#every time. every time i think about him i am overwhelmed with love for this character

[myhouse-mychair-myfics]

Pieced Together

Part 3 of Suppressed Bond and Building Bridges

Ridoc Gamlyn x Marked!Reader

A/N: Stop this turned out so cute!

“Soooo?”

“Go. Away. Aotrom. I do not wish to speak with you.”

This back and forth had been the majority of Andell’s week in the Vale. He was getting rather tired of it.

“I did not incinerate your rider for his… friendship with mine. That is all there is to speak about.”

“Because?”

“If you are attempting to bait me into saying something, youngling, I assure you, you will be at it for a very, very long time.”

“I am well aware of your age, old timer.”

Andell growled at the younger dragon, even as the Riot launched into the sky to travel to the flight field.

“All I wish to say is that Gamlyn made quite the impression on you, didn’t he?”

Andell refused to answer for the longest time, but Aotrom practiced patience on the flight over, sticking close but not saying anything.

When they finally landed, right next to each other, Andell begrudgingly grumbled, “He is kind. He has heart. He would protect her. What more do you want me to say?”

Aotrom raised his head a little higher in triumph and remained quiet. A silent ‘glad you see it my way’, earning him a grumble of discontent from Andell.

You and Ridoc, along with the rest of the second years, filed in with your dragons.

You looked over at him, standing next to you in Aotrom’s shadow, and smiled brightly. “Hey!”

“Hi” Ridoc squeaked.

“Now would be an opportune time to say something,” Aotrom coaxed.

“Not that easy,” Ridoc shot back, fear rising in his chest.

Aotrom expelled a frustrated stream of air, ruffling Ridoc’s curls.

“Ridoc?” you asked, “You okay?”

“Mhmm!” He squeaked, resolutely not looking at you.

You cocked your head, squinting at him confused before looking up at Andell. “Did Aotrom say anything-“

But before he could answer you, class began again.

In the following days, it seemed at every opportunity, Ridoc made himself scarce when he sensed the two of you could potentially be alone.

It had gotten so bad that you’d taken to pacing in front of Andell in the flight field about it, just to vent your frustrations. You could’ve told Vi, Rhi or Sawyer, but you knew they’d try to meddle and fix it. This was between you and Ridoc. If he wanted to fix it, he’d fix it.

“I mean, what gives? I thought the two of us were, ya know, getting…”

“Closer to mated status?” Andell offered lazily from his lounging position on the ground in front of you.

You sputtered and stopped, embarrassed as you looked at your dragon. “I… buh… uh… no! It’s not- That’s not what-“

“Sweet one, you do remember how well I know you, right?” Andell raised his head to be more level with you.

“I just…”

“Aotrom has attempted speaking to me on the boy’s behalf. I will admit that I’ve been… overprotective of you-“

“I understand-“ you interjected.

“-Let me finish, dear one. I have perhaps been too… obstinate in the wake of this situation. I fear I could have scared the boy off. It was never my intention to cause you harm.”

“But that’s not true, though!” You argued, using the clever mind of yours that Andell was so proud of, “Ridoc stood up to you that day. He’s never shied away from your gaze since. It’s not you. I guess… that means… it must be me.”

You sounded so sad that the urge to comfort you nearly overwhelmed the dragon as he stood.

Through your head, emotions and memories associated with your marked arm swirled. The other-ization you and your fellow marked ones experienced on a daily basis playing out in ugly fashion through your mind. Ridoc had promised he’d be there for you when you were at your most vulnerable. He may not have resented your mark, but he had abandoned you now all the same. It was hard not to associate the sensation.

Andell’s head came into view, stalling you out of your negative spiral.

“Allow me to tell you a story, little one.” When you nodded, Andell continued, “I think I know what your would-be mate is going through. When I was young, I met… the love of my life in Imelda. Orange like a summer sunset and just as beautiful.”

Andell paused and you reached forward, rubbing his snout in comfort, understanding the weight of the dragon he was telling you about. The one that was no longer with him.

You could feel his soft smile in his words as he went on, “she terrified me. I had no idea what to do in her presence. I figured she would never even look my way if I so much as attempted to contact her, much less tell her how in awe I was of her. But she noticed. Oh, did she notice. She cornered me, confronted me and I all but squeaked everything she’d wanted to draw out of me. She confessed a far less embarrassing version of the same and we loved each other for nearly a century after that…”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “I wish I could have met her.”

“She would have loved to tease you. She likely would have been Aotrom’s competition for that boy,” Andell responded fondly.

“Really!?”

“She’d have won too…” Andell weakly chuffed, riding a wave of grief for a moment with you standing with him. “But what I mean to say is, I think you should talk to this boy, attempt to figure the situation out for yourself. He’s not talking to you, so you should find him. Don’t give up, don’t let him run until you get your answer.”

“Like Imelda did with you,” you guessed, saying his mate’s name with reverence and care.

“Exactly…” Andell told you with a weak chuckle.

For someone who loved to be the center of attention with his class clown routine, Ridoc Gamlyn was frustratingly good at hiding from you. Every time you asked your friends where he was, he was always gone by the time you’d get there.

“Drastic measures may be required,” you thought to Andell, who had the audacity to laugh back at your serious tone.

Later, you were walking with Bodhi on the way to the sparring gym with the rest of your wing.

“And you’re sure you want to do this?” he asked tentatively.

“Would I have asked you if I wasn’t?”

Bodhi watched you with those kind eyes you’d grown up with, waiting for more.

“He won’t talk to me otherwise,” you sighed, “I’ve tried everything else.”

“If you’re sure,” he said, “we saw how well this worked for Aetos.”

“It’s not a challenge, it’s sparring and I don’t have a classified memory reading signet now, do I?”

Bodhi nodded his head, conceding that point to you. “Sure.”

“He doesn’t have to tell me anything, I just, can’t find any other way to talk to him, you know?”

Bodhi reached over and ruffled your hair. “I’ll pair you two up.”

“Thanks, Bo.”

“Anything for you, kiddo.”

“One year, Bodhi! One year!”

“Ehh,” he shrugged with a laugh.

Once inside, just like you thought, Ridoc stood as far from you as he could get while looking casual. You kept trying to catch his eye, but all you got were flushed cheeks and a nervous glance.

Bodhi looked up at you from where he rattled off the sparring pairs through the section. You nodded once, getting a nod back.

He called your last name and Ridoc’s. Ridoc’s gaze snapped to you. Your expression back was one of soft sadness.

He didn’t complain, remaining mostly silent as the two of you took to the mat.

“This is probably the quietest you’ve ever been around me,” you said as the two of you circled each other. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Violet, Rhiannon and Sawyer paying more attention to the two of you than their own training.

Ridoc gulped.

“Ridoc please, I’m not going to bite your head off, just talk to me!” You lunged forward, attempting to grab his arm and spin him around.

He’d seen that coming though, catching your arm in his and pulling you into a hold.

You struggled against him, grunting as you maneuvered your leg around his. In one swift movement you’d twisted and flipped Ridoc over onto his back in the mat. Caging him in with your arms and legs, hovering above him, you made no effort to hide the hurt on your face.

“Why have you been avoiding me? Is it something I did? Something I said?”

Ridoc’s expression turned pained, but not due to any blow you’d landed on him physically. “It’s nothing you could’ve done, Princess.”

He caged one of your arms, wrapping his around it and pulled, unsteadying you. Like a table with three legs. He pushed your side with his other hand and flipped your positions.

“Then what is it?” you asked, struggling to flip your way out of his hold.

“Because-“

You bucked your hips into him, toppling him to the mat and pushing away from him. You raised yourself to standing and so did he, you pulling your palms up to either side of your face.

“Why?” you shouted. The rest of the room might as well have been empty as far as you were concerned. “Why won’t you talk to me?” you whispered.

Ridoc had gotten just as lost in this emotional conflict as you had. “Because it’s really fucking hard!” He held one hand to his heart and gestured with his other one. “You are- I can’t- I thought proving to Andell he could trust me would be the hardest part, but it wasn’t alright, this is way harder!”

“Ridoc-“ You remembered what Andell had said to you about this while situation, how it echoed his history with his mate. But accepting those similarities and allowing yourself to hope for the outcome you wanted was easier said than done. In your experience, things rarely turned out in the best case scenario.

“I thought I could do this, but gods, you’re so smart, so kind in the wake of all the bullshit you go through, and are a general badass. Not to mention the hottest girl in the entire quadrant.”

“Ridoc-“ you said again, fully flushed this time.

“Don’t even try to say shit, it’s true! You’re fucking amazing, Princess, and I’ve been avoiding you because I have no idea how to tell you just how gods damned in love with you I am!”

Suffice to say, everyone heard that, but you didn’t care.

“Ridoc?”

“Yeah?”

You stepped forward and clutched the lapels of his jacket, forcefully pulling him to you as you surged your lips into his.

He groaned into the kiss, grabbing blindly at your waist and pulling you even closer to him as soon as he could.

It was just the two of you basking in that moment for a handful of seconds before you heard whistles and shouts behind you.

“Fucking told you!” you heard Sawyer shout over the sounds of Rhiannon’s whooping. You looked over your shoulder to find Violet smiling, Quinn laughing and Imogen slow clapping. You beamed back at them.

“Hey, hey,” Ridoc said, pulling your chin back to him, “don’t look at them, look at me.”

“Needy already?” you snickered.

“You have no idea,” he sighed contentedly, “does this mean you forgive me?”

You pretended to think, “bearing your soul to me in front of the entire Wing feels like a sufficient enough grand gesture.”

“You’re gonna have fun with this aren’t you?” Ridoc smiled.

“Not as much as they will,” you said, tossing your thumb over your shoulder before clasping your hands behind his head. “Notorious bachelor, Ridoc Gamlyn, off the market… How ever will the ladies manage?”

“Princess,” he said breathily, already leaning in, “I couldn’t care less.”

Back in the Vale, Aotrom sat next to Andell with the shittiest dragon smile the Empyrean had likely ever seen.

“Not a word from you, youngling, not a word.” Though in his heart, Andell was over the moon for you. As long as you were happy, he could handle a little smugness.

[raekensluver]

could you write something about arthurtv and reader are dating and have been having sex in a pretty vanilla way for a while. then something happens between the two where Arthur discovers that he likes to be submissive in bed. im imagining some sort of service kink/praise kink. he’s shy at first but quickly opens up!! thanks in advance i love your work sm xx

i tried lol...i'm not too good at writing dom!reader

contains: suggestive content/smut(?), established relationship

sub!arthur frederick x dom!fem!reader

it happens naturally. no big conversation. no planned change.

just a moment- small, quiet- where something clicks.

you’re straddling him, hips moving slow and steady, your hands braced on his chest. he’s already breathless beneath you, eyes half-lidded, fingers digging into the sheets like he’s holding on for dear life.

and then you say it. barely above a whisper.

“you’re being so good for me.”

his head tips back with a groan. sharp, sudden, like the words physically hit him.

you pause. tilt your head.

“you liked that.”

arthur blinks up at you, chest rising fast, pink dusting the tips of his ears.

“i…yeah. i think i did.”

you smile, slow and sweet. lean down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “want me to say it again?”

he nods before he can think twice. “please.”

so you do.

you roll your hips again, gentle, just enough to make him gasp - and this time, you stay close to his ear.

“you’re doing so good, arthur. letting me take care of you. just like that.”

his hands fist in the sheets. his breath hitches. he looks wrecked.

and that’s when you know.

he’s still figuring it out- still new to this- but his body’s already giving him away.

“you don’t have to do anything,” you murmur, running your fingers down his chest, “just lie back and be good for me.”

and god, the way he shivers when you say that? the soft moan he lets out when you kiss down his stomach and take your time with him?

he’s in heaven.

not because he’s in control- but because he’s not. because he doesn’t have to think. because he can just… give in.

and he does. beautifully.

you guide his hands to your waist. you tell him exactly how you want him to touch you, where to kiss, how to move- and he follows every word like it’s gospel.

like making you happy is the only thing that matters.

and when he comes, it’s with your name on his lips and “am i still being good?” whispered against your neck.

you smile, hold his face, kiss him slow.

“you were perfect.”

and the way he looks at you then? like he’s soaked in affection, soft and overwhelmed and completely yours?

yeah. this is just the beginning.

[lucybronzey]

quiet in the chaos - pedro pascal

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader warnings: physical anxiety, non-exclusive relationship, stardom, the reader is her late 20s & plus-size, pedro is 50. no proof reading done. author’s note: let's say the new film is named 'beautiful things' - it's just fictional. please note that i’m dyslexic & non-native english speaker - i make mistakes! feedback is very welcomed! enjoy! word count: 4.7k NO MINORS! 18+ READERS ONLY!

It was another rainy but summer day in London. It had become your third home at this point as the majority of your work and projects were happening in this massive city. London was a city where you felt like sudden grey fog had appeared every time you arrived here but you kind of had to make it feel like home. As a northern European woman, moving to Manchester after graduating secondary school and going straight into the depths and academics of higher education for 4 years, you fell in love with that bustling, amazing city whose symbol was a working bee. You felt like and as one of that. Working through your complicated steps to become a songwriter and a singer, it was finally paying off - but with its complications, of course. Physical anxiety was something you really did not wish upon your worst enemy. It was eating out your soul, mainly thinking it was messing up your heart and constantly worrying about it. But as you were scribbling through music notes and papers, anxiety, the bitch, was fading away. You were lucky enough to compose a number of songs to a new film where one of your favourite male crushes was the main lead. The directors and producers of the film even created a separate short scene for the film where you had to perform your original score yourself, with a philharmonic orchestra - it was your dream come true! You could never in a million years think that a small town lass from a small ass country in northern Europe would reach this sort of level.

A bit of a backstory.

After the film had wrapped up, you took a bit of time for yourself - mainly to focus on your mental health. Even though the music writing never stopped, you wanted a break from the spotlight and everything. A month after the wrap-up, you received a brief, lovely message from the male main lead from the film - Pedro Pascal. You were so certain that your heart had gone into tachycardia but it was just your anxiety playing with your adrenaline hormones in your body. The message read:

'Hi there, so sorry to just pop up like that and out of nowhere. It's Pedro, if you remember me from the film set. I just wanted to say I am very sorry for not saying hello and goodbye after the wrap-up as it got so busy! But anyways, I am back in Manchester for a quick trip and thought if you want to grab a coffee, or maybe you prefer a cup of tea. Would be nice to talk and discuss your music. Looking forward to hearing back from you. Pedro.'

You did think of him as the epitome and an actual example of what a gentleman is and should be. You were hitting your refillable vape puffs in and out whilst reading the message as you could not process the thoughts in your confused brain. It had hit you like a massive train had smashed into you. Your brain was kind of thudding in your head, questions starting to appear. How would the Pedro Pascal even remember you? How would he spend his precious, yet busy time to text you? Enough asked. He had the time to apologise for not saying goodbye. Enough to ask for a moment of your time. Internally, you were screaming and pretty much fangirling.

You did the thing you always did when overwhelmed - you opened your notes app, wrote a list of pros and cons of yourself, just to get it out of your system. After getting all that stone-hard feeling out, you wrote back to him:

'Hi Pedro! I definitely remember you haha and do not worry about not saying goodbye—film sets are chaos. I am still in Manchester as I live here, so a coffee sounds great. Just tell me when and where :)'

He replied eight minutes later. It felt surreal to you. Fiddling your thumb and middle fingers pads together to calm yourself down, you now had a mission for yourself - meet Pedro Pascal and at the correct time (in your mind you were telling yourself you should always be early because of time anxiety).

Saturday arrived, you met him in the Northern Quarter, at a tucked-away café that was half plants, half overpriced pastries but all had a good atmosphere as you knew the area, environment and people behind the café till. You had chosen a corner booth that let you keep your back to the wall and eyes on the door—an anxiety habit. You wore something that was not trying too hard but definitely was not thrown together. Cargo trousers. A soft long-sleeved Lucy & Yak top. You had straightened your hair but let it frizz naturally at the ends. You had not even realised how much your anxiety had tried your lips until the tenth time you reapplied lip balm. It was kind of a coping mechanism to you.

And then he walked in.

The faint jingle of the café door bell, a soft breeze of cool air trailing in behind him, and then—there he was. Pedro was there. As if the universe had sketched him in charcoal against the soft amber glow of the café’s filament bulbs. He wore a cap, of course. A fucking baseball cap he probably had purchased from the US of A. Charcoal black, just snug enough to crown his head while leaving loose, tired curls escaping near his ears and the nape of his neck. His hair looked like it had been raked through with his fingers a dozen times that morning—half-styled, half-forgotten. Dark sunglasses clung to the bridge of his nose, though the cloudy Manchester skies did not demand them. His worn-out shirt, in burgundy colour, hung loose over his frame like it had stories of airports and late-night hotel lobbies stitched into the seams.

But it was his face—the parts you could see—that stopped your breath short.

He looked…a bit tired. The kind of beautiful tiredness that people write poems and song lyrics about. The kind that only comes from weeks of work, too little sleep and just enough self-awareness to carry it with quiet grace. There was the faintest stubble on his jaw, the kind that made him look even more like the dream-version of a man who only existed in the morning daydreams. His lips were parted slightly as he scanned the room, like he was already half-smiling. And then his eyes found yours.

That was when it hit.

Not just nerves. Not just the adrenaline whispering through your limbs like you had accidentally plugged yourself into an electrical socket. No—recognition. Like he had seen you before. Not just on set. But in another lifetime. Another plane of existence. He smiled —softly, slowly. That familiar Pedro smile - one corner tugging up more than the other, a flicker of amusement under heavy lids. As if he was not just glad to see you—he was relieved.

He did not rush over. He moved the way he always seemed to —measured, present, like nothing around him could touch him unless he allowed it. People barely noticed him, and yet he filled the space. He slipped off his sunglasses once he was close enough to your table, revealing those unmistakable eyes — deep-set, impossibly gentle, with a touch of something tired but kind. They flicked over your face, taking you in, reading you and his smile widened by just a notch—enough to confirm this was not polite. It looked kind of personal.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a balm. Low, like velvet warmed by the sun. “Didn’t make you wait too long, did I?”

You shook your head and found your voice, somewhere between the anxious pounding of your pulse. “I—no. I got here early.”

“Of course you did,” he said, like it explained everything. “Mind if I…?”

You gestured toward the seat across from you, trying to swallow the nervous laugh that nearly escaped. “Please. Sit.”

He slid into the seat with a sigh that felt like it came from someplace older than this moment—like he had been carrying something heavy all morning and now, at last, he could let part of it down. He looked around the café briefly, then back at you.

“I haven’t even ordered,” he murmured, setting his phone screen-down on the table. “I didn’t know if I should wait or just guess your drink order and risk total embarrassment.”

You smiled. “I appreciate the restraint. I’m not even sure what I want yet.”

There was a short, quiet pause. Comfortable. He studied you for a second—not with hunger or flirtation, but with curiosity. Like he was clocking every movement, every tiny tell.

“You okay?” he asked, gently. “You all good?” he questioned again.

Shit. Your thumb had been rubbing raw circles over your index finger. You froze for half a second, then forced your hand flat on the table.

“Yeah,” you lied. “Just… caffeine-deprived.”

He didn’t buy it. Not fully. But he let it slide, offered you a knowing smile and stood halfway from his seat.

“Let me grab us something,” he said. “What’s your go-to? Please don’t say pumpkin spice latte.”

You let out a short laugh—real, this time. “Just a flat white. Either normal whole milk or soy one, if they’ve got it.”

He tapped twice on the table in acknowledgment. “Perfect. Be right back.”

You watched him at the counter—charming the barista with some joke you couldn’t hear, shoulders relaxed, his presence effortlessly magnetic. It was absurd, really. That someone like him had remembered you. That he had messaged first. That he had shown up. And yet—here he was. Ordering your coffee. Wearing a hoodie and a fucking beanie. And here you were—breathing through the fog of your body’s resistance, trying not to stim too obviously, trying to pretend this was not the biggest moment you would have had in months.

You took a deep breath. Thought about the music. The moment on set. The version of you who had stood in front of an entire orchestra and sung like your chest was not breaking apart under the weight of her own heartbeat.

Pedro returned a moment later, two cups in hand and a paper bag folded shut at the top.

“They had soy milk,” he announced proudly, sliding the cup toward you. “And I got a pain au chocolat. I don’t know if you’re into that kind of morning romance, but I am.”

You smiled, fingers curling around the warm cup.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his coffee slightly.

“Cheers,” you echoed, trying not to shake.

And just like that, it began.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Not with fireworks.

Just two hands around warm cups, one pastry between you and the kind of quiet attention that said - this could become something real. If you both let it. But no rushing, absolutely not.

What followed after that first coffee was not a declaration, was not a whirlwind—it was a quiet, consistent unfolding, like pages turning themselves one after the other before either of you realised you were halfway through a chapter; Pedro started appearing in your calendar in ways that felt casual on the surface but slowly grew into something foundational - a shared dinner when he was in town again for a press junket, a walk in the park when you both needed air but did not want solitude, late-night FaceTimes where you both looked terrible and unfiltered, yet stayed on the call for hours because neither of you wanted to be the one to say goodnight; he learned about your anxiety not because you sat him down and made a speech, but because you could not hide it forever—he noticed the way your fingers would not stay still when too many voices buzzed around you, the way you avoided heights or how you sometimes stood still in a room, frozen, your own breath betraying you—and instead of recoiling or offering empty reassurance, he quietly adapted - kept spaces a bit quieter, walked slower, kept gum in his pockets because he had once read somewhere it helped, offered you his hoodie or blazer not because you were cold, but because it was heavy and familiar and smelled like laundry and safety; and in return, you learned that for all his charisma, Pedro was not untouched by fear—his came in the form of deep loneliness, of hotel rooms that blurred into each other, of not being sure when he was being wanted for who he was or just the illusion of him, and he found your blunt honesty refreshing in a world of ego polishing. He said once, tucked under a blanket on your old Manchester couch, that your anxiety did not scare him—it grounded him, made everything feel more real, more earned—and it was somewhere between the fifth time you slept in his hotel bed in London without touching and the third time you kissed without ever defining what it meant, that you both quietly agreed to this arrangement - no labels, no need to perform commitment, just honesty and presence and showing up for each other without needing to pin it down with words.

When you got the London contract and your music started making waves in rooms, studios, venues and other places, you never thought what sort of another world or environment you would enter, he did not hesitate—he offered to help you move, stayed quiet when you cried at the stress of it all and kept showing up, slipping between the folds of your chaotic life like he belonged there. And maybe he did, even if neither of you dared to say mine out loud.

Now back to the present day.

The skies over London were the colour of wet concrete—blank, heavy, unapologetic. You watched them through your flat’s wide living room window, wrapped in Pedro’s oversized t-shirt, sleeves tugged past your wrists. He had left it in your wardrobe weeks ago, muttering something about “accidental ownership,” but you had adopted it without hesitation, like it had always belonged to you. The t-shirt was worn in the elbows and smelled faintly of cedar and the hotel cologne he sometimes used when he felt like dressing up and right now it was the only thing keeping you tethered. Your knees were drawn up on the sofa, socked feet tucked beneath you.

You didn’t move. Not yet. You were too busy managing the tightrope of dread sitting in your chest. It was not the interview itself. Not really. You could talk about music. You could handle lighting and cameras and scripts. But it was the in-between moments—the unknowns. The waiting in rooms echoed. Small talk with stylists. The way your body reacted when you could not predict things. You had woken up too early that morning, heart already racing, body too alert for what should have been a slow, grey day. You had gulped down your 10mg propranolol before brushing your teeth. Sat on the closed toilet lid and waited for your pulse to stop trying to punch through your neck. You had taken your usual stack of supplements with lukewarm water, nearly gagging on the magnesium tablet. No food yet. Could not stomach it. Just cold milk, maybe. Yes, you knew that Pedro hated milk but he did not mind you drinking it. Maybe a banana later, if your hands stopped trembling.

You were in your late twenties now, though some mornings you felt more ancient than that—like your bones had been carrying more than your body for longer than you could remember. Being a plus-size woman in the public eye was not something you ever planned for - it was not written in any of your dreams when you used to write lyrics in the corners of your mathematics notes or hum melodies in the back of buses. Although you were really confident in yourself and you did not mind some bastards wasting their time and energy with their negativity. But the spotlight came anyway. And with it came the people who thought your worth was up for debate. Your team had warned you that Daily Mail had been writing something vile before the WIRED interview was teased on socials.. You had not planned on reading it—but curiosity, as always, betrayed you. The headline read something like: ‘‘Beautiful things’ not seen: Plus-Size Songstress Turns Heads in Unlikely Industry Climb”—and the article itself was a thin veil of polished mockery, calling your performance “surprisingly captivating for someone with a body that defies pop norms” and praising your “bravery” for existing in public in a size above ten. They quoted your lyrics with the same tone they had reserved for a well-behaved puppy. Not talent. Not skill. Just novelty.

Pedro had woken just after you, groggy and shirtless, hair a mess of curls flattened on one side. He had not said anything at first—just leaned against the doorway and watched you sort through your anxiety basket: fidget rings, gum, spare earbuds, Rescue Remedy drops, the little lavender-scented inhaler that did not really work but gave you something to do with your hands. Then, slowly, he crossed the room, dropped a kiss to your forehead, and murmured.

“Interview day, huh?”

And you nodded, eyes too wide. He did not push or press into the situation. Never did. Just brewed the tea for you, laid out your softest pair of trousers and the top with embroidered flowers you liked under the blazer Wired had requested you could wear.

Now, the kettle has gone silent again. Steam clouded the windows. You forced yourself up, legs unsteady, the familiar tingling crawling across your arms and shoulders. Your physical anxiety was always worse on days like this—when you had to perform being okay. When people expected a poised, interesting young artist, rising like a phoenix from the gloom of northern obscurity. They did not see the nervous tapping of your thumbs, the way you had accidentally scratched your knuckles raw last week before a recording session. You poured your tea slowly, trying to steady your breath to the rhythm of the flow. Pedro’s voice floated in from the hallway, soft and amused.

“You wearing my t-shirt to the Wired interview, baby?”

You smirked, eyes on the cup. “Tempted.”

He watched you for a second, then crossed to gently take your hand, the one that had been tapping on the counter. He stilled it with his palm, thumb brushing over your pulse point.

“You're doing the thing,” he said softly.

“I know,” you breathed, cheeks warming. “Can’t help it.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “You just have to get through the next hour. Then I’ll buy you something stupid from Harrods or whatever shop you would like me to go to. A candle. Or, I don’t know, a hat shaped like a frog.”

That made you laugh, small and real. You leaned into his touch for a moment, Pedro kissing the top of your head softly. Let the stillness wash over you. Then the moment passed—because you had to keep moving or fall apart. You had to get dressed, layering clothes like armour, tugging the blazer sleeves over your wrists until they almost hid your hands. Your stylist would fix that, but for now, it felt safe. Pedro waited by the door, keys in hand, already holding your vape and your almost ending lip balm he had found in your tote bag last week and declared “a fucking lifesaver.”

In the car, London passed in its usual blur of noise and fogged windows. Pedro sat beside you, quietly watching your leg bounce, occasionally placing a grounding hand on your thigh. You barely spoke. Didn’t need to. The silence between you was old now, worn in like good shoes.

Outside the Wired office, the driver opened the door. Pedro touched your hand, giving you the sense of strength and calmness in you.

“You’ve got this,” he said. Just naming the truth, he truly believed in you. No matter how bad your anxiety was, Pedro always knew that you can come out of the anxious situations as a strong working bee.

The whiteboard was too clean. The lights were too hot. The silence between the director’s cue and the first question stretched a beat too long.

You’d practiced smiling in the mirror that morning—curved lips, soft eyes, shoulders pulled down—but now everything felt stiff. It all felt a bit too foreign to you. Your fingers were tapping a silent rhythm on your thigh and your left ankle bounced just out of frame.

The interviewer’s voice came in like a bell through fog: “Ready?”

You nodded, your throat dry. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The board was flipped.

“Why is Y/N trending?”

You blinked—twice, rapid, the kind of blink your body did when your brain scrambled for solid ground. Your lashes fluttered like a glitch in the system, a physical stutter that you had come to recognise as the earliest flag of rising nerves. Then came the laugh, soft and breathy—more of an exhale pushed through a tight chest than anything deliberate. It was not really the root of your confidence. It was camouflage. A reflex that wrapped your discomfort in charm. You looked slightly off-camera for a half-second, grounding yourself, before meeting the lens again with a crooked smile. “Hopefully not because I’ve done something embarrassing. Again.”

The crew laughed. Pedro smiled behind the camera, arms crossed, that navy blazer wrapped around him like it belonged to both of you now. He did not say anything, but your eyes flicked to him—just for a second—and steadied.

You tore the strip off the board. The sound—rrrip—was too loud in your ears. Your hands shook slightly. You masked it by brushing hair behind your ear, then clasped your palms in your lap. Classic self-soothing. You knew it and Pedro knew it.

“Um. I think I’m trending because a song I wrote for a film went kind of… feral on TikTok. And also different, other social media outlets, right? Like this one here, doing this? It’s always weird being the answer to a question like that. I still feel like someone should be asking me why I’m here.”

“Can Y/N actually sing?”

You grinned, finally. “No, I’m a myth. It’s just AI now.”

The nerves dipped for a second, replaced with a flicker of playfulness. “Yes. I can sing. Whether I should sing depends on the day, my sleep, my blood pressure, and if I’ve eaten anything other than coffee and hitting my flavoured air in the last 24 hours.”

More laughter. Pedro chuckled, quietly. You did not look at him this time—but you felt it. A warm tether.

“Is Y/N plus-size?”

Your hand paused on the next strip. You stared at it a beat longer than the others.

“Ah,” you said softly. “This one.”

You ripped the strip off, fingers tightening around the edge of the board as you did.

“Yes. I am. I'm plus-size. Fat. Thick. Whatever term your grandmother uses when she tries to be polite but fails miserably.” Your voice did not shake, though your throat felt glassy. “And I’m also a songwriter. And a singer. And—some days—an okay human.”

A breath. You let it linger. You looked directly at the camera now.

“And if my body makes someone more interested in music? Or less? That’s not really my business. I’m just trying to make stuff that makes people feel less alone. Including me.”

There was a small beat of silence in the studio, but it was the good kind. The kind that didn’t buzz with awkwardness, but with care. Pedro’s arms were crossed still, but his fingers tapped slowly and steady against his bicep. A grounding rhythm. You knew it was for you.

The interviewer smiled, sliding the next card forward.

“What did the actors from the film think of Y/N music?”

You bit your lip and glanced toward where Pedro sat just out of frame. “Well… they seemed to like it enough to make a whole scene for me to perform with a philharmonic orchestra, so I guess that’s a pretty good endorsement?”

You gave a small shrug, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “Though I think some of them might still be trying to figure out if I’m the mysterious muse or just the person who keeps stealing snacks on set.”

Pedro chuckled softly behind the camera, shaking his head.

“Y/N's go-to songs”

Your voice softened, eyes drifting for a moment before meeting the lens again. “Honestly, I go back to old classics—something nostalgic, like Amy Winehouse, rest in peace, darling, I wish you would be here by my side so we could have a laugh. Something that reminds me to breathe and just feel, even when everything inside feels loud.”

Pedro’s steady presence off-camera felt like a soft anchor as the interview wrapped, a reminder that behind the spotlight, you were never truly alone.

“Y/N from where”

You smiled softly, a hint of pride threading through your words. “I’m originally from northern Europe—born and raised. It’s a quieter part of the world, but I’ve carried that calm and the cloudy skies with me. London became my third home after Manchester and Tallinn when I moved here to chase my music dreams. It’s loud, fast, sometimes overwhelming, but it’s also full of life and opportunity.”

"Why is Y/N single”

You blinked, caught off guard by the directness. A laugh escaped you—nervous, a little self-deprecating. “Honestly? I think people assume I’m single because I’m too busy or complicated. The truth is… I’m picky. I value trust and connection more than labels or expectations. And I believe that when the right person comes along, it’ll feel natural, not forced. But to answer your question shortly, I am actually taken."

Pedro smirked after you had given a very subtle answer about your relationship as you both were not exclusive and tried not bringing the relationship into the spotlight.

The final question hung in the air, like the last note of a song slowly fading into silence. You gave a small, hopeful smile, feeling the weight of the day settle gently over your shoulders. The harsh lights that had felt like a furnace moments ago softened in your vision as the interviewer thanked you and the crew began to relax. You exhaled deeply—a breath you had not realised you were holding—and for the first time in hours, your body let go.

Behind the camera, Pedro rose slowly from his seat, careful not to break the moment or startle you. His eyes held that familiar, tender warmth, the kind that spoke without words: “You did so well, mi guapa.” He crossed the room and knelt beside you just out of frame, his hand finding yours. The simple contact grounded you, a steady pulse against the fluttering in your chest.

As the bustling energy of the studio dimmed, your mind drifted inward. You thought about how far you had come—from the nervous northern European girl who had scribbled music in quiet corners, to this woman standing on the cusp of something vast and unknown. You remembered the months of lonely rehearsals, the nights when anxiety twisted your breath tight (well, still is…) and the quiet victories no one else saw. All of it had led here.

You were not just a rising star with songs that touched millions, maybe—you were a person, beautifully flawed and fiercely brave, grappling with the same fears and hopes as anyone else. And for all the chaos outside, here, there and everywhere was Pedro - your anchor, your calm in the storm. You squeezed his hand, feeling an unspoken promise between you.

The world might not know the full story yet. Your relationship was not public and maybe that was for the best—for now. But in this quiet moment, with the cameras off and the noise faded, you felt something rare and precious - peace.

Pedro smiled again, his tired eyes lighting up with pride and something deeper—love, without pressure, without expectations. You leaned your head toward him, the rush of the day melting into a gentle warmth that you had not dared hope for.

In that small, perfect space between spotlight and shadow, you found your truth - no matter what the future held, you would not face it alone. Pedro was always there for you.

-------

please do not copy and translate my work (unless it’s in my native language and you give me full credit)! you are more than welcome to support me by buying me a coffee - link in the blog!

[possesseddesiress]

Rivals Inside - Part Three

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue.

All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.

If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Rivals Inside [ Part Three ]

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

After that night, Sam and I became more than close, it was like going back in time, as if the years had never passed.

He still had his strange quirks, the same tastes, sure, he had new facets like his popularity or his new friendships (although he ended up leaving most of them because of his slightly dubious sincerity...) But there it was. The only detail was... That we were still in each other's bodies.

He explained to me about the man with the coin (and that surely was what triggered everything), that night we spent looking for him but never found him. The festival ended and... The rest is history.

At first it felt pretty weird kissing what was once my reflection, no longer feeling my muscles or no longer being good at sports like I used to be. Sam felt a bit the same at first, though then he quickly adapted to having my muscles.

A week went by where all he did was worship himself, flex his muscles every chance he got and even purposely stop using deodorant to leave his armpits as stinky as could be.

Thankfully it passed as quickly as it came, because it was certainly ruining my reputation (although, who knows if it would ever be us again). I felt like a stranger in my new skin, I liked seeing Sam's reflection every time I stood up, feeling his smooth skin or his half-formed muscles, but I didn't feel like me.

And that was taking its toll on us... For a while it was fun to be in each other's bodies. Until it wasn't.

- You just don't get it, Sam! - I yelled as I held him up in front of me. He was taking pictures, adoring himself, almost looking like he didn't care.

- I do understand - he mumbled looking at his reflection through the story, another flex and widen my old muscles for show.

- No! You don't understand! - I squinted - All you care about is having my muscles.

- I don't, Max.

- Then do something! Get us back to our bodies!

- You know I don't know how...

Silence settled on both of us, I just looked at him for a second.

- I don't think this is working... - I muttered. I felt him take my hand.

- Max, don't say that... I like you, I'm happy with you.

- I am too, but I'm not happy with how we ended up - I let him go - I'm sorry.

SAMUEL

It had been almost a month since Max hadn't spoken to me, it was like going back to the way things were before.... He only avoided me in the halls, he had changed friendships (more sincere than before, although he was still talking to Astrid, which was certainly a relief), he stopped competing with me and only avoided me.

It felt good to be in his body, powerful, strong, extremely attractive. I was no longer scrawny, I now exuded masculinity in all its glory, even smelled so stinky, I loved it… But between keeping Max's body or having him, I wanted to have him. But how? The coin disappeared that night, and there was no sign of the man.

I was sitting on a park bench, all these feelings were overwhelming and overtaking me. I didn't want to lose him again, I couldn't… I felt someone sit down next to me. I looked around to find the same man as that night.

- Dilemmas again? - He settled into the seat.

- You... - I mumbled - Hey. It was really fun to be... in him, we patched things up, it was very helpful but it's time you put us back where we belong.

He nodded silently. Then he opened his lips without even looking at me.

- And is that what you want?

My heart pounded. I didn't want to give up this body, but I didn't want to lose Max either… And if I had to give this up to get him back, I would do it.

- Yes.

He nodded again to let out a laugh and deny.

- I think you have not learned to be sincere. But, you mean well, very well. So I will reward you for it.

He raised his hand to snap his fingers, for an instant I saw a glow in the air.

I thought I would feel the feeling of darkness again, of closing my eyes and appearing in my body again. But I was still inside Max, I looked down, still seeing my brown muscles.

- Hey, but we're still the same... - When I turned to see him, he had disappeared without a trace - Shit, not again.

I just felt the air rushing.

MAX

I was lying in bed as I had been for the last three weeks. And what else could I do? Again Sam and I had drifted apart, I was no longer good at what I loved, I was only left to lie down for hours.

I was staring at the ceiling when I felt a kind of weird current, as if the wind had gone through the room, and a strange tingling at the back of my head... Slowly it was as if something inside me began to speak to me, whispering from the depths.

《 You like your new body.... You like your smooth, hairless skin. Your little muscles you like, they're perfect like that, aren't they? 》

My whole mind was getting cloudy. As if my intelligence and judgment were slowing down to heed what that voice was saying.

- I like my body... I like being small - I muttered.

《 And now you like fashion. You're fascinated by it, you like to see clothes for that nice body of yours, how to highlight it 》

- Nice body...

I nodded with a little drool trickling down the corner of my lips.

《 You're not so passionate about sports anymore. But you love the smell of sweat, you love the way your armpits smell after working out, you're just passionate about working out to maintain your physique. And you love the smell of stinky armpits, especially Max's 》

- Underarms... Max... I love them...

《 You like being Sam, because now you are Sam. You don't miss your old form anymore, you feel comfortable being him. Now this is your new you 》

- I am... Sam...

《 You are only here to serve the new Max, to be madly in love with him, there is nothing you love more than being with him 》

- I need.... Max...

The voice disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving me brain-numbed for a while until I blinked. I stretched out on the bed, feeling almost new, like refreshed.

Why was I getting so worried?

I got up, stretched. I had an instinct to go to the closet to start looking at the clothes that now belonged to me, I had seen Sam's clothes quite a few times since we switched bodies, but for the first time I felt... comfortable.

And even a little excited about wanting to wear them; I grabbed a pair of leather pants, pulling them up through my legs, how good they looked, with my tight ass, the shiny texture what the garment left behind. I even put on one of his - well, my - caps.

And it was like feeling liberated from it all.

I looked at my abdomen, my slim but shapely pecs, and my hairless armpits, the slim frame that now belonged to me.

I even raised my arms to inhale the scent that belonged to me, how rich it smelled… I was perfect like this. Why all this time had I wanted to go back to my body? If I looked so good now, and how I smelled? These muscles marked, my slim body, I loved it.

There was something, though... Something that was definitely missing to make everything "perfect", I picked up my phone to dial Sam's number. Well, I mean... Max.

- Hello - I murmured - I don't know how to start but... - I was about to say "rational" things, like to express my feelings, how important he was to me, but it was like a wave of lust that had taken control of me - I need you - I gasped softly, my hand settled between my two fat buttocks to caress the area - Come to the house...

I barely managed to lie down in an attempt to manage all that energy that had come out of nowhere. It was like feeling my body on fire, I gasped as I stroked my pecs, each touch equaling a kind of electric touch that drove me crazy.

It wasn't long before Sam came, he didn't say much, he just launched into kissing me and removing whatever was in his way to take my body in his hands, he kissed my neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses and bites, sinking his fingers into my skin.

- You love your new shape, don't you?

- Yes... - I murmured hesitantly.

- Who is Max? - he said placing his hands against my body, putting some pressure, I stuck out my tongue with a goofy expression.

- You.

- And who is Sam?

- Me, I only live to serve you - I nodded sticking out my tongue like a dog. He immediately crashed his lips against mine, our tongues clashing like there was no tomorrow.

Maybe it was for the best to switch bodies. Some time later, Max asked me to be his boyfriend formally, and we've been together ever since.

I got used to my new body much better, and we are happy. He is attentive, I like it when he holds me in his strong arms, he is a bit... arrogant sometimes, he hogs the limelight with my old muscles but I don't care much anymore. I only care about being able to kiss him, to be with him. It had been too long but we were finally together...

It had been a road full of ups and downs (and well, the obvious change), but now we were fine, finally happy.

I also loved when he grabs my hair tightly and stamps his body against mine, how stinky his armpits smell after working out. But those are other details.

What matters most to me, is that he's my boyfriend.

The End

----

Hello everyone! I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it. It's my first hypnosis story, so I hope you like it.

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

---

[miyakuli]

An analysis of Belfort's emotional reserve when it comes to showing his feelings in public.

Hey guys, I miss the boys too much so here I am over analyzing episodes to compensate lol

So if you're familiar with the show, you might have noticed that Belfort never really show his strong emotions (when he cries I mean). More than once, when he gets teary-eyed, he tends to make excuses like "it's just the pollen" or "something got in my eye" to hide how he's feeling. It even turns into a sort of joke, like when Lupin calls him out on it in the last episode x)

I think the first thing that comes to mind is that his reactions probably come from his royal upbringing. He grew up in a super strict environment, and he was very likely taught that showing too much emotion isn’t worthy of a royal dog… But I also wonder if there’s not a hidden fear underneath it all. Poor baby has been put down so many times by his sisters because of his lack of scent skills, so maybe he ended up thinking that crying = weakness. And that’s why he tries so hard to hold everything in :’3

But here's what I find really interesting: Belfort only fully breaks down three times in the show.

And every time he lets himself go like that, it’s always about the ones closest to his heart; Louis 14 and Lupin.

In the Sita episode, he can’t hold back in front of his mom (oh damn!!) because he’s heartbroken about hurting Lupin.

In Rosa’s birthday episode, he cries openly in front of Lupin, thinking he’s been "abandoned."

And of course, in the final episode, the pain of losing Lupin is so overwhelming that he breaks down in front of his sisters (omg!!)

I think it's so heartwarming that his love for his master AND for Lupin allows him to explore that vulnerable side of himself, despite all the royal etiquette he’s had drilled into him his whole life.

And I hope soooo much that one day, he won’t need to hide behind silly excuses anymore. That he’ll finally drop the mask (LIKE COME ON, A MASQUERADE BALL EPISODE WOULD BE PERFECT FOR THAT GEHEHE), and that he’ll let himself really cry (;v;) in front of Lupin so he can comfort him obviously lol

[vxmpdean]

Habits

Sam Winchester x Reader

AUTHORS NOTE: I do take requests so don't be shy and give me some ideas that cute brain of yours have !! 

( just want to make a note that I won’t do Wincest. I am truly uncomfortable with that ship- it is simply not my cup of tea- and will shut down any requests with as much respect as I can !! I hope you can understand <3 )

WARNINGS: mentions of ED

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sam Winchester was an observer. 

And he wouldn’t change that for the world.

Sometimes he likes to think its because he stayed silent for so long, trying so hard to get out of the toxic hunting environment his father pushed upon; those long study sessions he went through, all those caffeine drinks he drunk in order to recite all those algebra formulas in his head, or the amount of practice he put in his English essays… and even found his love for deep, meaningful books and speeches. 

Dean would always call him a nerd, teasing him for studying so hard and getting these perfect grades and perfect praise from his teachers even though they would just move on to another state soon after- it didn’t stop when Sammy started to collect college pamphlets. 

Sam couldn’t blame Dean though. To each their own… you know? 

So when Sam first met you in his first week of college, he observed the shit out of you. 

Every time you open your mouth to talk in class, his full attention is brought towards you and never falters until you finish your words with a smile or nod. He loved to hear how you see things, he loved to see how your eyes brighten up whenever you speak about something you love- which was too often for your own good but he could never get bored of it- and what he loved the most was how your body speaks more than your words. 

At first it was just a friend crush, he was nervous to even talk to people, much less make friends in college where everyone just seemed to know everyone. He felt the odd one out and decided it was best to keep quiet and keep his eyes ahead of him. Nothing bad can happen right?

It was until you came up to him and asked to be partners for your english class, mentioning how you read some of his work and really enjoyed his silent perspective of things. Sam flushed in shyness and a small sense of pride but only nodded in response. 

From that day on, you two became the bestest of best. 

In a way, it opened a whole new image of you for him. Now that you two are close, he gets to hear your personal thoughts on personal things, hear your way of thinking about something stupid, see you find ways to comfort someone or him… it was eye opening and it gets his cheeks flush every time he thinks about it. 

He was also glad he got to understand you more, see that you are more than just an intelligent classmate who likes to drag on in class by your overanalyzed thoughts (though Sam thought you were a genius for them, others… not so much, they just wanted the class to end so they could scramble to finish their seventy essays that were due) and that you were an emotionally beautiful person. 

Emotional because you have such sympathy for things. And sometimes they were overwhelming for you yourself. Beautiful because the way you form your words are soft, thoughtful, and meaningful. Beautiful because you had these gorgeous eyes and the way your lips curl when you make a smug explanation or prove something right, it drove him mad. 

What he noticed more as time passed by, were your habits. 

The way you blink fast when you are confused, the way you press your lips in a tight line when you're focused or being stern, the way your eyes avert when you are telling a lie, the way your back straightens everytime you hear something you like. 

Or the way you bite your nails when your worried or stress, or the way your hands tremble when you are getting scolded at or holding back tears, or the way your teeth digs on your bottom lip when you stop yourself from speaking or protesting, or the way you clench your fists so hard you leave crescent marks on the palms of your hand. 

Or the way you would avoid food in some parts.

That one worries Sam the most. 

Sam tried to brush it off at first, seeing how most of the time you do eat. You eat perfectly fine and can even eat more than him and laugh about it. There is no dark energy or emotion swirling in your eyes or actions to make him think that otherwise. 

But when you fail a test, or get yelled at, or did something you didn’t like; it was like you had the habit to silently discipline yourself. You never admit it- maybe because you grew so into that habit that it's barely a second thought for you and don’t see anything wrong with it anymore. But it makes Sam ache when you shake your head silently when he offers you food after a long day. 

Sam doesn’t say anything. At least not out loud. Despite always observing you and knowing everything about you- he didn’t know how you would react if he were to bring up this habit, or these habits a-matter-of-fact. 

Instead, he makes it his own habit to stop you whenever you do these harmful things. He would place a hand over yours whenever you pick at them, clench them, or to remind you to breathe in and out when you tremble. He would reach out and tug your bottom lip out from your teeth and sometimes force them to curl up with his fingers- earning that sweet sweet laughter of yours, even if it was weak and shaky. 

Small moments of touches, hugs, fingers brushing over soft skin- until kisses started to happen. 

In private moments, where you allow yourself to be more vulnerable in front of Sam, he would pull you in and kiss your worries away. Just those soft kisses of his sends comfort down your body, easing your mind just a tad. You always joke how abnormal it was for him to be this comforting and safe to be around, because it was a true mystery how his calm, quiet self can make you feel so warm and giddy inside. 

“Would it be bad if I take you out for dinner?” Sam muttered. 

You looked up from your notebook, frowning before closing it and looked back at him,

“What?” 

“I hate this…whole friends with benefits thing. Even if we are just…kissing and nothing more,” Sam said quietly, looking away with an embarrassed expression that you found endearing, “I do care about you. A lot. More than my mind can take.” 

Your heart flutters as those words repeat in your head over and over again. It was so sweet you could get cavities. And it was so new and fresh to experience and hear. 

You smiled softly, resting your chin on your palm and hummed, 

“I’d love that.” 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

[mononijikayu]

kayu's playlist — side 3000;

caleb doesn't know what this feeling is. if anything, he never had to feel whatever this was inside of him before. it was a new texture that's left for him to understand once again. it was a texture of his current life that creates new layers that he didn't know. layers that one that he'd never truly understood. layers that he didn't wish to truly ever have understanding of. as he stares from where he sat in the distance, it just felt like a new vein of acid that tortures his existence. he could feel his insides burn so hot, he felt like he was going to hurl all that was in him. all that he ever was and ever will be.

hello, this is kayu!!!

once again, i am just overwhelmed by the wave of your love for me and my work. i have to admit, i still get overwhelmed each and every time. to be loved like this is genuinely really everything. i cannot get enough with all the gratitude i feel inside of me because of it.

i never expected to ever end up in this position where you guys would be someone that i would ever hold dear in me. genuinely, i am so happy to find this beautiful part of me, which loves in response too.

i posted my first jjk fic here at the end of 2023 and how times have changed over time. i have been through so many ups and downs and started to create friends and stories, knowing worlds i couldn't have imagined.

this is a special time of the playlist, because its 3000 followers. which i still cannot believe. you have trusted and loved me so much, i am so honored that you ever decided to give me this.

i decided to do a poll for a the first time in a long time. genuinely, i was surprised with your outporing of support for it. thank you for helping me decide on what to write for this time around!!!

as you can see and voted, these are what you chose. i too voted, and i might be a little bit biased since the volleyball sukuna series is exciting to write!!!

that being said, since its a special season, we might as well do four instead of three. it will be a degree of stuff coming out in alternating periods. and maybe much later than you think and maybe without me being able to fully participate due to my exam period.

i'm excited to share with you all of this, especially since this is also my second round writing about love and deepspace, which ive been so in love with for a while.

anyway, i hope to see you there when this comes out. and i hope that you're just as excited as i am!!! i love you all so much!!! thank you for being with me!!! <3

xoxoxoxo kayu

( the voting poll results, the people are heard!!! )

that's right, caleb thinks to himself. it's not unfamiliar, this feeling inside of him. instead, it was a feeling that has just been long forgotten. and if anything, evolved into such a monstrosity.

this was the truth he had been avoiding for so damn long. this was jealousy. jealousy in proportions that he could never truly fathom. not when it comes to you. and the life he had with you, and the life you had after him.

because he knew that he would never know another scent other than you. but you, you had moved on with life. and he knew that in the end, you would know every other scent that you promised you would never live to have.

[ READ THE STORY HERE ]

your heart thudded stupidly at the pet name. you couldn’t help but glare as you stare at the soft and casual on his lips. but laced with something deeper, something only you ever got to hear. you stayed like that for a moment, your foreheads pressed together, time suspended in the dim, echoing stillness of the gym.

you were supposed to be heading home. he was supposed to be practicing. yet you could not help but stare. the silence between you stretched. it was warm, electric. never awkward. not even close. it felt like a lull in a song you didn’t want to end.

sukuna’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, like he was memorizing it. you looked up, and for once, there was no teasing in his scarlet eyes. just that quiet, rare stillness he only ever showed when it was just the two of you.

[ READ THE STORY HERE ]

sometimes, people will believe that such wicked stories only life that could breath in the fantastical world of fairy tales. yet qi rafayel has lived way too long, too much, too widely to dismiss the thought. and he speaks from experience.

when he looks at the portraits on display for the museum, the figure of the man leaning towards his lover ever so intimately, ever so tenderly, he thinks that all his memories come flashing back all over again. perhaps not in nightmares this time around. but a reminder.

he was still looking for you, the true heart of the sea. the one whom he had lived over and over again to adore and to love. to breathe the world that could only be devoted to the joys of your existence. the sea god's dear beloved stranger, who had taken all of the bittersweet tunes of his sailor song.

[ READ THE STORY HERE ]

gojo satoru has a license. just as much, he also has a car. but he doesn't really find himself on a ten hour drive often. not when there was no time for ten hour drives, or in general road trips. he was too busy to even do something like that.

yet, it's interesting to him. he wouldn't ever do something as crazy as this. not for anything, not for anyone. not even to go on and save the world. but when it comes to you, he couldn't help it.

back then it was a forty-five minute drive to your apartment just outside jujutsu high. at one point, it was a seven hour flight abroad to get to you. still, this was worth it. it was worth it to see you. after all this time.

[ READ THE STORY HERE ]

[ghostlynightpanda]

HEY!! I am so sorry, cause recently I sent so many requests for Ranpo×reader from you, cause I adore the way you write and I always come up with ideas I would love to see before sleep😭 So I have another request yet again kinda based on my oc! Also based on the fact that I want a jealous Ranpo fic hehe

Anyway, so reader is an ADA members that, to put it simply, looks beautiful. They don't really pay much mind to that, since to them personality is more important. Even so, reader loves fashion! They love doing their hair, dressing up differently every day (one day they could be wearing a vinyige pice, and the next some comfy looking clothes, or even a kimono to match with Kyouka). Another thing is that, since personality matters the most, reader always shows their affection trough acts of service and quality time! They always help around and spend time with each and every ADA member. They could be sorting papers with Kunikida, then listen to music with Dazai, or go shopping with Yosano and so on. With Ranpo, they usualy go shopping and buy him candy, on ocasion offer him piggyback rides, they prase him when he solved a case and so on. Ranpo, he doesn't know when or why, maybe it's their looks, maybe their way of acting so sweet without even trying, maybe it's that gentle smile they always offer, but he fell for them. So, he starts to get jealous when he spends too much time with other members. If reader goes help Kenji with his garden, sudenly Ranpo is interested too! When reader is helping Atsushi with making some tea, he is sudenly there too! Even so, reader is fully blind or simply oblivious to love. They don't understand these obvious signs, which make Ranpo think "Maybe I’m not in their league?" So he starts to analize them, starts to act more fashionabile like reader always is, he always throws a glare when some stranger checks them out, yet reader still is oblivous.

Now, I will live it up to you how Ranpo finely manages to make reader relase his feelings, bit when they do relase, they could be like "Oh...so...that is why you were acting so weird? I tought you were trying to scare me off or something. Glad to know you like me!" And they just kiss his cheek like it's the most normal thing ever.

More Than Meets the Eye

synopsis: You’re a beautiful and kind ADA member, effortlessly brightening the lives of everyone in the Agency—especially Ranpo’s, who’s struggling to hide just how much he’s fallen for you. But when jealousy starts to overwhelm him, will he finally find the courage to confess?

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -2.730 words

You were beautiful. Painfully so, some would say.

Not in a loud, attention-seeking way—but in the kind of effortless, head-turning way that made strangers glance twice on the street and baristas forget your name mid-order. You had a style for every day, every season, every mood. On Monday it might be soft curls and a floral dress with pastel heels; on Tuesday, a sleek ponytail and an oversized hoodie paired with joggers and statement earrings. On Wednesday, you were a vision in a pale kimono, every fold pristine, every motion poetic.

You didn’t just wear clothes. You inhabited them.

And yet, beneath the perfect winged eyeliner and glowing skin, beneath the lip gloss that shimmered just so—was a heart that most people overlooked.

Because what no one expected from someone like you, someone who looked so immaculate all the time, was sincerity.

"You alphabetized my reports?" Kunikida asked, stunned.

You smiled, placing the final file in the drawer. “Chronologically and by mission type. You had two copies of the Oda case report, by the way.”

He blinked. “I—I knew that. Just testing you.”

You grinned, smoothing down your blouse. “Glad I passed.”

Behind your back, Kunikida crossed out “Needs to be more practical” from your entry in his notebook.

“Here,” you handed Dazai one of your earbuds. “Try this one. It’s got lyrics about finding purpose in chaos.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Is this an attempt to rescue me from my own poetic suffering?”

“No,” you said, resting your head on the window frame beside him. “Just thought you might like someone else’s drama for once.”

He didn’t respond, but you noticed he didn’t give the earbud back, either.

You placed the bento in front of him with a smile. “I added extra miso eggplant and tofu. You looked hungry.”

Atsushi flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I always look hungry…”

“Exactly,” you teased gently, sitting beside him. “So I figured I’d feed the tiger before he starts chewing on reports again.”

His eyes watered slightly. “You… made this just for me?”

“Of course,” you said, brushing some rice from his cheek with your thumb. “Everyone deserves a warm meal.”

“Vintage silk, hand-dyed,” you said, holding up a stunning dark green kimono in a tucked-away boutique in Chinatown.

Yosano raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to seduce me or style me?”

“Both, if it gets you to wear it,” you winked. “You’d look killer in this.”

Yosano smirked, fingers brushing the fabric. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Only to bad fashion choices.”

You crouched next to him, the earthy smell of fresh soil in your nose as you handed him a packet of seeds.

“These grow best with morning sun,” you said, pointing. “That side of the rooftop gets it first.”

Kenji beamed. “You really know your gardens!”

“I’ve been doing my research,” you admitted. “You looked homesick last week. I thought this might help.���

His smile widened, innocent and grateful. “It feels just like back home. Thank you!”

You returned from the corner store with a full bag.

“Grape gummies, chocolate puffs, matcha sticks—one of everything,” you announced.

Ranpo blinked up at you from his couch throne. “You read my mind.”

“I just remembered your snack drawer was empty,” you said, gently placing the bag beside him. “Can’t have the world’s greatest detective fainting from sugar withdrawal.”

He held up the bag like a trophy. “You truly understand me.”

“Piggyback ride later?” you teased.

“If you carry me to the candy shop next time,” he said, mouth already full.

You laughed, brushing a crumb off his cheek with your thumb. “Deal.”

Everyone saw how kind you were. How you offered pieces of yourself to those around you—not because you wanted anything in return, but because you cared. You loved through actions, through time, through attention.

You were always stunning.

But to the Agency, you were more than just beautiful.

You were beloved.

All of them adored you in their own way.

But only one of them was falling in love with you.

And he had no idea how to tell you.

Ranpo Edogawa was, objectively, the greatest detective in the world.

No mystery was too deep, no crime too layered. Give him a name and a location, and he'd solve it before the coffee finished brewing.

So why—why—couldn't he figure you out?

It started as a visual thing. Obviously.

You were gorgeous. Not just "attractive" in the boring, technical sense, but almost magically captivating. Like some kind of celestial being had tripped and fallen into the human realm wearing heels or kimono or a hoodie and sweatpants combo with glossy lips and glittery eyeliner. It didn’t matter what you wore. You looked like the main character in every room you entered.

Ranpo wasn’t blind. He noticed.

He also noticed how everyone else noticed. That part irritated him.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t your looks that had started to haunt his thoughts.

It was the way you crouched beside Kenji in the rooftop garden, mud on your perfectly manicured nails, giving quiet advice like someone who belonged in the countryside.

It was the way you listened—actually listened—to Dazai's ramblings, never flinching at the morbid parts. You just offered him a song with meaning, and he talked less about dying after that. At least for a week.

It was how you remembered Atsushi’s favorite food, how you laughed with Yosano like old friends, how you soothed Kunikida’s headache with organization and tea.

And then—there was how you treated him.

You always brought sweets. Always praised him after a case, even when everyone else had moved on. You never questioned his genius. You carried him around like he weighed nothing, giggling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You didn't make him feel like a burden.

You made him feel like... someone special. Not just for his brain. But just—Ranpo.

He didn’t like that realization.

Feelings were messy. Ranpo didn’t do messy. Other people had crushes and romantic complications. Ranpo had the truth.

And the truth was this: he couldn’t stop watching you.

When you helped Atsushi with the tea, Ranpo suddenly had to “supervise” the kitchen. When you invited Kenji to the local farmer’s market, Ranpo “just happened” to be out on a walk and tagged along. If you so much as leaned over Yosano’s desk, he was there, munching snacks he didn’t even taste.

You smiled at him every time. Like you didn’t notice. Like you didn’t mind.

Which was confusing.

Wasn’t it obvious how weird he was acting?

“Do you want something, Ranpo?” you’d ask sometimes.

And he’d just pop a candy in his mouth and reply, “I want the truth. And snacks. But mostly snacks.”

He tried to push the feeling aside.

This was probably just some weird emotional parasite. An infatuation. A temporary brain hiccup.

And yet… every time you smiled at someone else—really smiled—Ranpo’s chest got tight. Not in a life-threatening way. In an annoying way.

He didn’t like it.

This strange, fluttery feeling. The way he lingered on your laugh long after you'd left the room. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t efficient. And worst of all—it wasn’t something he could just solve and file away like a closed case.

Ranpo Edogawa, the unmatched genius of the Armed Detective Agency, was falling in love.

And for once in his life… he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

He tried to analyze it, of course. Tried to categorize the symptoms, draw mental charts, cross-reference his emotional responses with similar stimuli. But none of it helped. Because it wasn’t your beauty that messed with his head—not entirely. It was everything else. Your laugh, your kindness, your effortless way of making everyone feel important.

Including him.

He was many things—brilliant, eccentric, sugar-fueled, dramatically unbothered—but subtle?

Subtle had never been one of them.

And jealousy? Oh, jealousy made him unbearable.

It started small.

Junichiro offered to help you carry a few boxes down from the archive room. Harmless. Sweet, even. Ranpo watched, chewing a matcha cookie so aggressively it crumbled in his lap.

“She can carry them herself,” he muttered. “She carries me, and I’m way heavier than dusty paper.”

“Do you want to help her, then?” Kunikida asked, not looking up from his notes.

Ranpo’s eyes narrowed. “No. I want her to remember who has superior upper-body mass.”

Kunikida blinked slowly. “What does that even mean?”

Then came tea with Atsushi.

You’d made a little ritual of brewing fancy loose-leaf blends for him once a week—delicate ceramic cups, soft conversation, jazz playing in the background. One time, Ranpo walked in on you gently blowing on Atsushi’s cup to cool it.

His eye twitched.

The next week, Ranpo showed up thirty minutes early, already seated on the couch with his legs sprawled across it.

“Tea party?” he said, grinning wide. “Great! I brought biscuits!”

“You don’t like tea,” you said, amused.

“I do when you make it,” he replied quickly, then bit his tongue. “I mean—scientifically, your brewing is acceptable. I’m just here for the peer review.”

You simply poured him a cup. Atsushi blinked at Ranpo in confusion. Ranpo glared back like this is war.

With Kenji, it was worse.

You’d taken the boy on a day trip to a farm just outside Yokohama, and Ranpo had moped the entire afternoon in the office, sighing every five minutes like he was on death’s door.

When you returned with a little bag of handmade mochi for him, he perked up instantly.

“You didn’t forget me,” he said, cheeks puffed as he stuffed a piece into his mouth.

“Of course not,” you laughed. “I always bring something back for you.”

Ranpo’s smile lingered long after you walked away.

He hated how much it mattered.

But the tipping point?

Shopping with Yosano.

It was supposed to be a “girls' day” sort of thing. Just the two of you, hopping from tiny vintage boutiques to trendy pop-ups. And yet somehow, Ranpo materialized mid-outing, claiming divine intervention had drawn him there.

You had looked so excited that he couldn’t stop himself from staying.

“I, as the world’s greatest detective, am qualified to determine whether your fashion choices suit your personalities,” he declared.

He then spent the next two hours giving glowing commentary on your outfits—“That color makes your eyes sparkle!” “Yes, buy that one! It’s perfect, just like you!”—while Yosano received the occasional flat “It’s fine.”

The murder in her eyes said everything.

The next day, Ranpo limped into the office with a bandage on his shoulder and refused to explain.

“Fashion has its consequences,” was all he said, slumped dramatically on the couch with a lollipop sticking out of his mouth.

The rest of the Agency had caught on.

All of them.

Kunikida had sighed so many times he’d developed a wrinkle over it. Dazai started a betting pool on how long it would take you to notice. Atsushi nervously asked Ranpo if he should stop talking to you. Kenji offered to write Ranpo a love poem to give you. Yosano just watched with a raised eyebrow, quietly sharpening her scalpel.

And you?

You remained as oblivious as ever.

Every time Ranpo tagged along, you welcomed him with a warm smile. Every time he pouted when you praised someone else, you just offered him candy. Every time he flopped over your lap on the office couch and declared himself “fatally exhausted,” you let him stay there, running your fingers absentmindedly through his hair.

If anything, you just thought Ranpo really liked your company.

Which he did.

But also—he was in emotional agony.

It got so bad that one afternoon, after watching you laugh at something Dazai said, Ranpo stood up abruptly, declared “I’m taking a case alone,” and stormed out.

Five minutes later he was back.

“I forgot my hat.”

Ten minutes later he was back again.

“I forgot you’re my emotional support person.”

You blinked. “What?”

He flopped back onto the couch beside you and sighed, dramatically as ever. “Nothing. It’s fine. You like Dazai better anyway.”

You blinked again. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing!”

You tilted your head. “Ranpo…”

But he didn’t answer. He’d already shoved a sucker in his mouth and curled up like a very fashionable hedgehog.

The tension was growing.

The feelings were getting harder to ignore.

And eventually… something was going to break.

But not yet.

Not when you were still smiling at him like that.

It was a quiet afternoon in the Agency.

Yosano was flipping through a medical journal. Dazai had disappeared (as usual). Atsushi was reorganizing case files with the anxious energy of a golden retriever. Kenji had wandered off to water the rooftop garden.

And you?

You were kneeling beside Kunikida’s desk, helping him sort an overflowing box of reports—hair tucked behind your ear, glasses perched on your nose, wearing a soft beige sweater that looked far too cozy for Ranpo’s emotional state.

You looked unfairly good. Of course you did.

But it wasn’t your looks that made Ranpo snap.

It was the way you smiled—tired, gentle, kind—as Kunikida softly thanked you. The same way you smiled at everyone.

Everyone except him. His smiles weren’t soft. His were distracted. Crooked. Flustered. Weird.

Just like him.

Ranpo stood up from his couch dramatically, arms crossed, mouth twisted into a pout.

“That’s it!” he declared.

You looked up, blinking. “Hm?”

He marched straight toward you, looking like a man on a mission. “I’ve had enough!”

“Of… what?” you asked, setting down a folder, confusion growing.

“Of you!” he said, arms flailing. “Or—not you—not really. I mean, yes, you, but—not in a bad way! Ugh, I mean, you’re driving me crazy!”

You blinked, completely frozen.

Kunikida took a slow step back and silently disappeared into the hallway, dragging a very confused Atsushi behind him, while Yosano followed at a slow pace, an amused smile playing on her lips.

“I tried!” Ranpo continued, voice pitched high and fast. “I tried to drop hints! I followed you around, I dressed nicer, I gave you sweets, I complimented you non-stop! I even went shopping with Yosano and got medically punished for it! And still—still!—you’re just so happy and perfect and beautiful and you treat me like a friend and I can’t take it anymore!”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, Ranpo—”

“I like you!” he practically shouted, face flushed. “There! I said it! I like you! Not like I like snacks or mysteries or my hat—I really like you! In the ‘I-think-about-you-all-the-time-and-want-to-hold-your-hand-and-maybe-kiss-you-but-also-die’ kind of way!”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then you laughed.

Not mockingly. Not unkindly.

Soft and amused and warm—exactly the way you laughed when he said something unexpectedly sweet. The way you always laughed when he let his guard down.

Ranpo froze. “Why are you laughing?! This is the most traumatic moment of my life!”

You stood, stepping closer, eyes twinkling with realization.

“That’s why you were acting so weird lately?” you said gently. “I thought you were trying to scare me off or something. I was worried I did something wrong.”

“What?! No! You’re perfect!” he snapped, then instantly went red. “I mean, not perfect—well, kind of. Ugh, don’t twist my words!”

You giggled again, and then—without warning—you leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Ranpo’s entire body locked up.

His brain short-circuited. If he had internal servers, they had just burst into flames. You might as well have poured soda on his motherboard.

You pulled back, smiling shyly. “Glad to know you like me,” you said softly. “Because I obviously like you back.”

Ranpo blinked. Once. Twice. A third time.

Then, with a small squeak, he slowly sat down on the floor and clutched the side of his face like it had been branded by divine fire.

You crouched beside him, amused. “You okay?”

“I think I’m dying,” he mumbled, eyes wide. “But like... in a good way.”

You laughed, pulling him into a hug. He melted instantly, still pouting, but now with his entire face hidden in your shoulder like a sulking cat who got exactly what he wanted.

Somewhere down the hall, Dazai cheered.

(He had definitely won the betting pool.)

Masterlist

[cloudinal]

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me

[arsenicflame]

every time i think of izzy hands i just have to 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 for a second

[sleepy-crypt1d]

i cannot be listening to hozier and thinking about handsome jack it is barely 10am

[ilovemylawyer]

finally got around to watching tazza (2006) and it sparked an evilive related inquiry in my mind...

you know in ep3 how ohjae holds his mic in a lil funny upright style?

well peep this gamblingrelated gangster's eerily similar pose in tazza (2006)

so my question is: is ohjae's stance a reference to this? is it a coincidence? is it referencing something even older that i haven't gotten to yet? are these two going up against each other in a 1v1 rap battle?

[navybrat817]

I am warm and full and cozy and thinking about Bucky who has gotten a few pounds on his stomach, not bc he has to bulk for a mission or anything but bc he's save and get three square meals and a snack every day. Lots of love and a pie on Sunday. The dream honestly

Answering this on a Monday but I feel very cozy about it!

Just Right

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky learns to love food again, and his body.

Word Count: Over 750

Warnings: Mentions of HYDRA, recovery, body positivity, reference to oral sex, bit of humor, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I may need to do more of this, and much appreciated for the inspiration @v-wie-was. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky who was now able to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner with snacks in between each meal and dessert after dinner, which took some getting used to.

Bucky who didn’t get to overindulge in foods he enjoyed while he was under HYDRA’s control. He was given enough to maintain his strength and nothing more and he never decided on what they provided. 

Bucky who, when he thought about it, didn’t get to enjoy food since before he went off to war. He ate to sustain and survive and nothing more.

Bucky who had to learn all over again what he liked and disliked once he was free. Being able to choose was overwhelming and he almost broke down the first time he bought plums simply because he wanted them.

Bucky who with his heightened senses learned to appreciate certain smells and tastes and learned which places to avoid so it didn’t feel like sensory overload. He also learned which flavors he could never get enough of and which ones he could only handle in small doses.

Bucky who had to figure out how much he could eat to feel full and not stop because of his old programming. He also told himself not to feel guilty if he had a few more bites because it was more than allowed.

Bucky who met you at the store one day when you both reached for the same plum. That day changed his life. 

Bucky who, like a gentleman, let you have the plum and couldn't stop staring at you since you were so beautiful. 

Bucky who couldn't think of a witty reply when you boldly offered him your phone number in return, so he gave you an awkward smile that you found endearing.

Bucky who was happy you took a chance since you were easy to talk to. You also taught him that food emojis could be… taken a certain way, which he learned when he sent an eggplant and peach together.

Bucky who couldn’t find it in himself to feel embarrassed because he was talking about food, and he wanted you.

Bucky who enjoyed cooking with you and smiled wistfully when he thought about his family. How his mom always put so much love into her cooking. 

Bucky who made a mess of his shirt one day because he was trying to eat something messy and read at the same time. And you groaned because you had just finished laundry earlier.

Bucky who grew to appreciate messes like that because they felt normal.

Bucky who noticed almost immediately when his clothes began to fit differently, eventually to the point where they were too snug.

Bucky who felt slightly worried when he told you his clothes were too tight and had to go shopping. He wanted to be attractive to you.

Bucky who felt his heart swell when you not only told him he looked good no matter what but offered to go shopping with him. 

Bucky who felt handsome trying on new clothes since they fit properly and just right. The confidence grew when he saw your pupils dilate more and more with each outfit he tried on.

Bucky who also heard your heart race faster and smelled your arousal.

Bucky who didn’t get to make it home before you dropped to your knees to worship him. You made sure to place extra kisses on his stomach on your way down.

Bucky who hardly let people touch him, but welcomed your touch and let you paint him like a canvas with your love and desire. 

Bucky who had a huge smile on his face after the mind-blowing orgasm you gave him along with a promise of pie for dessert. He wanted you for dessert, too.

Bucky who associated certain foods with you because, like you, they brought him joy, comfort, and were downright delicious. 

 Bucky who stood in the kitchen while he waited for dinner to cool off and looked down at his stomach with a smile, reminding himself that any extra pound was just more of him to love and you’d love him no matter what. 

Bucky who thought about how comfortable he was in his skin because he was healthy and able to make his own choices. 

Bucky who gazed at you from across the room and couldn’t believe this was his life, that he found peace, happiness, and love. 

Bucky who was crazy about you and couldn't imagine a meal without you. Or his life.

And Bucky who finally felt safe and free. 

Okay, lovelies, what do we think his favorite dessert is? Besides you. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[mwphisto]

I’m not worth it - Rafayel

Rafayel is genuinely appalled when you tell him that he could find a partner so much more worthy of his love. Not only is he appalled that those words left your lips, he’s utterly appalled that you said them with 100% sincerity.

Better than you? Better than the woman he waited 800 years for? Better than the woman he gave up his entire world for? Better than the woman who owns his heart? Seriously? Do you even hear yourself when you talk?

The anger that flashes across Rafayel’s face has you shrinking back, heart pounding because you realize you are in a world of trouble for saying such a thing. Not just because of the fear, but because he is responding so fiercely to your self deprecating proclamation.

“What?” It’s nothing short of a hiss, a look of genuine disgust on his face. Not at you, but at the heinous idea you dared to utter. “I said I—“ but he cuts you off, a noise of pure anger leaving the artist’s lips.

“I heard you the first time, and I most definitely do not want to hear those words again.”

Then, he’s moving towards you, lithe hands coming up to cup your heated cheeks. The intensity in his gaze urging you to break eye contact but you don’t dare to. “Who do I have to kill?” And you blink, unsure of how to proceed.

“Who do I need to kill?” Again, leaving you lost. “WHO put those god awful thoughts in your pretty little head, cutie? WHO do I need to kill for ever making you doubt your worth of my love and affection.”

And your throat is drying up, because if you give him the honest answer he’d have to kill— “m-me.”

“You?” Rafayel is holding you a little tighter, heart thumping in agony that the creature who could conjure up such evil ideas was none other than yourself.

“What have I done to make you feel like this?” Because clearly he’s done something wrong along the way. Was he too bratty? Too dramatic? Did he make one too many sarcastic comments? Did he act some sort of way that made you question his feelings? He’s spiraling.

“You did nothing! God no, Raf. You’ve done nothing it’s just… me I guess. Self conscious. I-imposter syndrome even! Just… got too lost in my own head and…”

You’re spiraling too, and he can see it just as you picked up on the way he began to lose it. And you still have the audacity to think he wouldn’t burn the world for you? To be able to pick up so easily on his derailing train of thought.

“My love, my entire heart…” he’s coming down, coaching himself mentally to take deep breathes because nothing will get solved if he loses it like he usually does. “… I would destroy the entire world if it meant keeping you happy.”

“I would do whatever you asked me too with no hesitation. You mean everything to me, more than everything. Why would you ever deem yourself unworthy of my love?”

Tears leaked down your cheeks now, not because of your own insecurities but because of how fiercely he was loving you. The way he always had, maybe that was part of the reason you had begun to feel so unsure.

“I think I just…” you sniffle, leaning into Rafayel’s touch as he thumbed away the tears on your cheeks. “…I guess I got so overwhelmed with your love. That… part of me felt undeserving. You’re so handsome, talented, you have a kind soul even though you try to hide it. I’m just… me.”

“Exactly. You’re just you. Perfect in every way. So beautiful, so strong, brave, equally as talented.” His eyes search yours before continuing. “You’re equal amounts of loving and sweet. You put up with my antics like nobody else, you have time for me when nobody ever has.”

“I may not be the easiest lover. I may be dramatic, I may carry my own emotional baggage that I struggle to open up about. But there is one thing I am certain about, one thing I will proudly proclaim with my whole heart. And it’s the fact that I love you more than anything. More than my art, more than my career, more than Lemuira.”

You’re crying hard now, hands holding his wrists. The warmth seeping into his skin as your tears leak down and collect on his palms. He hasn’t let go of your face, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to either. “Please, cutie. My love, my heart, my beautiful girl… the next time you’re feeling like this. Tell me before it becomes unbearable.”

You can only manage a nod, hiccuping as he tugs you close to place kisses all over your face. “I would lay down my life and die for you, so don’t you ever think that you are unworthy of my love. You’re perfect for me, the only woman I could ever want. I waited 800 years for you to return to me, and now that you have, I’m never letting go.”

[streetlamp-amber]

never ending night

bruce wayne x femwife!reader

word count: 1.7k | divider by @saradika | requests are open!

CW: pregnancy, pure fluff NOTES: hello hi i’m ailís and i’ve been meaning to start a blog where i can post some one shots that i’ve been thinking of as a way to motivate myself to finally write down my ideas so this is it. i’ll be double posting my stuff on ao3 (which you can find in my bio) and will eventually make a masterlist as well as a navigation post with a list of fandoms/characters i write for. also, english isn’t my first language.

It was close to three in the morning when Bruce finally joined you in bed after a long night of patrolling and fighting bottom of the barrel criminals all night. He showered in the bathroom on the first floor of the manor to avoid making too much noise and waking you up, but when he finally walked in your shared bedroom, you were already awake, sitting up against the headboard.

“Darling, what are you doing still up?” Bruce asked you as he reached his side of the bed.

The room was dark par for the moonlight filtering through the gap between the curtains, meaning your husband had yet to notice the state you were in.

“Dick had a nightmare,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper due to how tired you were. “It took me two hours to get him to fall back asleep and when I finally came back here, this little one started kickboxing me and keeping me awake for another hour,” you continued rubbing your round belly in hopes of soothing your baby to finally catch some sleep.

“I’m sorry I wasn't here to help,” Bruce apologised, planting a kiss on your temple as he held you close to his body.

“It’s alright, Gotham needs you,” you dismissed, not at all angry.

“Still, you’re six months pregnant. You’re growing our child inside your body, you need all the rest you can get,” he softly argued. “I would've come home earlier but all the amateur criminals came out tonight.”

“Bruce, it’s fine,” you brought your hand up to his cheek and he leaned his head into your touch. “You’ve already been cutting your patrols shorter since we found out about the baby. As long as you keep coming back home to us, alive, then I’m not mad.”

Not knowing what to say – his gratefulness for having someone so accepting of his duty as Batman was almost overwhelming, even after all those years – Bruce kissed your palm while staring at you with the same look full of love that he has been sporting since the first time he met you six years ago.

“How’d I get so lucky to fall in love with the most understanding and selfless person I know?” He asked while grabbing your hand on his cheek, wrapping his fingers around yours and squeezing them gently.

“Now that’s a lie,” you rebutted, a loving smile on your lips, lowering your joined hands on the bed. “You’re more selfless than I am. You’re the most selfless man in the world.”

“Let’s not start this never ending argument again,” Bruce chuckled, now his turn to hold your face as he brought you in for a kiss.

You happily sighed against his lips, the feeling of home that overtook you every time you tasted them was a nice welcome in this interminable night. But the kiss was cut short as you felt your baby kick again and you let your head fall back as you groaned.

“She’s still kicking?” Bruce asked you, he couldn't see the movements under your skin due to the darkness of the room and your hand on your belly.

“We don't know it's a she,” you reminded him instead of answering. You had both decided to wait until the birth to know the gender.

“And I’m telling you, I know it's a girl,” your husband repeated for what could be the hundredth time.

You also secretly hoped it was a girl, but Dick really wanted a little brother. Bruce and you were still in the process of warming him up to the idea of a little sister and it was slowly starting to work.

“As long as she doesn't come in my room,” your eight year old son had said last week, with his arms crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips.

“I doubt she’ll be doing that for the first few years, chum,” Bruce reassured him, fighting off a slightly amused grin.

“And the baby will have its own room with its own toys,” you added.

“Will I still be able to play with the baby?” Dick asked after a moment, uncrossing his arms and a hopeful look filling up his blue eyes.

“Of course you will, bubs,” you said, your fingers threading through his black hair that fell over his forehead.

“But only with her toys at first, some of yours are not suited for a baby,” Bruce pointed out, ever the overprotective father.

Bruce had lowered himself down under the blanket so he could be laying head levelled with your belly, his hand now replacing yours over the bump.

“Hey trouble,” he whispered to your child and the baby kicked again, making him smile lovingly at the movement he felt under his hand. “You shouldn't be awake this late at night, you know.”

“You're one to talk,” you commented, tone almost reprimanding.

“She doesn't know that,” Bruce looked up at you as he defended himself before his gaze fell back on your belly. “Mommy is really tired,” he continued talking to your baby, his hand now rubbing soothingly over your round stomach, “and she needs her rest to do all the work so you can come out all healthy and beautiful. Well, you're definitely gonna be the most beautiful baby if you end up looking like your mother, but that's not the point.”

You smiled at the cheesy comment and your fingers found their place in Bruce’s hair, brushing through it and nails occasionally scratching his scalp.

“Your brother Dick can't wait for you to come around,” he carried on. “Said he will teach you all sorts of acrobatic tricks once you know how to walk. And he asked Alfred if he could help paint the nursery when we finally decide on a colour.”

“And I keep telling you we should do soft green,” you argued.

“I’m not changing my mind from primrose pink,” he told you with a sly grin.

“The room won’t be pink, even if it’s a girl. And that’s final,” you firmly said. Your husband will not be winning this one argument, no sir.

Bruce sighed, rolling his eyes before focusing back on your belly. “I hope you’re not as stubborn as your mother,” he whispered to the baby, as if he was having a private conversation with them and that you weren’t there. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the many reasons why I fell in love with her, but I won’t be able to say no to you even when I have to, so it would save me a lot of reprimanding from Mommy if you’re not as tenacious as her.”

You smiled to yourself as you continued listening to your husband talk to your unborn child as you threaded your fingers through his hair, enjoying the softness it had after a shower. Bruce usually gelled his hair to appear more professional when he was working in the day, and then it would get all mixed up with his sweat under his cowl when he was working as Batman. When he would come back to you after the day was over, you would refuse to touch his hair until he had showered, the texture of the gel and sweat too gross on your fingers for you to ignore.

As Bruce continued talking to your baby, his voice started lulling the two of you to sleep. The baby hadn’t kicked in over almost ten minutes now, and the peace you had waited for so long to arrive made you aware of how heavy your eyelids were. You slowly lowered yourself down the bed, getting in a comfortable position with Bruce’s help where you could finally lay your head on your pillow and it didn’t take long for sleep to catch up on you.

At the sound of your soft, barely audible snores, Bruce turned his head away from your bump to find you asleep with your free hand raised next to your head on your pillow, the other one still tangled in his hair.

He planted a soft kiss on the exposed skin of your belly, eyes closed as he took a moment to absorb the fact that a baby that was half you and half him would be joining your world in a little more than three months. Bruce wasn't known to cry, the only time you ever saw him cry was as you walked down the aisle at your wedding, but tonight, a lonesome tear rolled down his cheek and fell on your stomach, where your child was growing, because Bruce never believed he would ever get to experience again the amount of love he hadn't felt since he was eight years old.

As he observed you, sleeping soundly with his child coming to life inside you, after you comforted Dick back to sleep, Bruce, for a moment, felt overwhelmed by all the love in his life. When he became Batman, he crossed out the idea of ever having a family (other than Alfred), of settling down with someone he loved and who loved him back.

But somehow, the universe put you on his path, as a miracle or a guardian angel or simply as an anchor to life outside of Batman, he didn't know. You walked into his home, into his life, to remind him that he, Bruce Wayne, was also deserving of love, of family, of happiness. Then Dick came along, rather unexpectedly but still no less welcomed, and Bruce started entertaining the idea of having children with you. He definitely wasn't opposed to it, but it wasn't something he wanted to jump right into, especially with Dick having just entered your lives. You were both young, he in his early thirties and you in your late twenties, you could allow yourselves a couple of years just the three of you (four with Alfred) before expanding the family.

So it was rather shocking when two months after you and Bruce had officially adopted Dick that you found out you were pregnant. It both took you by surprise but after talking through it together, you couldn't be happier. And the two of you haven't stopped being happy about this new little addition ever since.

Bruce rose up from his position next to your belly, your limp hand fell from his head as he did so, and he laid on the bed next to you. He delicately kissed your forehead, then your nose before falling back on his pillow and whispered “I love you” as he curled around your body, his hand resting on your belly as he fell asleep.

[trashytracktales]

Omg can you please write some smut with Lando about the FIA gala??? He looks so hot in that suit and I need something about it🥵😭 Maybe after the gala ended and they’re back to their hotel or they fuck while they’re on the plane back to Monaco.

The FIA (Feral Instincts Arise) Awards | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── I knew there would be requests for this the second I saw Lando on that carpet. Bon appétit 😛

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𐙚 summary ──── It's the 2024 FIA Awards, and Lando and his girlfriend can't help but steal a moment of passion, unable to resist the tension built through teasing touches and glances during such a glamorous night.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, established relationship, teasing, mild public intimacy, smut, descriptive language, fingering, bathroom sex, swearing.

𐙚 word count ──── 3.2k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 14, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── I have nothing to say except that I am absolutely devastated that my role model and inspiration, Michèle Mouton has officially retired from her role as FIA Safety Delegate. I love her so much and will forever be grateful for the representation she provided for women in motorsport throughout the years. In other news, at least everybody looked so fucking hot last night.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

IT WAS PURE torture for her to see him up on that stage from the beginning of the evening. She’d sat in the audience, her heart swelling with pride and gratitude for being able to be by his side during this exciting stage of his life — witnessing his hard work, his wins, and his dreams becoming reality. It's more than she ever imagined.

As she watched him, she realized she wasn't just proud of his accomplishments, but thankful to be the one he comes home to, the one who gets to share these moments that will live forever in both of their memories.

Standing up to cheer for him, as Lando’s name was announced for finishing second in the Drivers’ Championship, was a natural reaction. The applause was loud, a mix of respect and so much admiration for her determined racer boy who had fought tooth and nail all season.

McLaren’s triumph in the Constructors’ Championship only added to the celebration, the team beaming as they ascended the stage to accept their award.

While the room celebrated them, all she could think about was him — her man, standing under the spotlights, looking impossibly handsome in his perfectly tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. He looked perfect, from his styled curls to his sharp jawline and sweet, nervous smile. She felt very conflicted, overwhelmed with pride and love, yet squirming with a different kind of heat every time he looked for her in the audience. The way his dimple appeared when he smiled, the casual confidence in his voice as he gave his speech, and the glint of determination in his eyes as he thanked the team for having faith in him — every bit of it was intoxicating.

Now, at the dinner table, the atmosphere has shifted.

Glasses of champagne catch the glow, sparkling like liquid gold, as conversations hum softly among the elite of the motorsport world.

Lando sits beside her, relaxed in a way only he can manage after such a long, eventful evening. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms. He holds a champagne flute in one hand, the other resting lazily on her thigh beneath the table.

She can feel the warmth of his palm on her skin, his fingers flexing ever so slightly. It’s a casual touch — he’s sipping champagne, laughing at something Oscar just said — but the effect it has on her is anything but relaxed. Her heart races every time his thumb brushes against her soft skin, slow and intentional, almost like he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.

Her own glass of champagne sits untouched in front of her, her attention split between the conversation around them and the heat blooming under Lando’s hand. She tries to pay attention, nodding along while Andrea talks about some funny incident that happened in the garage during the last race of the season. But her thoughts keep drifting back to him.

She glances over at Lando, her breath catching at how effortlessly handsome he is, now that he’s more relaxed and in his element. The golden light softens the sharp lines of his face, making him look almost ethereal. But it’s the dimpled smirk that forms as he catches her staring that sends a shiver down her spine.

“Everything okay, gorgeous?” asks Lando, his voice low enough that only she can hear.

She nods, swallowing hard. “Positive. I'm just incredibly proud of you, that's all.”

His smirk widens, his thumb stroking her thigh with more purpose now. “You’ve said that already,” Lando murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes her ear. “But keep going. I like hearing it,” he adds, pressing his lips to her cheek.

She smiles, looking away, determined not to let him fluster her further.

However, Lando has other plans. His fingers trace unhurried patterns on her inner thigh, edging closer to the hem of her dress. The movement is subtle — nobody at the table would notice — but to her, it feels like her skin is burning. Her breathing gets heavier, and she shifts in her seat instinctively, her legs parting just enough under the table to grant him more access.

“My good girl,” whispers Lando, smiling against her cheek, then turning his attention back to the conversation.

Her heart skips at the quiet praise, and she shoots him a quick, warning glance, her eyes wide with panic.

Lando looks completely unbothered, taking part of the dialogue like he’s the epitome of innocence. The slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips tells a very different story, though. A secret one, that only they know about.

“Stop it,” she whispers through gritted teeth, her voice so low that it’s practically a breath.

Obviously, he doesn’t. If anything, her quiet protest seems to spur him on. The pads of his fingers creep higher, brushing dangerously close to the heat between her legs. She grips the stem of her champagne flute tightly, her knuckles white as she tries to take her first sip of alcohol of the night — at least then she'll have something to blame if anyone asks her why she got so flustered all of a sudden.

“Lando,” she warns, her voice soft but firm.

“Hm?” he hums, his expression completely neutral as he keeps his attention to Oscar, who’s recounting his Turn 1 incident from Abu Dhabi.

She bites her lip, willing herself not to squirm in her seat. She almost can not believe how shameless Lando is, then she remembers all the times he tested her patience when they were in public. At that, her free hand drops to her lap, fingers wrapping around his wrist in an attempt to still his movements. He doesn’t pull away, but he also still doesn’t stop. Instead, his thumb presses a little harder, a constant reminder of his presence.

“You’re squirming, baby,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement. “People are going to notice.”

“Then stop,” she repeats quietly, her tone sharp enough to earn a quick, curious glance from Andrea, who's sitting across from her. She ends up forcing a small smile, nodding, then turning back to Lando.

He chuckles under his breath, leaning in just slightly so his words are for her ears alone. “But we’re having so much fun,” he teases.

Her body betrays her as heat pools low in her belly, and she can’t stop herself from shifting again, her legs spreading a fraction wider. Lando takes full advantage of the movement, his fingers grazing higher until they’re just shy of where she needs him most. She glares at him, her eyes filled with need and her cheeks burning when his fingers slide easily over her lace panties, pressing harder on her warmth. As a response, her body jerks, and she barely suppresses a gasp, her nails digging into his wrist.

“I hate you,” she mutters under her breath, her voice shaky.

His grin returns, and he tilts his head, finally looking at her again. His gaze is dark, heated, and he looks entirely pleased with himself. “No, you don’t,” says Lando, so sure of himself.

It’s a miracle she doesn’t combust on the spot.

Because he's right — she doesn't hate him, she hates the fact that they're in public and she's incredibly turned on, but there's nothing she can do about it.

Finally, she can breathe normally when he withdraws his hand from between her legs, just as casually as he’d started. Her body is still buzzing with the lingering traces of his touch as she places her hand lightly on Lando’s shoulder. Slowly, she rises from her seat, her fingers squeezing just enough to send him a silent message only he’d understand.

At that, Lando’s heart stutters for a beat, his mouth suddenly dry as he watches her glide gracefully toward the bathrooms. The way her dress hugs her curves doesn’t help the growing situation in his pants — it’s like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, a small punishment for what just happened between them. He tries to act like he's not affected, emptying his glass of champagne while his eyes turn back to the table, but his focus is scattered.

His hand still tingles from touching her under the table, and now he’s left to deal with the knowledge that his teasing had gotten to her.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Minutes tick by, though they feel like an eternity.

Lando finds himself forcing a laugh at something Oscar says, remembering how impossibly talkative his teammate gets when he has a few drinks on board. He shifts in his seat, trying to mask his growing anticipation, but she’s all he can think about. His fingers drum against his empty glass, the weight of the moment making it almost impossible to sit still.

Then, his phone buzzes inside his pocket, her name lighting up the screen.

He doesn’t need to answer to know it’s just a diversion, and she’s not waiting for a conversation, either — she’s just giving him an out.

Lando clears his throat, “Sorry, I have to take this,” he says, giving the table an apologetic smile, as he pushes back his chair and making his way out of the dining area with purpose.

His heart pounds in his chest as he walks toward the bathroom, careful not to seem too rushed, but acutely aware of the tension building inside his body with each step he takes.

The hallway leading to the bathrooms is quieter, lined with soft, ambient lighting and artwork that screams understated luxury. He takes a turn, his steps slowing as he spots her standing in front of the mirror inside the women's restroom. The space itself is elegant, all marble countertops and gold fixtures, with sleek stalls and huge mirrors.

She’s touching up her lipstick, her purse resting next to her, the subtle curve of her smile betraying the fact that she knows he’s behind her. Lando approaches slowly, his footsteps soft against the polished tile. When he’s close enough, his hands settle on her waist, his touch firm yet familiar as he pulls her closer.

“There you are,” he says, his voice low and full of heat. “Worried about your makeup when it’s just going to smudge off you anyway?”

Her smile turns into a smirk as she meets his gaze in the mirror. “God, you’re the worst,” she teases, her tone light but laced with something more intimate.

Lando chuckles while she turns in his arms. Her hands slide up his chest, her touch lingering as she looks up at him, her eyes dark with intent.

“Are you sure it can’t wait until we get back to the hotel?” asks Lando, even though he already knows the answer, because he knows the look she has painted all over her face very well.

Her lips brush against his cheek in a warm, lingering kiss before her breath tickles his ear. “Baby, that's hours away.”

She intertwines her fingers with his, and leads him to one of the stalls at the end of the bathroom. The space is just as luxurious as the rest of the venue — tall wooden doors that reach from ceiling to floor, polished brass locks, and a sense of privacy that makes it feel more like a secluded room than a bathroom stall. As soon as they step inside, the door locks with a soft click, and every ounce of restraint disappears.

Lando’s lips are on hers instantly, hot and demanding, his hands already traveling to the hem of her dress. There’s no time to waste, with all those people back at the table who could realize at any moment that it is no coincidence that they are both missing at the same time.

His hands slide up her thighs, pushing the fabric of her dress higher until he reaches the thin band of her panties. His fingers slip beneath the lace, tugging them down in one swift motion before his hand returns, sliding between her legs and finding her completely soaked.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his forehead resting against hers as his fingers dip into her heat. “All this from a bit of touching?”

Her breath comes out in a shaky laugh as she clutches his shirt. “No,” she whispers, “All this from watching you on that stage, sitting next to you the entire night, seeing how people were cheering for you — and then from a bit of touching.”

A cocky smirk tugs at Lando’s lips. “That so?” he asks, pressing a finger into her, his pace measured as he stretches her slowly.

She gasps, her head falling back against the door, and he takes the opportunity to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. A second finger joins the first, curling inside her as his thumb circles her clit, making her see stars.

Her hands, trembling with anticipation, move to his belt, fumbling for a moment before she pushes his pants down just enough to free his hardened cock. Her touch is soft at first, her fingers wrapping around him and stroking slowly, making his jaw clench.

She looks up at him, her lips curving into a teasing smile as she echoes his earlier words. “All this from touching me under the table?”

“Shut up,” he growls, grabbing her thigh and hitching it around his hip. His cock presses against her entrance, teasing her as he slides the tip through her slick folds.

“You shut up, and fuck me already,” she says, her voice thick with desire.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. With one swift thrust, he buries himself inside her, both of them gasping at the full sensation. The stretch is so sweet and perfect, and he pauses for just a moment, letting her adjust before pulling back and thrusting again, harder this time. Her back presses against the door, the cool wood contrasting with the heat of his body as he sets a relentless pace, in and out of her tight pussy. His hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider for him as he drives into her, each movement hungrier than the previous.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Lando groans, his lips brushing against her ear. “Perfectly thight around me, baby. Always so sweet and eager, aren’t you?”

She clings to him, her nails digging into his shoulders as he angles his hips, hitting a spot that has her biting back a cry. “Lan,” she breathes, her voice shaky and full of need, while trying to mimic his rapid movements.

“That’s it,” he encourages her, his voice rough as his fingers dig into her hips. “Let them hear you, baby. Let everybody know how well you take my cock.”

Her head falls on his shoulder as he thrusts deeper, harder, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside her. The tension coils tighter and tighter in her belly, her body trembling as she teeters on the edge.

“Lando, fuck,” she moans wetly into his shoulder, feeling her pussy clenching around his length. “Shit, baby. Yes, don’t stop.”

As he buries himself so deep inside her, Lando realizes that's what he wants to do for the rest of the evening — the rest of his life, as a matter of fact. His lips part as he feels her walls twitching around him, making him — if that's even possible — even harder for her. His breaths come out in spasms, letting out a small cry of pleasure as his chest crashes against hers violently.

Sensing that she’s so close, Lando’s hand ends up slipping between their bodies to rub her clit in time with his thrusts. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

“Are you—oh, fuck,” she tries to speak, but all her thoughts are focused on how good he makes her feel.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando assures her, “Right behind you, love.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before she shatters around him, her walls clenching hard as her orgasm washes over her. Her moans are muffled against his neck as he continues to fuck her through her release, chasing his own high. His movements grow erratic, sloppier, his grip on her tightening as he finally lets go, spilling into her with a low, guttural moan.

For a moment, they can’t hear anything else except the soft whir of ventilation and their labored breathing. Their bodies stay pressed tightly together as the echoes of their pleasure lingers in the small space.

Her chest heaves against his as she exhales shakily, her lips brushing his neck, then up his jaw in a silent thank you.

Lando smiles, slowly pulling out of her, his cock still hard and sensitive from his release. She shudders at the sudden emptiness, but before she can speak, his hand slips between her thighs again. His fingers slide inside, pushing some of his cum and their mingled release back into her.

“Lando,” she gasps, her body clenching instinctively around his fingers.

His breath falls hot against her skin. “Gotta make sure you feel it all night.”

Her cheeks flush at his words, and she bites her lip, torn between glaring at him and melting into his touch. He strokes her lazily, savoring the way her body responds to him even now.

“Insane behavior, Norris,” she exhales sharply, finally looking up at him.

“My brand,” he smirks back at her. “But what about you, hm?” he asks, his tone soft, but teasing as his eyes rake over her wrecked expression. “Going back knowing you’re filled up so good?”

She rolls her eyes at him, but the heat in her gaze betrays her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he quips, fixing a strand of her hair and then kissing her deeply one last time.

She smiles against his lips, brushing her thumb over his mouth to wipe away the faint smudge of her lipstick. Then, leaning up, she presses a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “Don’t take too long, champ.”

With that, she exits the stall, glancing once in the mirror to make sure she looks composed, and collecting her purse before heading back to the table.

When she returns to her seat, the conversation flows just as before, no one paying much attention to her absence beyond a polite glance. Her heart pounds in her chest, the sensation of being so intimately connected to Lando still fresh in her mind as she settles into her chair. She picks up her glass of champagne, finishing it in one go, her hands steady despite the warmth still coursing through her body — and the wetness between her legs.

A few minutes later, Lando comes back, his phone pressed to his ear as he pretends to be mid-conversation. His expression is casual, his voice light as he murmurs something unintelligible before slipping his phone back into his pocket and taking his seat.

But as soon as he sits down, Oscar’s eyes narrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Lando catches the look, frowning slightly as he tilts his head. “What?” he asks silently, his expression confused.

Oscar doesn’t answer, instead he points directly at Lando’s bowtie, which is noticeably crooked.

Lando’s eyes widen as he glances down, and straightens it as casually as he can, his cheeks turning faintly pink.

“It's windy outside,” Lando mutters under his breath, low enough that only Oscar can hear.

His teammate just grins knowingly, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever you say, mate.”

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