilers, comic spoilers, and wednesday spoilers so you can blacklist those if you don't want to see the new stuff

[lilyyy123]

Dealer!matt

Warnings⚠️:smut, unprotected p in v, dealer Matt, soft dom Matt, dirty talk, no use of y/n

Summary: what happens when you go to buy stuff off your fav dealer but have no money so you pay him Ina different way

A/n: this took me so long because for some reason I couldn't pay attention and didn't know what to write so if this gets no likes I'm gonna cry myself to sleep 🔫 this is also super long so Idek if anyone is gonna read it but wtv🤷‍♀️

You watch Matt silently count the amount of money you gave him as he sits on your sofa across from you. "This ain't enough" he speaks as he looks at you. "I know...I can get the money soon if you give me a couple days" he leans back on the sofa. "Cmon ma you know me I only do upfront payments" you sigh as the words leave his lips. "Please Matt just give me a few-" he cuts you off. "You already know what my answer is gonna be, why don't you use your pretty little head and think of another way to pay me" you look at him up and down before your eyes land on the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, you knew exactly what he wanted.

You walk over to him and he grabs your hips, pushing you down on the sofa next to him and climbing on top of you. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist and pull him closer to you. He leans down and presses his lips against yours in a deep passionate kiss, his tongue brushing against yours as he deepens the kiss. He breaks the kiss and reaches down to undo his belt, pulling it off before unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down. His tight black Calvin klein boxers showing the outline of his hard length.

You reach towards him and hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers, yanking them down and letting his hard erection free. Your eyes wander up and down his length, it was around 8 inches long with a pretty pink tip that was dripping with pre cum from how excited he was from just being so close to you. "I've waited so long for this" he groans as he pulls down your pants along with your underwear. He looks down at you and his eyes go over your body. "So pretty" he whispers before stroking himself a few times and running his tip through your wet folds. He lets out a soft moan before lining himself up with your entrance and slowly pushing in. He lets out a groan as he bottoms out, "fuck baby your so tight" he grips one of your thighs as he starts slowly thrusting in and out. His hard veiny cock massaging your walls in all the right places as you let out soft whimpers and moans. "This how you gonna pay me from now on yeah?" You reply with a small nod. "Good girl" he whimpers slightly and starts thrusting faster, your moans and noises of pleasure making him speed up. "Fuck I'm gonna cum" he whimpers, feeling your walls clench around him. "Squeezing me so good baby" he groans as he watches you cum, him following shortly after.

He slowly pulls out, watching his cum ooze out of you. "You did so good for me baby" he whispers as he helps you sit up. "I don't know why we didn't just do that ages ago" he chuckles slightly before pulling you into his arms.

[butlervibesonly]

𝐴𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛'𝑠 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦 𝑓𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 || Austin Butler

• Summary : Y/n and Austin are invited to birthday party of one of his friend's baby, and who would have thought Austin will catch a huge baby fever by watching his love Y/n play with kids?

• Pairing : Austin Butler x female! reader

• Warnings : fluff, if we count baby fever?

• Note : I don't know much about Austin's friends so the one mentioned in this fic is all made up by me!! As I respect their privacy or don't want to spread misinformations this is all FICTION! (name is mentioned by ★ if there is a friend named by the same name I choose it's complete coincidence)

You absolutely love any kind of gatherings, whether it's family gathering, or simple friend gathering, but you never knew how much you adored birthday gathering until today.

Austin and you are invited to the birthday party of his friend's daughter, who is already one year old. Time flies so fast – when she was born you rarely saw each other because of your or Austin's busy schedule, but neither you or Austin would miss her 1st birthday.

You and Austin arrived at James' (★) place seeing everyone already being in the garden. The garden is a colorful explosion of pastel balloons, streamers, and an adorable banner that read "Happy birthday, Lily!". You couldn't help but gasp at the beautiful decorations. "I can't believe she's already one year old!" you smile at Austin who smiles back at you, leaving his hand on your back.

"Look who it is!" James pulls both of you in hug. "Hey, buddy!" Austin pats his back, all happy that he sees him. "Nice to see you again, Lily is looking forward to see you!" James smiled.

Your eyes immediately landed on Lily, perched in a playpen and clothed in a tiny pink dress. "Oh my gosh," you whisper, clutching Austin's arm. "She’s so tiny and cute! Look at her little cheeks!" James picks up Lily from playpen.

"We have some gift for birthday girl." Austin smiles, handing Lily a cute stuffed bear. Lily makes some cute noises, grabbing it from Austin. "Thanks, guys. Y/n, do you want to hold her?" James asks.

Without hesitation, you approach James, holding out your hands to Lily. Lily stares at you with big, curious eyes before offering a toothless grin that totally melts you heart on the spot. "Hi, birthday girl! Aren't you just the sweetest?"

Lily seems to agree, because she reaches out, wiggling her chubby little fingers, grabbing your face. You immediately tighten your arms around her, carefully holding her.

"Well, she might not let you go now," James teases, and Austin chuckles.

"I wouldn’t mind," you reply with a laugh, gently bouncing Lily. She giggles and you can't help but cuddle that little girl. You play with her, 'talk with her' as she mumbles some sweet baby noise.

Austin is already sitting with others by the table, arms crossed, but he doesn't pay attention to them – he watches you with a smile that grows wider by every second. There is something about the way you interact with Lily— your gentle touches, the way you talk to her as if she is the only thing that matters. It is adorable, heartwarming, and undeniably stirring something deep inside him.

For a moment, it's almost as if Austin shifts into future, imagining you with your own baby. Something he can't deny is the fact that you'll be an amazing mom to his kids one day. He actually can't wait to start a little family on his own.

"You’re staring, man," James teases, sidling up beside him.

"Can you blame me?" Austin replies, his voice soft. James smirkes knowingly. "That look on your face says one thing and one thing only—baby fever."

Austin scoffs, though his cheeks flushes. "I’m just admiring how great she is with kids, y'know," he tries to hide his true baby fever. "The way she can handle stuff, make Lily laugh..."

"Sure you are," James nudges him. "You’re already picturing a little one of your own, aren’t you?"

Austin opens his mouth to retort, but the sight of you planting a playful kiss on Lily's forehead stopped him. The baby squealed, clapping her tiny hands, and you laughed.

"Alright, maybe a little," he admitts sheepishly. "Don’t worry, you’ve got my vote," James pats him on the back. Austin smiles again, watching the both of you again.

As you're finally free you sit down beside Austin, joining others. During the day Austin is quiet, mostly smiling softly watching you. He touches your hand, kissing you softly.

"What's going, Butler?" you ask, teasing him. A grin appears on his face, tucking a hair behind your ear. "Mmm.. nothing." he looks away, trying to avoid eye contact as he's clearly lying.

"Come on, I know you're lying, Aus,"

"You'll be a wonderful mom one day."

His words surprise you. You and Austin have barely spoken about starting a family, but that seems very different in this moment. "Austin Butler, is that a baby fever I see on you?"

"I guess." he kisses you passionately. There's no doubt you've chosen the best man to be dad of your kids.

[paperclip-skz]

Always Knew

fem*Reader x Minho

*WARNING*

contains p n v, sex, unprotected sex, kissing, oral ( men receiving), tension, fluff; I'm sure I missed something; let me know in the comments.

WC: 2.3k

*****

You stumble past the door, flinging your shoes off to the side and slinging your coat onto the rack. 

Your body deflates like a balloon the second you walk into your shared apartment. “How’d it go?” Minho calls from the couch, watching some new random drama. You walk to the living room, where he is comfortably sitting in his perfect plain grey shirt and his perfect black sweat. Why does he have to be so goddamn perfect? You grumble internally. 

He tears his eyes away from the screen and looks at you, where his face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Bad date?” he smirks. 

“Oh, wipe that stupid smirk off,” you crumble, falling down onto the couch in a huff. You reach for some popcorn from the bowl resting on the coffee table. You stuff your face with a handful of popcorn and glue your eyes to the TV screen. 

“What was so bad about this one?” Minho side-eyes you.

You roll your eyes at the memory of your failed date, “what wasn’t bad about him?! He didn’t pay! He forgot my name twice!” You twist your body completely to him, trying to get your aggravating point across. “he kept talking about his job like nonstop. He didn’t want to have a conversation; he just wanted to talk! AND he chewed with his mouth open….ALL NIGHT!”

You slam your body to the couch, making it all dramatic like the world is ending, and for you, it just might. This is number 7 down the drain, and it all just seems hopeless, especially because the one you really want is laughing right beside you. 

“It sounds like you just got unlucky…again,” he smirks.

“Uuugh,” you say, grab the nearest pillow, set it right between you and Minho, and slam your head against it. Minho chuckles at your overdramatic self and starts petting the crazy strands of hair that stick out. 

What you don’t know is that Minho is secretly throwing a party in his head. He dreads the day you come home from another one of those cheap dates and you're actually happy. So when he says his next words, they are through gritted teeth.“Come on, kitty, there's always next time,” he coos sarcastically. 

You lift your head, your frown still visible. Oh, what Minho would give to tug on that pouted lip and make you whimper. “Yeah, I guess you're right.” Minho is knocked out of his thoughts by you, shuffling into a position on the couch and getting your phone into your hand. 

You begin the tedious journey of going back to swiping left or right, looking at profiles and bios to see if anyone strikes your interest. 

Minho tries his hardest to pay attention back to the drama he is watching, but he can’t help but look over your shoulder. Who are you looking for? What are you looking for? Surely, he could be that person, that one person you crave. He could be anything you’d ever need. 

“Oh! Heres someone! He’s cute…I guess” he watches you read and contemplate. He can see the indents of your brows and your bottom lip disappearing into your teeth, and he can visually see you thinking about a date. NOT CONFIRMING, but thinking. 

Emotions surge through him. Is he really going to stand by for an 8th date just to risk the idea of you walking in here with a smile plastered on your face?

No.

“Fuck!” he runs his hands up and down his face, which makes your head snap up. You stare at his stressed-out face, and his hands slap down to his lap as he stares at you, thinking about something.

“Fuck what?” you ask in a small voice. 

“Fuck this, I’m sorry, but I’m done waiting” he grabs both sides of your face to bring you closer to him, smashing your lips on his. His kiss is anything but gentle or soft; it's hurried and sloppy. He thinks you’ll push him away; thats why his kiss is hurried, trying to get every taste of you savored and memorized before you run away. 

But you don’t. To his surprise and yours, you lean in. moaning into his mouth and reaching around to grasp his head to deepen the kiss. 

You both part for a breath, not realizing how long your tongues had been intertwined. “I—I’m sorry. I—I just…I couldn’t,” he stutters, failing his words. 

Now, it's your turn to grab his face and softly connect your lips, and now it's your turn to lead the kiss. You take your time, swiping your tongue along his bottom lip and twirling your tongue, which makes both of you see stars. This time when you part, he immediately attacks your neck with little kisses, sucking on the skin just above your collarbone. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, relishing the feeling of his soft lips on your skin. You always imagined what his lips would feel like… soft, warm, and inviting, with a hint of urgency and a touch of tenderness.

You roll your head back, giving him more access to your skin. Minho growls at your invitation, taking advantage of your exposed neck. He litters your skin with love bites, making sure to go over each with his tongue, leaving beautiful red marks that you surely won’t be able to cover up in the morning. 

You can feel your panties drip with arousal, knowing all this foreplay is only adding to the turn in your stomach, “Minho, please,” you whine. Minho disconnects himself from your neck, and you gasp at the sight of him. His eyes are blown, his lips are swollen from all the kissing, and his chest heaves out of control with each breath. 

You bite your lip at the sight of him. “I had a very nice dream that started like this."

“Oh yeah?” you perk, shifting your position so you are straddling his lap on the couch. “What was it about?” you asked, curious about his fanites about you. 

“I dreamt of your legs wrapped around my waist.” You fully seat your ass on his growing hard-on, and his eyes close in a heavenly way, “Your head was thrown back so I could mark your neck,” he groans out as you start to rock your hips back and forth. The tip of his cock pushes against your clit every time. 

Words are lost as you continue your movements, but Minho keeps going, describing his vivid dream: "You were screaming my name as I rammed myself into you.” his last word left his lips, and his hips bucked into you; his groin pushing straight up to your core. 

You moan loudly, not caring if the neighbors might hear. Before you can protest, Minho is grabbing you by cupping your ass and lifting you so he can carry you to his bedroom. The second he slams you down onto the bed, he’s ripping your clothes off, leaving you bare before him, and he's throwing his clothes somewhere in a far-off corner. 

You gaze at the sight of him. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but always on accident, not daring to look a second further, but now you have a chance to gaze, a chance to ogle over every defined line of his body. He’s perfectly toned and perfectly built, and the little scar on the underside of his stomach sticks out like a sore thumb, almost like a birthmark. 

He waits for you to say something, do something…You lean up, never breaking eye contact with him, a place a gentle kiss on his scar. You never minded it, in fact, the deepest parts of you thought it was sexy, but you knew he didn’t like it. 

His gaze met yours with a newfound intensity, a subtle smile playing at the corner of his lips, hinting at a mischievous thought. And then you realized your position.

He brought his hand carefully up to the side of your cheek guiding you to your covered erection. He was still in his boxers, the tight elastic taunting you. 

You look up to him one last time for permission and he urges you on. You hook your finger into the band and tug down his boxers, letting his cock spring free. 

Your eyes widen and your breath freezes. Your mouth waters at the sight of a long, thick, prominent vein outlining his entire length. The tip budging and red, begging for attention, and the precum that leaks has you instinctively wetting your lips. 

“I’ll take it that you like what you see,” he smirks. 

You steadily reach out and fist his cock; the feeling makes him hiss. You know from past experiences how tight a guy enjoys it…but you decided to be a tease and loosely stroke his cock. 

“Tease me some more, and I’ll show you my reaction,” His deep, guttural growl reverberates through the air, sending a chill down your spine and causing you to clench in response to his intimidating words.

Immediately, you correct your hand, tightening your grip. You see him hold back moans and whimpers from how painfully he’s biting his lip, and the sight makes you pool in your panties. Experimentally you dart your tongue out to the tip of his cock, coating it in small kitten licks. A small guttural groan escapes past his lips, which sends a strike of confidence through your body. With that same confidence, you part your lips, letting his length past them. Finally, He releases a series of beautiful, melodic whimpers that echo through the room along with the sinful noises you make, taking the full length of his cock. 

You’re so focused on not gagging on his cock that you don’t realize that Minho has full eyes on you, watching your lips wrap around him. Watching you fully engulfed with him makes him twitch, shit….he’s not gonna last long.

His cock throbs heavily on your greedy tongue, the rich, creamy flavor of his pre-cum already embedded in your mind. You begin to bob your head back and forth, sucking the rim of his cock into your mouth. 

 He’s wanted this for so long that he didn’t realize how good you’d actually feel. Mindlessly he grips your hair and yanks you off of his cock. He pushes your shoulders down and falls on top of you, kissing your lips. He can taste the saltiness of his precum on your lips, which only makes him hungrier for more. 

His tongue demands entrance, and you're quick to grant it. Without thinking, you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling his free cock closer to your bare core. You can feel him slip around against your sensitive lips with all the wetness thats gathered. 

You both sigh at the feeling. His tip only catches your entrance with every steady hump but never fully settles into you. “Minho!” you whine. 

With one last playful smirk he sends your way, he FINALLY pushes his entire length into you. You can feel every vein, every ridge of himself, and every small twitch he makes. 

He watches every single movement of your face, watching it contort in pleasure. His eyes shut tight as he tries with every fiber of himself not to ruin the moment, to let you relish in being stretched open for him. He wants so badly to lose control and pound into you, but he knows you need time. 

He can feel you clenching, the tightness of your cunt making him curse under his breath. “Baby, please tell me I can move,” he said, leaning his forehead against yours. 

Words are lost; they die on your tongue before you can force them out, so you respond with a quiet nod of your head. He takes it, and he starts rocking his hips slowly into you. 

Your mouth parts and the feeling of him pushed all the way inside you; you could swear you could see the smallest bump outlining your stomach, disappearing when Minho rocks out and reappearing when he rocks back into you. 

Minho picks up his pace every so slightly, all the while connecting his eyes with yours. You grip the sheets, holding back your screams, your mind already a mess of pleasure. 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whimpers. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you like this.” He places a chaste kiss on your lips, “Please, Y/N…Please let me show how badly I want you.” He takes a breath, never slowing down in his pace. “Let me show you how much I love you.”

His words make your chest swell, and they almost bring tears to your eyes. “O-okay. How much do you love me, Minho?” 

Your words hang in the air like cigarette smoke before Minho takes action. His hips become pistons. Slamming into you with no pause in sight. You can’t hold back your screams anymore; you scream his name over and over, letting him know who you belong to. 

His thumb sneaks down to trace lazy circles that make your whole body shiver. “I love you, Y/N, I do,” he all but cries.

Your mind is so blown out with pleasure and overwhelming happiness that tears begin to roll down your cheeks. “Say it back, Y/N, please!” he begs. 

“I love you too!” you come crashing as your words bounce off the walls. Shivering on Minho's cock, and that is all he needs to find his release, coating your inner gummy walls white. 

Minho makes no move to pull out, settling still inside you as he collapses on top of you, enveloping your lips with his. You both break the kiss, locking eyes with one another. 

"I love you," you whisper, the words carrying the weight of all the moments you've shared together, the laughter and tears, the late-night conversations and quiet moments. As you speak, you feel the depth of your emotions, the profound connection that binds you together. He looks at you, his eyes reflecting the memories you've made, and in that moment, you see a new tenderness, a deeper understanding, and something unspoken. It's as if all the unspoken words, all the gestures and glances, converge in this single moment. You know he loves you back…..you’ve always known. 

[baocean]

heyyy, i loved poyp sm!! i was wondering if you'd do a blurb when its readers birthday but she's still away at uni and the pogues surprise her by showing up at her dorm or somethinggg with posts and stuff

it's quiet in the hallway when you get back to your dorm. it was only two pm, but jj said he had work at five and promised you the best birthday facetime a man could offer.

you turned twenty today. usually, your birthday is spent around family and friends and an obnoxious cake your mom insisted you have.

really, you wanted to spend it around your friends back at home. but instead, you had headphones in your ear and a sad version of a solo cupcake in your hand, trying to hype yourself up for an evening alone.

after fumbling with your keys and finally unlocking the door, you push it open and freeze.

in front of you is pope, standing on your desk chair trying to tape streamers to the ceiling. the girls are sat on your bed, their faces turning red from blowing up balloons. jj is standing over john, holding a half inflated dolphin pool float and an opened bag of doritos, as he scolds, "john b, that is not even close to how you spell her na-"

he stops mid yell and turns to you, flinching like you scared him.

"for fucks sake jj you said she wouldnt be back until four." sarah groaned, letting go of her half inflated balloon and it whizzes around the room before dropping to the floor.

"what are you doing here?" you're in a state of shock. everyone had come up with some lame excuse as to why they were busy today, sending you their best birthday wishes through texts.

"surprise?" jj laughs, clearing the room to get to you and kissing you on the cheek. "thought we'd let you spend your birthday alone?"

just as he finishes getting the words out, pope slips on the chair and hits the floor with a loud thud. "ow."

"get up. happy birthday, yn." kie stands from your bed, pulling you into a hug that gets you so worked up you almost start crying.

the rest of the pogues, including pope (after a slow recovery) pushes each other around to join the hug.

and then behind them, john b yells, “okay now everyone yell it or it doesnt count!”

and the room erupts into overlapping, chaotic shouts of,

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!”

“wait grab the floaty so it can say happy birthday, too.”

"stop talking about the dophlin like its real."

"kie, KIE PUT THAT FIRE OUT."

and one, extra special, "happy birthday, bunny."

her phone

masterlist

taglist -  @dr3amgrlll /  @jjmaybankmylovee / @smokahontas-113 /  @abigailovesz / @enchantedstarfish / @reeseswirl / @lmaowhatt / @moonywhisp3rs / @dylsdaily /  @idli-dosa / @bloodofadoll / @cokewithcameron / @mariamadison6-blog / @rrosiitas / @always-reading / @sunflouer04 / @bambigirl10 / @mirellef2001 / @wasiasproject / @kissesandmartinis / @gublerstylesobrien1238 / @isinpfortvdmen / @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account / @mjwashere / @sideboobrry11 / @ameliacione13 / @wrtzia / @sanriobuny / @dramagodesss / @luvrclub / @yesshewrites1 / @ayy1234567 / @doesnt-care / @rainingcecilias / @4jjsbank / @blythee1

[a-leg-without-fear]

The Miranda to His Ferdinand

this is actually the response to this ask from the lovely @yarrystyleeza!!! i was so frickin inspired and ended up writing this :)

Ship: College!Matt Murdock x f!Reader

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 1.3k

Warnings: lots o' Shakespeare, kissing, suggestive material

Series: Request Fulfillment

Your dorm's mattress creaked as you and Matt settled on top. He sat to your left, braille script clutched in his hand, with his sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar and his hair ruffled after a long day. An easy smile settled over his full lips.

"What's the play, again?" he asked, an eyebrow cocked as a large hand swept over the front page of his script. Long fingers traced the raised bumps on the solid white pages.

"The Tempest," you replied with a sighed chuckle, "It's about a woman, Miranda, who's lived on an island her whole life, knowing only her father and their slave, Caliban. Ferdinand shipwrecks on their island, then he and Miranda fall in love. Typical Shakespeare stuff."

Matt laughed at your synopsis, shaking his head, "And you're auditioning for Miranda, I'm guessing?"

"Nope, Caliban," you snarked in return. Matt rolled his eyes as you stuck your tongue out at him.

"Alright, Caliban. Which scene are we reading?"

"The last part of Act Three, Scene One," you said, flipping your script to the correct page, "Should be page ten in your booklet."

Crinkling pages filled the comfortable silence between you. It was quick work to find the correct page, considering the section you'd be reading from was labeled "MIRANDA AUDITION." The booklet lay open in your palms as you scanned briefly through the lines. You could almost feel the adoration formed by the prose, the pure affection woven into the words. Shakespeare truly was a genius.

"Okay, page ten," Matt announced, breaking your silent reverence of The Bard. You cleared your throat.

"Right. Ready?" you asked as you straightened your posture. Matt nodded, gesturing for you to start. A deep breath filled your lungs, chest expanding like a balloon, as you tamped down your nerves.

"Do you love me?" you read from the script. You glanced at Matt out of the corner of your eye. His lips ticked up in the corners as he read his part.

"Oh heaven, oh earth, bear witness to this sound," he began, fingers rapidly skimming over the pages, "And crown what I profess with kind event if I speak true. If hollowly, invert what best is boded me to mischief. I, beyond all limit of what else in the world, do love, prize and honor you."

You couldn't breathe. Not when Matt's sightless gaze was fixed right between your eyes. Not when this profession of love came from him so earnestly. Not when your years of pining after him had finally bubbled to the surface.

"I-I am a fool," you stuttered. You shook your head, clearing the distracting thoughts, then tried again, "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of."

Matt placed his free hand on your knee. Your heart pounded against your ribs, anticipation leaking into your blood like ink in water.

"Wherefore weep you?" he read softly. His dark eyes traced the space around your head. Almost searching, scouring for your answer in the planes of your face.

"At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer what I desire to give, and much less take what I shall die to want. But this is trifling. And all the more it seeks to hide itself, the bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning, and prompt me, plain and holy innocence. I am your wife, if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow you may deny me, but I'll be your servant. Whether you will or no."

A tense silence fell over the two of you like a sudden burst of snow. Your pulse coursed rapidly under your heated skin. The weight of the line you'd read felt world-encompassing. Would he understand that it wasn't just you reading words? That the meaning behind them is what you felt?

"My mistress, dearest, and I thus humble ever," Matt whispered, a faint glance of understanding passing behind his eyes. You swallowed a lump the size of a baseball.

"My husband then?"

The hand nearly burning a hole in your knee wrapped its fingers around your own.

"Ay, with a heart as willing as bondage ever of freedom. Here's my hand," Matt breathed, fingers tangling with yours. Your breath caught behind your lips. This is happening.

"And mine, with my heart in it," you said shakily.

That same silence. Charged like the static before a lightning strike. Nearly choking you with how intense the moment felt. The pad of Matt's thumb rubbed circles into the back of your hand.

“Does Ferdinand get to kiss Miranda in this scene?” he asked, gaze landing on your lips. Your heart leapt like a horse over a hurdle. Swirls of anxiety and finally! chased each other through your mind.

“It-it’s not in the script, but I think ad-libbing is more than okay,” you said as your heartbeat roared in your ears. Matt’s signature, cocky smirk pulled at his lips.

His hand seemed to move in slow motion as it lifted from his braille script and cradled your jaw. Palm warm, almost searing, and calloused like you could barely believe. Yet you’d never felt anything softer. His thumb passed over your flushed cheek slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away, before it caught on your bottom lip.

“Is this okay?” Matt asked, voice barely above a whisper, as his thumb pulled gently on your lip. A shudder rolled over your spine like rumbling thunder.

“Yes,” you uttered with a quick nod.

Before you could blink, his lips were pressed against yours. Lightning struck your mind and rendered you breathless. Shocks coursed through your veins. Your heart nearly stopped beating.

He was kissing you.

Matthew Michael fucking Murdock was kissing you.

You quickly reached out and clung to him like he was your lifeline. You didn’t want this moment to end. This singularity that felt impossible, your whole life building to this one kiss. 

Warm fingers carded through your hair and tangled in the strands. Matt pulled you closer, your chests pressed together. He swiped his tongue along your lips to silently ask permission. You more than welcomed the intrusion as an involuntary moan kicked up your throat, opening your mouth to grant him entrance. A groan of his own matched yours in kind. He licked into you like you were the first drop of water after a month in the desert. Drinking from you, clinging to you, almost desperate.

Your head was spinning. You could barely breathe. Your hands shook where they clung to Matt’s t-shirt.

And just like that, it was over. Matt parted from you like separating two strong magnets. His forehead rested against yours, heaving breaths puffing along your cheeks. You screwed your eyes shut at the loss of his lips on yours.

“I could… I could do that forever,” Matt laughed breathlessly. You grinned as you opened your eyes. His sightless gaze was fixed on you. Pure adoration flowed from his joyful expression, how his eyes crinkled in the corners and how his dimples dug into his cheeks. You couldn’t help but match his wide smile.

“Me too,” was your clever response. You inwardly groaned at your quick wit. Matt chuckled, placing a chaste kiss to your hairline.

“When’s your audition?” he asked, like how close he was didn’t render your mind completely useless. You took a moment to gather your deteriorating thoughts.

“Tonight. At eight,” you said. Matt hummed.

“And what time is it now?”

You glanced at the digital clock that sat on your nightstand. In bold, red letters, the clock displayed “4:48 pm.”

“Almost five,” you replied. Matt ran the tips of his nails over your scalp. Pulses of pleasure coursed through you, your head tipping back in his hands, as your eyes fluttered shut.

“I think that’s plenty of time to run the scene some more, don’t you think?” he suggested, voice a low rumble deep in his chest. All you could do was nod.

And if rehearsal ran long, who were you to object?

[imsobadatnicknames2]

Before Black Salt Temple, I actually made two other attempts at creating a starter module to include in the full version of the Mörk Själ rulebook. My approach for these was to try to create a "microcosm" of a souls game with a few distinct interconnected areas, and they both were scrapped when I realized I would just keep adding stuff and with how many ideas I had for areas I wanted to add they were quickly ballooning past anything that would fit into the scope of a starter module. Which is why in Black Salt Temple I decided to restrict my scope and keep it contained to a single location.

I'm still pretty fond of the second one here. As you can see it's clearly color-coded: The blue area was intended to be a prison which would serve as the start location, the read area was intended to be an Undead Burg-type ruined city, light gray was a cementery+catacombs, dark gray was intended to be a sewer+a few cave systems, and the golden area on top was intended to be a palace-typle place which would require the players to do some stuff in the other locations to be able to gain access to. I want to maybe finish it in the future, or at least finish the palace and release it as a standalone area, I really liked how it was coming around and don't want it to go to waste.

[bluepallilworld]

Helloooooo! So I promised a surprise for Mimosa's birthday and here it is! 🎉✨

I made a ghost/ukagaka of him and Mu!!!!

If you don't know what a ghost is, it's a sort of desktop pet! You can have them on the corner of your screen or interact with them! Play with them! Give them gifts! Talk with them! Pet them... Many things to do ;)

If you never had a ghost, I'm gonna explain how to download everything to make them work! If you're not a beginner, you can scroll and download the files (first the font, second the balloon then the nar ;3c)

Oooook lesssgo, the steps:

Download SSP on your computer! It's the thing ghosts work on, the files are all but useless without it! Here's the link: [http://ssp.shillest.net/] Fair warning, it's gonna be in japanese- Don't be scared and just click the download button!

2. Double click on the thingie, and unzip it! I advise to not unzip it in your downloads and give it its own secured folder however ;P

Then to start SSP click on the ribbon in the now unzipped files, ignore the rest, there are just "the guts" on the ghost (I mean you can read the "README" file if you're unfamiliar to all this or are curious, it explains stuff)

3. Let the cat girl (Emily) talks for a second (in japanese sorry be patient) until it opens a lil' window with stuff written (in japanese ¯\_(ツ)_/¯). Click on the right button at the bottom

4. You're good to install them now! Download and install the three files down there ! In that order: the font, the balloon, the nar

Happy Monkey font!

Mimosa talks with the happy monkey font, if you don't have it already (I didn't), download the font and install it on your computer so that what he says doesn't look weird! I promise it will look neater if you do that!

the balloon file (zip)

It's his personal talking bubble! If you don't have it, the bubble won't be adapted to them. ;w;

Download it and drag the file on the japanese-talking girl, she will do the work for you!

Open the right-click menu by, well, right-clicking on the girl and go to the balloon and select "mimomu-balloon". You might want to change the language to "english" as well! The balloon is set!

Do that before installing the nar or he won't use the good bubble for the introduction!

the nar file of the ghost

And it's the important file with the kids in it :3

Download it! If you have the font and the balloon installed, you can go and drag the nar file on Emily and you'll be done! You can change ghost in the right-click menu if you want ;3

Tell me if something is unclear <3

Now I have people to thank!

@creative-firebug was the big motivator and enabler! No ghost without them. And they found lil' bugs in it so I could fix them before putting it out in the wild too! Getting lil' hypes, hearts and advices really helps when you're working on something for months! And they linked me the tutorial so yes, enabler.

@zarla-s has created the template I used (Girl and triangle!)! I knew nothing (and still don't know a lot) of code and just how it works at all so thanks for that :D

@ukagakadreamteam answered questions I had and half of the fun stuff wouldn't have been possible without their answers!!!!!

Both Mimosa and Mu are my lil' kiddos shipkiddies