#is it ever that serious... no... but yes...

[springintosummerxx]

❀ downbad for you ❀

op81 x reader

in which oscar changes in little and big ways. aka oscar's downbad for you

warnings: suggestive, fluff, bit of pining, humour

word count: 1.9 k

masterlist

nicole piastri was not an impatient woman. she raised four kids, all of them talented, intelligent and painfully oblivious in some way or another.

so when oscar had started travelling on his own and barely - rarely - picked up phone calls or checked texts, she learned to wait for him to come to her. very reasonable, in her opinion.

but when she called him, early in the morning hoping to catch him before a sprint race, she was surprised to find that he actually picked up.

"hello?" he asked, tone a little eager and not it's usual monotone.

"oscar," she replied, a little startled.

"oh. hey, mum." he answered absentmindedly.

now she was suspicious, "why are you answering your calls all of a sudden?"

"didn't you call me?" he asked, with that born-nonchalance that made her want to rip her hair out sometimes.

"yeah, just checking in. everything good for the weekend?"

"sure, everything's fine. listen mum, i'm actually waiting on another call. i'll call you again after the sprint, okay? thanks."

then her own son, the one she'd painfully pushed - okay, that was a bit gross, but she was a little offended.

then it clicked.

the question she should be asking, instead of rolling her eyes over her firstborn's antics, is who is he waiting on?

nicole calls hattie next, who answers reliably on the first ring.

"is your brother seeing someone?"

"woah, mum. hello to you too," her eldest daughter huffs, "and yes, i think so."

she nearly jumps up in excitement, "who?"

"that, i have no idea. but he's been answering his texts so quick lately, and he asked me about what flowers were suitable for a first date."

"finally," nicole sighed, and then perking up, "when do you think he'll bring her home?"

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌lando is staring at oscar as he puts on suncream.

he looks so...serious, squeezing out lotion from a bottle that looks way too tiny in his hands, concentrating on the thin white lines that coat three of his fingers.

"what?" he then is rubbing it into his face, and lando is scared.

"mate, what the fuck?"

"i'm protecting my skin," the australian answers, straight-faced.

he is 100% sure he's never seen oscar put on sunscreen, ever. especially not in the middle of the day, right between filming videos outside.

it's probably a good idea, if they don't want to get sunburnt; oscar, especially, with his pale complexion.

and who is lando to judge? he used to love it when his ex-girlfriend's did his skincare or forced him to exfoliate - wait.

before he can think through what he's going to say, he blurts, "do you have a girlfriend?"

oscar stares at him, and the faint, pink blush that's rising from his neck is enough of an answer.

"oh, my days you do!" he gasps. oscar shakes his head, the corners tipping up despite himself.

lando watches him, half-disgusted and half-proud.

his teammate has an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face, eyes bright. he leans back in the chair, looking dorky in his team kit and a little bit of sunscreen not blended in at his jaw.

lando could say with full confidence, after watching oscar not flinch at turns or crashes, that this reaction means that he is in love.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌the first time oscar brings you around (and hard-launches both of you to the moon) is during the miami gp.

the two of you, your smaller hand tucked into the crook of his arm, make your way across the green turf of the paddock.

he's aware of the cameras and eyes; it's kind of hard not to be, but he doesn't mind like he usually does.

it's probably gross and neanderthal, and he will definitely deny it if you bring it up, but he's so proud to have you on his arm.

the two of you met a months ago, in monaco, where you were starting the second year of your doctorate degree.

you were (and are, in his opinion) way too smart for him, drop-dead gorgeous with a dry sense of humour.

although monaco was known for hosting f1 drivers you weren't super well-versed in the sport.

he likes that about you, and even more the way you ask him to tell you about it as you run your fingers through his hair, when the two of you are out on a date in some little cafe.

"okay?" he murmurs, and you squeeze your fingers around his bicep once.

"hmm," he can tell you're a little overwhelmed by the crease between your brows that he smoothes out with his thumb, "m'okay."

the little yellow sundress you're wearing makes your skin glow under the florida sun, and he wants to press his nose to your shoulder.

"it'll get better when we're not-"

"hard-launching at one of your races? you sure go big or go home, baby."

however many times you use that nickname, whether in the early morning when you're bribing him with coffee or hushed as he presses himself into you late at night, it never fails to make him flush.

it sounds so pretty from your lips, so personal and intimate his stomach lurches still when he hears that pet name.

"yeah," he laughs, "can't help it though. want to show you off."

this time, it's your turn to be flustered.

he can't believe someone as put together and elegant as you turns into a pile of mush for someone as unromantic as him.

but perhaps he's changed, he thinks as you twist your mouth and brush a hand over your sun and love-warmed cheeks.

"god, oscar. you can't say things like that. i'm going to turn into a liquid."

"a very beautiful liquid," he offers, his free hand grabbing the yours that's tucked into his elbow.

he moves you to his other side, the one closer to the cafés and motorhomes as more people start flooding into the paddock.

"c'mere," he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your forehead.

normally, he would be against any sort of pda. but you look so relaxed under the sun, skin glowing as you watch him behind a pair of sunglasses that he can't help himself.

oscar hears the shutters of cameras, and he rests his cheek on yours.

"love you," he grins boyishly.

"love you, baby. good luck."

he wants a real kiss, one that makes you whimper the way he likes, but he's pushed his luck enough.

someone from the team leads you to the back of the garage to find a headset.

later that night, when the both of you are laying in bed, faces damp with skincare, he comes across an edit of you on tiktok.

there's some thirst-trappy song in the back and an annoying filter that makes everything a bit blurry, but he watches it three times anyways.

the first clip is of you in the garage, standing towards the back, fingers fluttering over your papaya headset. you look serious (though he thinks you do look a little confused, adorably so) with your eyes locked on the t.v. broadcasting his onboard.

the little skysports banner pops up, citing you as his partner.

oscar piastri's partner, it reads in block letters.

his heart warms in his chest, and he has to rub at it because of how intense he feels for you; you are so much more than that, and he can't wait for people to realize.

the next clip is you with alexandra, who you knew from someone's neighbor. or cousin. monaco was small, after all.

the two of you are laughing, striding with leo between your legs.

lastly, oscar watches with attentive eyes as the videos of you and him together come up.

it's undeniable that you guys look good together; he's smiling more than he probably has, ever, and you look up at him, adoringly as you blend some smeared sunscreen under his ear.

the sound of the tiktok has repeated four times by then, and you slide yourself into his embrace, wiggling up his chest.

he tilts his phone to you so you can see, and you bury your face in his neck.

"help," your breath warm on his skin, "i'm being perceived."

he laughs, pulling you up to kiss him, for real on the mouth, "thank you. for coming with me."

"of course," you say, a little surprised at how sincere he sounds, "anytime, baby."

now it's his turn to bury his face into your neck.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

"he's never like this," hattie tells you.

"what?" you ask, smiling as your boyfriend's sister hands you a drink.

"he's so...touchy. it would be kind of gross, if you guys weren't so cute."

"yeah," edie pipes in, sipping her own drink, "it's freaky. unnatural."

"are you talking about me?" oscar asks drily as he slides into the seat next to yours.

frowning at the distance in between your chair and his, he wraps one large hand around the leg of yours and tugs until you're close enough for his to rest his arm to loop behind you.

mae shudders comically, just as edie pretends to gag. hattie hoots in laughter.

oscar, cheeks pink, unabashedly rolls his eyes as his parents take their seats around the table in their backyard.

it's nice seeing him in his natural habitat, teasing his sisters, helping his mum carry dishes to the dining table.

you insist on helping nicole wash up after dinner, and as you dry the dishes she hands you, she says something you don't expect.

"thank you," she tells you, "for taking care of him."

before you can respond, she goes on, "he's never been too good at taking care of himself. you know, he used to put his washing in the oven?"

you laugh, imagining oscar, on the cusp of adulthood, crouched over a oven with wet socks in his hands.

"but i can tell he's been well. so, thank you."

you blush, "i don't think it's anything to do with me."

she snorts, an easy smile on her face as she nudges you with her shoulder, "he's been calling more, he's eating well. i don't think he's been sunburnt or gone without fresh laundry for months."

you hum, "he takes care of me too, and i should thank you for raising a good man."

"i've got to stop leaving you alone with my family members." oscar sidles next to you, peering at his mum.

she brushes your cheek and pats his shoulder before wandering off to find his sisters.

"hi," he whispers into your hair, turning you around so he can crowd you into the kitchen counter.

"hi, baby."

he groans, burying his face into your neck. you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder, and you grin.

"okay?" you ask quietly.

"more than okay," he responds, smile content and squinty, "it's nice. to see you here, with my family. they love you."

"i love them," caressing his cheek, you press a kiss to his nose.

"this is probably weird for them," he hums, leaning into your hand, "to see me like this."

"i'm not going anywhere, so i think they'll get used to you being all gross and down bad."

"not downbad," oscar mutters, wrapping his arms around your waist in a hug and swaying the two of you back and forth, "just in love."

"downbad," you giggle, and he doesn't disagree, not when it makes you smile, so lovingly and soft at him.

maybe he is downbad.

[cameronsbabydoll]

could you do babydollreader! asking rafe if she could hold it when he goes to the restroom?

babydoll!reader holding it while rafe goes to the bathroom ❤︎

it happens on a sunday morning.

the kind where the sun’s coming through the windows all soft and sleepy, catching the dust motes in the air like glitter, and the sheets are warm and messy and smell like him. your legs are tangled together, and rafe’s lying on his back with one arm slung over his eyes, groaning like he just woke up from a 200-year nap.

you roll onto your side, cheek pressed to his chest. “you have to pee, don’t you.”

he shifts, doesn’t answer.

“you do,” you say, tracing a little heart into his skin with your finger. “you always get that look in your face when you gotta go.”

he groans louder this time. “why do you know that.”

“because i love you,” you sing softly, kissing his jaw. “now. can i hold it?”

he moves his arm, looks at you. eyes half-lidded, hair a mess, morning voice scratchy. “no.”

“please?”

“no.”

“please, rafey. i’ll be so gentle.”

he lets out the most exasperated sigh in the history of sighs, throws his head back on the pillow like the weight of the world is upon him.

“this is so weird,” he mutters.

you light up. “so that’s a yes?”

he glares. “if you laugh, i swear—”

“i won’t! i swear on all my vintage barbie dolls!”

he gives you a long, tired look. “you already hold my heart. now you wanna hold my dick while i’m peeing?”

you nod, sweet as pie. “yes.”

and god help him—he lets you.

you’re practically bouncing behind him like a bunny as he shuffles into the bathroom. he mumbles the whole time, something about losing his dignity, something about how topper and kelce can never know.

and when he finally lets you hold it?

you’re so serious. hands soft, eyes big, tongue poking out in concentration like it’s the most important task in the world.

and when you're done, you look up at him with the biggest smile, eyes sparkling like you just got everything you ever wanted.

he ruffles your hair, muttering, “jesus christ,” but his ears are pink.

you beam. “you love me.”

he groans. “unfortunately.”

[heartyluv]

Note: Sylus is just the fluffiest man ever. He deserves all the love in the world and I shall be first in line to give it. ♡︎

Creds to @/strangergraphics & @/omi-resources for the banners.

No warmings ◡̈

Word Count: 1,040

Protective!Sylus/Reader Headcanons

♱ Sylus is so protective over you in a way that you thought only existed in all the movies you’ve watched and books you’ve read.

♱ It’s not overwhelming in the sense that it’s too much or suffocating. It’s overwhelming because you never thought someone could ever love you so much that your entire existence is what completes theirs.

♱ Sylus hesitated to tell you how important you were to him. He had difficulty accepting it himself when he came to the realization that you were his endgame, because loving someone meant vulnerability—even weakness.

♱ I feel like the moment he realized you meant the world to him was when he saw how seamlessly you mended into his life and daily routine without judgment. I’m still imagining him as the leader of Onychinus, so he’s still that feared arms dealer that everyone whispers about.

♱ I don’t believe he hid anything from you. He laid everything out on the table. For one, it’s because he doesn’t lie to people and two, putting everything out there left no room for you to find something to leave him for later. Sylus doesn’t necessarily have a fear of being abandoned, but he views it as an expectation. If you knew what and who he was from the beginning, he knew it wouldn’t be long for you to be solidified in whatever decision you choose.

♱ But when you stayed, when you held him and told him that there was nothing unlovable or unworthy about him, you were stuck with the man for life.

♱ “I’ll never disappoint you. Everything I do from this point forward will always and only be done with your wellbeing at the forefront of importance. Thank you for choosing me.”

♱ He definitely has a tracker on you, at least two. One in your phone and another in a necklace he gave you (you still don’t know about that one).

♱ He proposed the idea of you moving in with him a few weeks after you officially became a couple. While every part of you wanted to say yes, you had to be realistic. The relationship was just starting to get serious, but Sylus had already started moving you in without you being aware.

♱ I’m talking he buys an exact replica of your wardrobe, shoes, jewelry and extras. He’s got at least double of your favorite body wash, perfume, lotion, and hair products. Basically, all the things that make your house a home, he brought it to his place. All your books, records, and movie collections are in his home and if they’re classics, he tries to find original copies just because he loves to make you happy.

♱ “When you tell me that you are ready, there’s no need to wait so that you can gather your things. I have everything you need and more, ready for you to come home. Just like me, it’ll be waiting.”

♱ Sylus became so protective of you because you were the only thing in his life that seemed real. He did nothing, as he says, “to earn you love”, but Sylus being who he is, is what won you over completely. You didn’t question him when things felt a little concerning or judge him when it got scary. You stuck by his side, praised him, believed in him, trusted him. You loved him, something he thought he’d never experience.

♱ He appointed a personal driver and bodyguard(s) to you whenever he’s unable to be around you and they’re what he deems the best available. But if he finds better, he’ll replace them without any issue.

♱ He threatens them for sure LOL. I don’t think he’s light about it either. Like he’s gruesome and detailed about what he’ll do to them should they fail in keeping a smile on your face and your safety secured.

♱ And he goes to you for daily reports. You think it’s the cutest thing despite him being so serious.

♱ “Should you have any concerns or complaints about who I’ve assigned to you, bring it to me directly, sweetie. I’ll handle it.”

♱ He buys you everything. He wants you to feel secure in every aspect within his control. Keeping you happy is what keeps him happy because for him, you’re all that matters. So emotionally, physically, mentally, financially and whatever other -lly there is, he’s going to make sure you have the best because it’s what you deserve.

♱ You bring up a gaming system? He’ll buy it. You bring up a hobby you’re thinking about getting into? He’ll have nothing but the best supplies delivered to you. You want a baby? He’s more than willing to start the family he’s been ready to give you since you first time you told him you loved him.

♱ He has hurt people when it came to you. You don’t know this, but times when someone has called you out of your name or disrespected you and you told him about it, he didn’t go as far as to off them, but he made them feel what will happen should they or anyone else dares to ever try it again.

♱ “Your first mistake was believing you had the privilege to be in her presence. Your second and final one was disrespecting her and thinking there’d be no consequence.”

♱ Sylus loves your skin. HEAR ME OUT!!

♱ You’re just so soft, you always smell so good, and he lovessss to feel you. The man is addicted to rubbing you, licking you, touching you, anything he can do to be close to you because unfortunately, living in your skin just isn’t gonna happen. Like he’s addicted to you and only you get to see how serious he is about it.

♱ He hates seeing you cry, especially if it’s about something he can’t directly handle.

♱ “Tell me how to make it better, kitten. Nothing is unreachable when I’m here to correct it. Talk to me.”

♱ Basically, you’re like porcelain to him. By no means does he think you’re weak or that you need saving. But because you let him be your shield, because you allow him to be the one to protect you from all the dangers and the harshness of the world, he doesn’t take that responsibility lightly.

♱ You are his happiness. You are his reason.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Dog Tags (3)

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When a mission goes wrong, Bucky gets his Dog Tags back.

Disclaimer: This is part three for one and two. Mentions of serious injuries, blood and being hospitalised. Angst, bit of fluff here and there, hurt/comfort, Bucky stays by reader's side. Sam giving Bucky his own reality check, platonic!Wanda, swearing. Left kinda open ended in case I decide to write part four? Not Proof Read.

Bucky stared down at the dog tags in his hands, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the blood stained letters. He had to take a deep breath before the tears started flowing again. 

You were meant to be on a simple recon mission. You’d done them a thousand times. Maybe you’d come back with a bruise or two, but you still came back. 

This time, his phone had rung throughout his room just as the clock turned 4:00 am. An agent had found the tags on her person. They knew they weren’t hers, but they were definitely someone’s. 

Bucky had gotten to the hospital in under an hour. You’d still been in surgery by the time he arrived, but the nurses had brought out your personal belongings in a large plastic bag. 

Your clothes; blood stained to hell. Your Shield issued weapons were empty of bullets. Whatever had happened, you’d emptied your clip, plus your three backups. Your knife lay at the bottom of the bag, stained with blood, too. 

Bucky couldn’t work out if it was yours or someone else's. But he did know one thing for certain. The blood that lay splattered over his tags, as he pulled the chain from the bag, was yours. You never wore them outside of your uniform. You kept them close to your chest. It couldn’t be anyone else's. 

Bucky had left a message at Hill’s desk, as well with Sam explaining what had happened. What he knew, at least. Hill was sending someone to the mission base to find out more. 

“Mr Barnes?”

Bucky took in a deep breath as he stood up, clasping the tags in his palm. Maybe if he squeezed tightly enough, he’d be able to feel you. 

“Yes.”

“Your wife is now out of surgery. We’ll be keeping her under observation for the foreseeable, but once she’s situated in a room, you’ll be able to sit with her.” The Doctor told him. 

Bucky just nodded. “Do you know what happened?”

“I know it’s not common, but I’ll bring you her more detailed medical chart.” They told him. “There was too much extensive damage to talk about off the top of my head.”

Those words hit Bucky in the chest, harder than anything else had ever done. 

“But she’ll-” Bucky couldn’t bring himself to talk. 

The Doctor just nodded. “She’s going to need a lot of physical therapy. Thankfully nothing broke within her legs, but the damage to her muscles will make her training a lot harder than it should be for a while.”

Bucky nodded. 

“But she’ll be okay.”

“Thank you.”

The Doctor nodded. “Thank you for the tags.”

Bucky was a little confused as he followed the doctor’s finger, pointing to his hand. The dog tags? Why was she thanking him for the dog tags?

“If your wife hadn’t been wearing them, we wouldn’t have known who to contact.”

Wife.

Bucky felt himself chuckle inside. If you were awake and could hear the doctor now, you’d have probably made some disgusted eye roll and comment over being even associated with him. 

“Oh, yeah.”

The Doctor smiled. “I’ll come and get you when she’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

She just nodded with another soft smile before walking away. Twenty minutes later, he was being walked down the hallway where he stood outside of your room for ten minutes before opening up the door. 

You had at least a dozen wires hooked up to you, aside from the standard hospital gear. Bucky just stared at the monitor for a while, watching your heartbeat print onto paper. 

Eventually, he sat in the chair beside your bed and looked at you. In that moment, he’d give anything to have you yell at him. Cuss him out, threaten him, roll your eyes…anything. 

“They…” Bucky cleared his throat, looking down at the tags in his hand. “They told me you should still be able to hear me…and that talking helps. I know you’re probably mad it’s me who’s here, but you can’t blame me for this one, doll.” 

A weak chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips as he looked from his hand and to your sleeping frame. “They think we’re married, by the way. Mostly because of the dog tags they found on you. I’ve…I’ve got em’ right here. They’re safe. You’re safe, doll. Just…just kinda need you to wake up soon. Maybe tell me to piss off. Not that I’d leave you anyway, but that’s kinda our thing, right? Fighting?”

Bucky went silent for a while as he looked at you. 

“I need you to fight me, sweetheart.” Bucky told you. “So you’ve gotta mend and pull through all of this. Whatever happened out there in the field…that’s not the end of your story. It can’t be. I won’t let it.”

Bucky could hear your voice in his head. “You’d don’t have a choice in it, Barnes.”. 

Bucky told you a few more things, like how he’d called both Hill and Sam. He told you that he’d text Wanda, “She’ll get it once she lands. I’m sure she’ll be flying through that window soon.”

But, eventually, he stopped talking. He just let the sound of your steady heart fill the room. It was proof you were still alive. You were still here. 

On the days where Bucky couldn’t sit with you, Wanda took his place. Or Kate. Or Sam. On the odd occasion, Joaquin sat with you. Bucky had walked in on plenty of PowerPoint presentations of how his suit was better than Sam’s old one. 

But when he did sit with you, his mind would wander to memories of you and him. Like the training room when he’d told you he knew you had his dog tags, or when he’d helped you when you got hurt a few months back. 

But one stuck out to him in particular. Plenty stuck out to him as time ticked by, but he was reminded of this one as he looked at the side table beside your bed. Your knife lay on top, still in its protective covering. 

Less than three weeks before you’d landed in hospital, Bucky had been training with you. 

The main noises being made were grunts. As you hit his chest, as he knocked your legs down, as you twisted his arm, as he flipped you onto the mat, as you kicked his legs from beneath him, as you both rolled across the mats before you landed on top, trapping him in place. 

“Give in yet?”

“Do you?”

You were about to question what he meant, but then you felt it. Cold and sharp; he had your knife, again. But this time, it was pointed against your side. 

“What?” You hesitated for a second and looked away. Bucky took his opportunity. 

In two simple moves, you were on your back staring up at him with your own knife gently pressed against your skin. 

“Give in.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes at his glowing smirk. “Yes. Fine. Now get off me.” 

Bucky chuckled and stood up, lowering his hand down to help you up. At first, you swatted it away. But he held it out again, “Come on.”

Reluctantly, you accepted it and he helped you stand. “You’re focusing too much. Too in your head. You need to relax.” 

Bucky flipped the knife over in his hand so he was pinching the sharp blade. He handed it over to you and you swiped it up. “Thanks.” Your voice grunted a little before you placed your knife back in its place. 

“You know, if you wanted to, you could train with me more often.” Bucky offered as he walked away. “I know you and I are…whatever we are. But I have training that isn’t exactly found in a Shield manual.”

“I’m fine.” You said, avoiding looking at him as he stood with his back to you. You had stared at him in this fashion one too many times. It was only a short time before someone caught you doing so. Even worse if it was Bucky. 

“It’s not an issue. Hell, we don’t have to even talk-”

“I said I’m fine.” You didn’t mean to raise your voice when you spoke to him. You regretted it instantly. You sighed. “Look, I know you mean well. And, thank you. But I’m okay.”

Bucky watched you, over his shoulder. You walked away from the mats, grabbed your water bottle and sat down on one of the opposite benches. 

“What is it?” 

“What?”

“Do you have a problem with me or something?”

You sighed. “Bucky.”

“I get you and I don’t exactly get along-”

“I don’t have a problem with you,” you cut him off. “I just-” 

You gave a short sigh. There were so many reasons why it wouldn’t work if he was the one to train you. He wouldn’t know it, but you’d become more distracted by him. And for some reason it was written into the heavens that if you and Bucky spent more than ten minutes alone together, things in the air started to get…close. Too close. 

But the main thing was your undisclosed feelings for the super annoying, massive pain in your ass, super soldier. The longer you spent around him, so close to him, the harder they were getting to manage. 

It was only a matter of time before he figured out the truth. 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Can we just leave it at that? Please?”

Bucky watched you for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Forget I ever mentioned it.”

You just nodded. 

Later that evening, Bucky had been with Wanda. And he’d been avoiding the topic of you ever since he walked through the front door. 

“Did something happen between you two?” Wanda just flat out asked him. 

“No. Nothing happened.”

“You’re sulking, so I know something happened.”

Bucky shrugged. “She just doesn’t want my help. I’ve tried being nice. But she’s just so…her. It’s annoying.”

Wanda nodded. “Yeah, I’m gonna need more information than just…you not handling your school boy crush very well.”

“I don’t-” Bucky shut his mouth as he whipped his head around to look at Wanda. “I don’t like her like that.”

“Doesn’t like who?” Sam asked as he walked through the door. 

“Bucky. Not liking Y/n.”

Sam just barked a laugh as he opened up the fridge and put his groceries away. “Ha! That’s a bullshit lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

“What-”

“Bucky,” Sam was practically laughing. “You’ve had a crush on her for god knows how long. I don’t know what twisted bullshit you both have going on that prevents you from talking like normal human beings, but even I know you saying you don’t like Y/n is nothing but a complete and utter bullshit lie.”

Bucky looked at Wanda for backup but she seemed to be on Sam’s side. 

“You know, maybe if you…I don’t know…talked to her rather than fight her-”

“She fights me!”

Sam just looked at him. “You fight each other.”

“Maybe you should just try and talk to her,” Wanda told him. “Might just clear a few things up.”

Sam sat down on the arm of the chair. “You’ve had feelings for her for a long time, Buck. Maybe it’s time you did something about it.”

Bucky just sighed. 

“How long have you guys been married?”

Bucky hadn’t noticed the nurse walk inside to your hospital room, at first. “Sorry?”

“I’m sorry to ask,” she apologised as she changed out your IV and drew some blood. “It’s just…I’ve seen a lot of couples pass through these doors and I’m yet to see ones with a connection like yours.”

Bucky sat up. The nurse could read the confusion on his face from a mile away. 

She just stepped to the side and pointed at the print of the heart rate. 

“See these spikes here?” 

Bucky nodded. 

“These are from when you’ve been with her. It’s good they’re going up. It means she’s recognising her surroundings. At the very least, the people in it. You’re healing for her.”

Bucky just looked at your still sleeping frame. He was helping you heal?

He was helping you heal?

He was helping you heal?

He was helping you heal?

The nurse smiled again. “How long have you two been married?”

“Not long,” Bucky answered. “But we’ve…we’ve known each other for years.”

The nurse smiled. “Who made the first move?”

Bucky thought for a moment. “She did. She saved my life.”

And you had. 

You’d been one of the new agents placed with the team. In the middle of a forest, Bucky had noticed every tripwire save for one. As something came flying over head, you’d swiped his legs from underneath him and pinned him down. 

“You’re welcome,” you whispered. 

That had been the first time Bucky had met you. It had also been the first time he’d looked you in the eyes. He could have happily drowned there and then. Which scared him. More than he knew what to deal with. 

“And now you’re here saving hers,” the nurse smiled. “I’ll be back in about an hour. Is there anything I can get you? Blankets, pillows?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”

“She’ll be okay, Mr Barnes.”

Bucky just nodded and watched as the nurse left. As he turned his head, that was when he noticed your chart. They still kept you as Y/n Barnes. Nobody, including Bucky, had bothered to correct them. If anything, it meant Bucky still learnt about your injuries and your healing process. 

It also meant he got access to stay with you for as long as he wanted. Which, if he didn’t have to work and if Sam didn’t come and drag him outside every few hours, he’d stay the whole time. 

It was a month or so more before you finally woke up. 

When Bucky had gotten a text from Joaquin telling him to get to the hospital quickly, he’d dropped what he was doing and came running down the hallway of the hospital ten minutes later. 

“What’s happening?”

“I-I don’t know.” Joaquin told him. “I was just holding her hand and she moved. Like, she squeezed my hand.”

“What?” Bucky moved past Joaquin and to your side, leaning his hand on the side headboard. 

“Y/n? Hey, doll? Can you hear me?”

Bucky held your hand in his. Nothing happened. “I know you don’t like me all that much, but if you can hear me, can you try and squeeze my hand?” 

Again, nothing.

Bucky looked at Joaquin. 

“I didn’t dream it.”

Bucky looked back at you. For a split second, he pushed some of your hair from your face. “Doll, if you’re awake, please. I just need you to squeeze my hand.”

Again, nothing. 

Until there was something.

“Go and get a nurse.”

“On it!” Joaquin practically flew out of the room. 

It all happened in a matter of seconds. Joaquin had been talking to you, telling you that you were gonna be okay. Then you heard Bucky’s voice which was quickly followed by a rough hand gently holding onto yours. 

And when you finally opened your eyes, you saw him. Standing beside your bed, holding your hand, looking like the world had finally started moving again. 

It was a few hours before you came around properly. And when you did, it felt a lot less hectic. Everything was peaceful and quiet. You had time to look around. There was a steady beeping somewhere. 

A heart monitor. 

You had different wires and tubes sticking out of you. The lights weren’t as bright as they’d been when you’d first woken up. 

But the thing that caught your eye the most was the sleeping frame of Bucky, hunched over your bed. Then you felt it. His hand, still in yours. 

You tried to squeeze his hand but eventually it hurt a little less and he stirred awake before shooting up. 

“Hey, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“How long have I been out?”

Bucky answered you honestly. “Almost two months. The damage was extensive. Can you remember anything?”

You just nodded. “I think I blacked out after the building collapsed because I don’t remember anything after that.”

Bucky stood and pressed a button on the headboard of your bed before sitting beside you, clasping your hand in his. If it had been any other time, you would have taken your hand right back. 

But in that moment you needed comfort. You needed to feel safe. 

You felt safe with Bucky. 

But then you gasped. “Shit.”

“What? Are you hurt? What is it?”

You sat up and touched your chest and neck. “Your- your tags. I-”

Bucky just pulled the chain from his shirt. “There’s right here.”

You visibly relaxed but then you tensed as you watched Bucky remove them. “What are you doing?”

A small chuckle left him, “Just stay still, would you?”

“It’s not like I can exactly run away right now.”

Bucky smiled to himself before lifting the chain up and over your head. “There.”

You looked at him, wondering what he meant by all of it. “They’re your tags, Bucky.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But I know they’re safe with you. They always looked better on you, anyway.”

Once Bucky knew you were okay, he’d wiped the rest of the tags clean. He’d been waiting to lay them back on you. He didn’t want to do it while you were sleeping. He needed you to fight him first. 

He needed proof you were alive. 

That was when the door opened and a nurse walked inside. “You’re awake! I must say, you nearly gave me and your husband a fright earlier. The doctor hadn’t predicted that you would wake up this early.”

You looked at Bucky and whispered, “Husband?”

“Just go with it,” he whispered back. 

It wasn’t until an hour or so, when both the Doctor and nurse had left, that you spoke to Bucky again. 

“You wanna tell me why we’re married?”

“They found my tags with you. They called me and…”

“You never corrected them?” You’d asked that question a lot calmer than Bucky had been expecting. 

“It meant I got to stay with you longer. And that they’d tell me what was going on.”

“You didn’t need to do that, Bucky.”

Bucky was honest with you. “I’m glad they called me first.”

You hand clutched the tags dangling from your neck. “They really thought you were my husband?”

Bucky chuckled. “If anything, the tags made sure you came home.”

In the silence as you and Bucky looked at each other, you felt the coolness of the metal in your palm. His tags had brought you home. His tags had brought him to you. His dog tags made sure you weren’t alone. And something told you Bucky had the same idea. 

Which was only confirmed when he attended almost every physio appointment with you. 

“How’s she doing, doc?”

The physio smiled as they held their arms up, in case you fell. “She’s doing great.”

“She’s tired and pissed off.” You answered truthfully. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I brought your favourite snacks from that store you and Kate found.”

Your hand gripped the two parallel bars as you slowly walked from one side to the other. “How the hell do you know about that store?”

“I asked Kate. She told me.”

As the phyio’s pager went off, Bucky offered to take over for a few minutes to help you. And, considering the medical staff still believed you and Bucky to be married, you’d both decided to just keep the act up. 

So, slowly walking beside you in case you fell, Bucky helped you turn around and walk back down the parallel bars. 

“How’ve you been feeling?”

“You mean other than tired and pissed off?”

“Yeah.”

“Sore,” you admitted. “Bored. I can’t wait to get back home.”

If Bucky was being honest, he would say the same thing. Even if you did spend more time fighting each other, he missed it. He missed you. 

“Neither can I.” The honesty slipped out from Bucky before he could think about any awkward consequences. 

You paused and looked at him. “What?” Your voice was a little softer than usual. 

“What?” Bucky shrugged. He’d said it. There was no taking it back. “It’s boring without you. I get we might fight the whole time, but without you I’ve got no one to keep my ego in check.”

Bucky earned a laugh from you as you looked away to keep walking. And he laughed, too. 

You had to admit. Laughing with Bucky rather than groaning was a nice change. 

And it only got easier from there on out. Your groans had turned to laughter, your scowls had turned to smiles and the roll of your eyes had turned to tears of laughter. 

And slowly, the same things happened for Bucky, too.

Eventually, the ten minute window you and Bucky spent together turned into twenty, then forty and before either of you knew it, hours had passed. 

You were both together and, surprisingly, still alive. 

[whoevenisjavier]

a prize i’d cheat to win

pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader

summary: you fuck your married boss during a late night at the office.

a/n: so… this is like��� heavy cheating stuff. if that’s not your thing, then best to stop now

tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48, reader is 25. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! and m! receiving). unprotected piv. creampie.

w/c: 9k

Harry Castillo takes many things in life very seriously.

That’s an essential trait when you're sitting in the executive chair of one of the largest construction companies in the United States: being sharp, meticulous, and systematic is as mandatory as a contractual clause imposing penalties for breach.

But there are two things Harry is even more serious and methodical about.

The first: every single one of Harry’s suits is custom-made by the son of the same tailor who once dressed his father and grandfather. Even if a ready-to-wear suit fits him perfectly, it must go to the tailor, even if it’s just to add a single stitch to the inside pocket.

The second: his wife must receive a gift on every single occasion that concerns her or their relationship.

You keep a calendar on your computer solely for this purpose. Her birthday on June 17th, their first kiss anniversary, the day he asked her out, their official anniversary, the day he proposed, their wedding anniversary, Dalilah the Poodle’s birthday.

Yes, there's even an anniversary for the first time they slept together, on September 19th.

And on all these dates, a gift must be sent to her, signed from Harry. If not, she’ll make his life a living hell, and he’ll spiral into one of those gloomy funks for at least three days: always polite, but with short answers and a stone-cold expression. And you hate seeing him like that.

Despite your color-coded calendars and hyper-organized schedule, it did happen once, but only because you didn’t know there was an anniversary for the first time Harry said “I love you,” which didn’t happen until February 15th, 2020, even though he proposed back on October 28th, 2019. Ever since, you make sure that expensive gifts are sent either to their apartment or to her law office.

Today is the anniversary of their first fight, and you're at your desk choosing between a bouquet from The Bouqs Co. and a pair of sapphire Spinelli earrings. Or maybe both?

The elevator doors open and Harry steps out, immaculately dressed in a navy suit you bought last week. He's on the phone and looks stressed. You raise your hand to greet him, and the tension in his face softens into a small smile, which is his version of “good morning.”

He walks past you into his office, leaving the door open, which means he’ll be back in a moment to give you a proper hello.

Harry Castillo’s office is on the top floor of the Castillo Construction & Co. headquarters. Behind your desk, the company’s initials — CCC — are elegantly embossed in gold on the wall. The reception décor is all rich, dark wood. On the wall panels, desks, and on the frames of the chairs in the waiting area. Gold details on the picture frames, doorknobs, and desk edges offer a refined contrast.

It’s beautiful, but a bit dull, so last year, you convinced him to add two dragon trees near the elevator. It gave the space a touch of life, even if he insisted he didn’t like plants in the office.

In the end, he liked it. You know he did.

Being Harry’s executive assistant for the past four years, since you were a twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college, means you sometimes read him better than you read yourself. Your therapist says that’s not healthy, but you like knowing his routine, especially because you’re the one who plans it. You like being his emergency contact, having access to his passwords and bank accounts, being his legal proxy with signing authority.

So, personally, you think your therapist is mistaken.

Ten minutes later, as you confirm your choice of the Spinelli earrings with Harry’s personal shopper, your boss reemerges from his office.

He’s taken off the blazer, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing his expensive watch and strong forearms.

“Good morning,” he says with a small smile, leaning casually against your desk. “Did you have a good weekend?”

And here comes the inevitable truth: you are terribly attracted to Harry, which cannot be healthy. Having feelings for your boss, who gives you tasks and commands, kills any remaining instinct for self-preservation.

But God, how could you not? Everything about him pulls you in. The physical traits, the personality, the mind. His strong arms, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, kind brown eyes, tailored clothes, manners, scent, intelligence.

Just the other day, Harry mentally calculated the average profit margin Castillo & Co. made over a five-year period because the financial report hadn’t included it, and then estimated the net return percentage; all in his head. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought of him while with your boyfriend, fully aware of how wrong that is.

“Good morning, Harry.” That’s another privilege: calling him by his first name, while everyone else calls him Mr. Castillo. “I finished watching Russian Doll on Saturday.”

“Yeah? Did you like it?”

You nod, excited.

“Yes, it’s great. You have to finish it.”

Harry gives a quiet grunt.

“I know… But I get home and just crash,” he says, clearly disappointed with himself. You offer an empathetic smile. “I’ll try harder,” he adds, before shifting topics. “I have a meeting at eleven. Can you come with me?”

“Just a moment.”

You open your planner while Harry watches, and you try your best to focus on the color-coded blocks. You have a meeting with the finance team to review some items for Harry, but you can reschedule.

“I can go.”

“Thank God. I’ll need your notes.”

You tap your fingers against your forehead in a playful salute, and Harry smiles before turning to head back to his office. But before he does, he says:

“I like the outfit. Gray is my favorite color.”

He’s referring to your gray pencil skirt and matching halter-style silk blouse.

“Thank you. And I know.”

He smiles, taps his fingers lightly on your desk again, and heads back inside.

And now you can’t focus on anything else on your morning agenda.

The eleven o’clock meeting is at the headquarters of a partner company just a few minutes from Castillo & Co.’s office. Already in the building’s lobby, Harry walks calmly beside you as you head toward the elevator. You’re carrying the leather folder with your iPad and a notepad for Harry, who insists on handwritten notes.

“Did you see how many plants are in the lobby?” you ask as you both stop in front of the elevator, side by side. His security guard stands just behind you, discreet but alert.

“Don’t start,” Harry replies without taking his eyes off the elevator doors. It’s always curious how his expression changes when you’re in public. “You already put two plants on our floor.”

You find it incredibly endearing when he says “our floor.”

“It’s not enough. I’m still planning to sneak one into your office.”

The elevator doors slide open and you both step in. Harry presses the button for the twentieth floor, and you lean against the glass wall at the back of the elevator as he leans in to whisper:

“And then you’ll swing by HR to pick up your termination letter.”

By the time you reach the twentieth floor, where the meeting will take place, there’s still a slight smirk tugging at your lips.

The receptionist at the main desk takes one look at Harry and immediately stands, adopting a posture you’ve come to recognize as reserved only for partners and high-level associates. You yourself soften your voice and demeanor as part of this same executive persona.

You and Harry are led down a long, white hallway with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital (which you hate) until you reach the meeting room. Harry lets you enter first, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back to guide you in.

Inside the glass-walled boardroom, seated at an oval table, are five men and two women. All eyes turn to you, but quickly shift to Harry as he enters the room, already unbuttoning his jacket.

“Please, don’t get up,” Harry says right away, raising his hand palm-out as if to stop them from standing to greet him. Harry hates shaking hands with that many people. “Don’t mind me,” he adds, scanning the room for a free chair. Only one is available. “We’ll need one more chair. I brought my vice president with me.”

Harry is ridiculous. He always introduces you as his “vice president” in meetings like this because, for some reason, if he says “assistant,” the respect people show you is just surface-level, barely polite enough to keep Harry from getting angry. Bunch of assholes.

Someone quickly slips out to fetch an extra chair, but in the meantime, Harry’s hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you to the only available seat at the head of the table, all eyes in the room following the two of you.

Realizing what he’s doing, you whisper:

“Harry, I’m not—”

“Sit,” he cuts you off with just one word, and it leaves no room for argument.

You obey, sitting in the only chair, while Harry stands behind you. With no other option, you slide into your businesswoman persona, straighten your spine, lace your fingers on the table, and meet the stares of the executives around you.

Moments later, someone wheels in another chair for Harry, placing it beside you.

The room falls silent until Harry, now seated and relaxed, says simply:

“So?”

And the show begins.

The goal of the meeting is to convince Harry to invest in the revitalization of a hotel in Madrid, Spain, currently owned by a chain undergoing judicial reorganization. Their last hope is to reopen the hotel, which has been closed for the past ten years, and Harry’s investment would signal a vote of confidence, seen as there’s no guarantee of return for Castillo & Co.

The chain’s administrator — a short man in a tight suit — is in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation showing 3D renderings of the hotel lobby, complete with bronze detailing, when Harry lets out a dramatic sigh and raises his hand.

The man immediately falls silent.

“It’s a good presentation,” Harry says, and you pause your note-taking on the iPad. “But this isn’t what I came to see. Honestly, I’m not the one you should be showing pictures of architecture and interior design to.”

The silence is so tense you could hear a pin drop.

“So far, not a single reason has been presented to me that justifies why CCC should invest in the Madrid hotel,” Harry continues. “Has no one conducted a financial risk analysis? Or at the very least, looked at the average returns of similar hotel chains in the same area?”

“Mr. Castillo…”

“With all due respect, Mr. Edwards,” Harry cuts in again, “my question is simple: was such a study conducted?”

The administrator opens his mouth, likely to offer another flimsy excuse, but this time, one of the women at the table responds:

“Mr. Castillo, we will immediately arrange for a study addressing those questions.”

“You’re asking for more time?” Harry asks, his voice calm, not the slightest hint of aggression, yet somehow that calm makes it even more intimidating.

The woman, to her credit, is brave enough to admit:

“Yes, we are.”

You glance at Harry. He’s tapping his pen against the leather folder he hasn’t even opened. When he stops, it’s to let out a small sigh, as if being in that room is as irritating as a speck of dust in his eye.

“I started construction on a multi-business complex in Madrid last year, and had the bad luck of launching the first month of works right when construction costs in Spain hit a historic record. 117.6 points on the Eurostat index,” he sets the pen down and laces his fingers together, commanding the entire room with nothing but words. “Even with that spike, the real estate market in Madrid is growing,” he glances your way and says, “Miss?”

Of course you remember. You were the one who researched it.

“Seventeen-point-five percent increase last year alone, with a forecast of another four to five percent this year,” you say.

A flicker of pride crosses Harry’s face — but he stays impassive.

“Seventeen-point-five percent,” he repeats, whistling softly in admiration before turning his gaze back to the group. “That’s a lot. Could that offset the budget blowout we’ll likely face by the end of construction in three years? What I do know is that my contract with the buyers of the complex units includes ongoing monitoring of economic indicators and adjustment clauses, because the project team, who are very competent, accounted for all of that. And I only work with competent people.”

More silence.

Harry concludes:

“I expect a study of that level within one month. If you’re not able to deliver that, I kindly ask that you refrain from sending me any more investment proposals.”

Harry stands, and just like that, the meeting is over.

It’s past 7 p.m. when Harry steps out of his office and walks toward your desk.

Under the desk, you’ve already kicked off your heels, and your stocking-covered feet rest softly on the carpet. Your hair is tied up in a bun that probably looks tragic by now, but the kind smile Harry sends your way isn’t one of someone looking at a disaster.

Then again, his hair looks a little tousled too, like he’s run his fingers through it more times than he should’ve.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, leaning on your desk. He sounds nothing like the man who tore through a room full of clowns earlier in the day.

“I need to go over the spreadsheet the finance team sent me.”

“They sent it late?”

“No. I’m reviewing it late,” you admit, lowering your voice to a whisper and leaning in like you’re telling him a secret. “But don’t tell my boss or he’ll fire me.”

Harry plays along, whispering back:

“A corporate scandal.”

The grin you flash him is ridiculous, and so is the flush that warms your cheeks.

“Still got a lot to do?” Harry asks. You nod regretfully. “Have you eaten?”

You shake your head.

“Alright. I’ll order dinner for both of us. The usual?”

The usual means the Lasagna della Mama Rosa from Piccola that he always gets on late nights like this.

“The usual. Thanks, Harry.”

He ignores your thanks, as always, and heads back to his office. Halfway there, still facing away from you, he asks:

“Want a ribeye? I’m about to beg for one.”

“Rare.”

You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“Obviously.”

Thirty minutes later, you go downstairs to pick up the food, paying with Harry’s card. When you return, you head straight into his office.

Harry is at his desk, eyes fixed on the screen. His tablet shows a few graphs, and beside it, his phone is on speaker. He’s talking to his wife, and you pretend not to hear as you walk to the lounge area in the corner of his office, where there’s a leather couch and a coffee table big enough to fit all the food he ordered.

You slip off your shoes before stepping onto the rug and kneel to unpack the takeout bags on the table.

“...because I told her we’d both go with them,” his wife says over the phone, sounding upset. “I can’t back out now.”

“The problem is that you confirmed without even asking me.”

“I thought, as your wife, I could make one tiny decision for the both of us.”

Your brows lift.

“That’s not the point,” Harry says, calm but clearly tired. “The point is you planned a two-week trip out of the country without consulting me. I can’t reschedule twenty meetings or delay fifty different deadlines tied to the 72 active builds I’m overseeing.”

You walk over to the minibar in the corner and grab two sparkling waters and a couple of glasses.

She fires back:

“You could at least try to spend more time with me.”

“You’re being irrational.”

“You drive me crazy!” she yells. “Always with your robotic tone, your charts, your stats. For God’s sake, can’t you be spontaneous for once in your life, Harry?”

You turn to Harry and start to gesture that you’ll leave him alone, but Harry points directly at the lounge area, more specifically, at the table, silently instructing you to go back and stay there.

“You knew who I was when you met me,” he says into the phone, still looking at you. “And I’m not saying that as an excuse for never changing. I’m saying that you need to think about my work before making impulsive decisions.”

She hangs up on him.

You quietly return to the seating area and sit down on the rug, feeling a bit awkward. Seconds later, Harry joins you, settling on the opposite side of the table.

“Smells good,” he says as if he hadn’t just been in a fight.

“Mhm,” you hum, staring at the lasagna in front of you. The smell of melted cheese makes your stomach grumble, but before picking up your fork, you murmur, “I should’ve asked if I could come in. Sorry for overhearing.”

Harry hands you the container with your steak and opens a bottle of water, pouring it into both glasses.

“You know the passwords to my cards and accounts, the backup clouds for the entire Castillo company. My life’s in your hands. It’s not like I have anything to hide from you.”

It’s so satisfying to hear that. Your therapist is going to have a field day.

“You don’t, but maybe your wife wouldn’t love sharing her privacy with your assistant,” you say, mostly because it’s the right thing to say — not because you believe it.

He shuts that down quickly.

“What about your boyfriend?”

“What about him?”

Harry looks up as he takes a bite of lasagna. You pick up your utensils too.

“Is he okay sharing you with me?”

Your hands freeze mid-motion.

“He…” your voice cracks, so you try again. “He knows how much I value my work.”

“Of course.”

The steak is perfectly cooked, tender and rare. To escape the sudden tension, you put on a little show, leaning back dramatically on the plush Nina Magon rug as you chew a piece of meat.

“This is the best steak in the world,” you mumble with your eyes closed. “I’d work overtime every day if this was the reward.”

Harry lets out a low, amused laugh.

“That good, huh? You’d give up sleep for it?”

You hold up a thumbs-up. His laugh grows.

“You should come in later tomorrow,” he says as you sit back up. “That’s me speaking as your boss.”

“I have an eight a.m. meeting.”

“With who?”

“The marketing team.” You already regret it just thinking about it. “Your personal branding, actually. Someone from Forbes wants another interview.”

“Again?”

“Yes, Mr. Castillo. Again. That’s what happens when you’re running one of the world’s top construction firms at forty-eight.”

“Good line. You should pitch that as the interview opener.”

“I will.”

You eat in silence for a while. You take a moment to admire the New York skyline through the huge windows behind Harry’s desk. He likes to keep the lights dim when working late, and the atmosphere feels perfect. The basil lingering in the ragu, the scent of grilled meat, the view of the sprawling city.

Harry sitting across from you. The two of you sharing dinner, like so many times before, and for a moment, it feels like this could be your actual life.

“I can take care of things if you want to go on that trip,” you say, because apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter breaks down when you’re full.

“I know you can.”

“Why not take a vacation?”

“Because I don’t want to,” he says, and you don’t flinch. You’re used to those answers. “I don’t want to travel with the people involved. She knows that. And I have responsibilities.”

“Got it,” you say, leaning back on one hand. Harry watches you. You notice his rolled-up sleeves, the open collar of his shirt, and decide to confess: “I really get it. My boyfriend wants us to go to Bora Bora at the end of the year with two other couples. I can’t stand them.”

“Really? Why?”

“They go to bed at eight. Their idea of being ‘naughty’ is drinking one glass of wine with dinner. Can you imagine that in Bora Bora?”

“Definitely not. Waste of money.”

You snap your fingers and point at him.

“Exactly what I said!”

“You’d like Bora Bora. Rum, sun, and all the shrimp you can eat,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Might be worth leaving the friends behind and going with your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend also goes to bed at eight.”

Harry’s face says it all, and so does his smile. He finishes his last bite, scoots back on the rug with his water in hand, and leans against the couch. You do the same, sitting beside him, both of you stretched out in that familiar silence of people who’ve just eaten well.

“Do you two live together?” Harry asks. You shake your head. “How long have you been together?”

You do the math.

“Three years and two months.”

“Has he proposed?”

Straight to the point, as always. Instead of answering, you say:

“Can I grab a ginger ale?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

You walk over to the minibar, grab the can, and come back, fully aware of Harry’s eyes following you the whole time. As you crack open the can, you answer:

“He proposed at the beginning of the year, but I said no. For now.”

“Can I ask why?”

You shrug.

“I’m not really sure. I think a proposal should make you excited about the future, but I didn’t feel that. I felt trapped.”

“I see.” Harry studies your face like he’s searching for something. “I don’t think I felt excited about the future either when I proposed.”

“You love your wife.”

“Do you love your boyfriend?” he returns.

“I do.”

“Okay, but?”

“There’s no but,” you say. “I love him. I love our routine. It’s comfortable.”

Harry is silent, but his expression says he doesn’t buy it.

“Harry.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” you reply, shifting to face him. “I love him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with him. No butterflies, no excitement, no stomach-flipping moments.”

“That’s anxiety, not love. Love should be calm.”

“Maybe.”

Silence again. You look out the window. He looks at you.

“I was going to file for divorce last year,” he says suddenly, and it feels like a punch in the stomach. “My therapist told me to wait six months, so I wouldn’t do it in the heat of the moment.”

You’re speechless. He unclasps his watch, slowly continuing.

“I know there’s something wrong with my marriage when I’d rather stay here than go home. I should want to get home to see her. But I don’t. And I know that’s not fair to her either.”

He sets the watch down on the coffee table, next to the empty containers, and rubs his wrist. The hands on the dial show 8:20 p.m.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Not your fault.”

As he says this, Harry crosses his left arm over his chest to press his right shoulder, wincing slightly.

“Your shoulder okay?”, you ask.

“Pulled something at the gym this morning. Been bothering me all day.”

Before you can even think through the consequences, you offer:

“Want me to press on it a bit? Maybe it’s just tension.”

“Isn’t that a bit outside your job description?”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Harry smirks and shifts, turning his back to you and giving you space to move closer.

There’s something different about today. You’ve never touched Harry like this before. At most, there were brief handshakes or polite taps on his arm, but now you’re kneeling behind him, pressing your fingers into his shoulder in what feels like the most intimate gesture of your life.

His muscles are rock solid.

“Jesus, Harry. I’m booking you a session with your massage therapist.”

Harry leans forward slightly as you apply more pressure on the tight traps and neck tendon, and for a second, your mind slips to a criminal thought: what he must look like under that shirt.

“Please,” he says, replying to your earlier comment. Then he grabs your hand and places it exactly where it hurts. “Harder, please.”

You press. He lets out a satisfied murmur, and without thinking, your fingers slide under his shirt where it’s already unbuttoned. Warm skin meets your touch, and you feel him stiffen just a little.

“This okay?” you ask.

“Yeah. Keep going.”

You hold one shoulder steady and massage with the other hand under the shirt for a few more minutes.

“If I gave you a raise,” Harry says, “would you become my full-time massage therapist?”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“And it still feels fucking incredible.”

He never swears around you. Or anyone. Hearing him say that makes the moment feel even more charged. Strangely, it encourages you. You press harder, still behind him, both hands now working the tension from his shoulders.

Then Harry reaches back and takes your left hand. His thumb brushes lightly over your ring finger, and your breath catches.

“There should be an engagement ring here.”

“Maybe.”

“If you get married, would you still work with me?”

“Yeah. I have Stockholm Syndrome,” you say, shifting your position and stretching one leg beside his body. He lets go of your hand, and you go back to massaging, now reaching the base of his neck. Goosebumps rise under your touch. “I could never live without you barking twenty report requests a day.”

“I’m not that bad. I’m nice to you.”

“You are.”

God. His scent is going to kill you.

“You know what the finance team says about us?” Harry starts. You hum, prompting him to go on. “They say you and I are having an affair.”

“Marketing, too. Pretty much the whole company.”

“What? Why?”

Maybe because you turn into a puddle around him.

“Because you pay me more than anyone else,” you say simply. “And I get privileges and people notice. Of course they’re going to think we’re sleeping together.”

“You don’t care?”

“Maybe I’d care if I worked on one of the lower floors. But here? Not a chance. Let them envy me.”

Harry chuckles, shoulders shaking, and rests a hand on your shin, right over the tights. That touch is new too, and, once again, you freeze.

“I know you pay me well because I’m indispensable,” you continue. “Which is very satisfying.”

“So when we stay late working together—”

“Yes,” you answer before he finishes. “They probably think I’m bent over your desk.”

Harry turns to look at his desk. For one second, you both know exactly what the other is imagining.

“Interesting,” he says slowly. “Has anyone ever said anything to you?”

“No. No one’s crazy enough to say anything to the boss’s supposed mistress,” you joke, but the line falls a bit flat, so you quickly add, “According to their little narrative, I mean.”

The awkward moment is cut short by a notification sound from Harry’s computer. You both look toward his desk, and he groans:

“I hope that’s the report from the Chinese investors. They’re three days late.”

He starts to stand, wincing again because of his shoulder, but you place a hand on his arm and get up:

“I’ll check it. Stay put, old man. Even standing up seems like a challenge for you right now.”

“You just got a 10% pay cut.”

You make a “blah blah blah” gesture with your hand and head to his desk, settling into the chair that’s more like a plush couch. On the screen, there’s an open chart, but you quickly move to his inbox.

The latest email is from someone named Yijun, and there’s an attachment.

“You got it,” you say. “Want me to reply?”

“Acknowledge receipt and say I’ll get back once I’ve reviewed the data.”

You begin typing the reply, carefully channeling your best Harry Castillo voice.

Through your peripheral vision, you catch Harry leaving the floor and settling into the leather couch with a satisfied murmur.

“Best regards,” you read aloud, finishing the email. “Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo & Co Construction. Sent. Done.”

As you minimize the email window, another one pops up. It’s a pre-filled PDF titled “divorce agreement.” You shrink that window as if it had burned your fingers, only to reveal Harry’s personal inbox behind it.

The last message is from his lawyer. You catch a glimpse of the words “as requested,” “speak with her,” “assets,” and “properties” before closing everything immediately.

There’s a knot in your throat as you stand and silently walk back to the lounge area while Harry watches you. He’s left space beside him on the couch, and you settle there, folding your left leg underneath you.

You’re so close that your knee grazes his thigh.

“I sent it,” you say.

“Thanks. You can head home. I’ll stay a little longer.”

“Avoiding your wife?” He doesn’t answer, and honestly, silence is the wiser choice. But you’re not wise. “Can I ask you something?”

“I might not answer.”

“Fair.” You hesitate. “Swear you won’t fire me?” He still says nothing, and you let out a breath, trusting that you won’t be jobless tomorrow. “Is it true you had a thing with the finance manager?”

Harry’s response is a look of disbelief, as if you just told him the strategy department was considering investing in a country undergoing an economic collapse.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“People talk.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Right. And people also say you and I are having an affair, but that’s not true, is it?” If anyone else had used that tone, you’d probably shrink in your seat. But this is Harry. His stress never goes beyond sarcasm—at least with you. “Of course it’s not true. You really think I’m the kind of boss who sleeps with an employee?”

That silences you, and you’re not even sure where this sudden wave of disappointment comes from. It makes you painfully aware of your place in the company. Despite the trust, the passwords, the confidences, in the end, you’re the executive assistant. Nothing more.

“I don’t” you say finally.

He laughs, incredulous.

“Why do you sound disappointed?” he asks. And at this point, you don’t even know what to say, so you start putting on your heels instead, but Harry is faster. “No, no… Hold on.”

“Do you need anything else?” you ask politely, your left foot already in the shoe.

Harry freezes, eyes locked on you, and you freeze too.

“I have my morals,” he says.

“I know that,” you shake your head slightly, as if trying to hear him better. “Sorry, what do you mean by that?”

“I mean I have my morals, and that’s why I’ve never tried anything in here with the one person who makes me want to, especially because she’s my fucking assistant.”

God. You freeze, heart racing. Your mind latches onto the tense of the verb.

“Makes? Present tense?”

His quiet laugh is almost bitter.

“Unfortunately,” he says, settling back into the couch. “My father raised me right. I have morals, I respect my wife, and I care about my reputation.”

You drop the shoe again and turn to him. Your question is clear, firm:

“Even on nights like this one?”

He says your name like a prayer, rubbing his face with one hand.

“Don’t do this.”

That quiet, simple plea brings you crashing back to reality for the thousandth time. You whisper an apology just as softly, pick up your heels again, and before you can put them on, the leather cushions shift beneath you.

That’s the only warning you get before Harry is close behind you, his hand gently gathering your hair and moving it over your right shoulder to expose your neck.

“I have my morals,” he repeats, coming closer. “Don’t you?”

You think of your boyfriend, and how sweet he is to you. Your mind conjures up images of happy moments, trips, dinners, gifts, and you know you can’t just shove those into a box and lock it away for a few hours. That’s not how it works.

But the way your stomach knots with Harry’s closeness shrinks all those memories down like a sheet of paper folded over and over. They’re still there, but small. Insignificant.

“I do,” you say, because it’s true. “But I can live with that.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Harry murmurs the way he always does when something matters, as if tasting the words.

“If you’re just going to feel guilty—”

“I’m not talking about guilt,” Harry interrupts. And then his hand is on your stomach, pulling you back toward him with one decisive motion that makes you gasp. “I’m saying having you just once wouldn’t be enough.”

“Well, it’s going to have to be.”

At the very first touch of Harry’s lips on your neck, your entire body feels like it’s catching fire, every nerve alive with want, your hands clenched tightly on your thighs. It’s as if every hair on your body is standing on end.

“Did you forget I’m the one giving orders here?” he says. “Once isn’t enough.”

“Is that a command?” you challenge.

Harry’s mouth trails down to your throat, leaving open, wet kisses on your sensitive skin.

His fingers glide lightly to your breasts, the tips barely grazing your nipple through the silk of your blouse. The friction of the fabric makes you arch into his touch so slow and torturous it nearly drives you mad.

“If only you actually followed my orders,” Harry murmurs.

“Of course I do.”

“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, pausing just to say, “Then get on your knees for me.”

You shift on the couch to face him, and suddenly, it all feels terrifyingly real. The weight of what you’re doing crashes into you like a slap across the face, because he’s right there, wedding ring on his finger and lips still flushed red.

But unfortunately, it’s not enough to make you stop.

“I want a kiss first.”

Harry parts his legs, giving you space, and you rest one knee between them on the couch, moving in closer to sit on his thigh. You run your fingers along his cheeks, his beard, the collar of his perfectly white shirt. It’s the first time you’ve touched him like this, and you’re certain your gaze gives away more than you want, because there’s a softness in the way Harry pulls you closer.

You’ve caught yourself wondering what kissing him would be like, even during office hours. You’ve seen him kiss his wife before, but it was always just polite pecks, the kind of affection acceptable under New York’s high-society scrutiny.

But nothing could have prepared you for how naturally your lips fit together, or how good it feels. It’s even better than you imagined, just like the rush of doing something so wrong, yet so irresistible, precisely because it’s forbidden, and everything you’ve secretly wanted.

Harry’s hands slide to your waist, deepening the kiss, and yours go straight to his hair, already messier now. The moment his tongue touches yours is the same moment his hands slip beneath your skirt, lifting the fabric as they go.

He finds the lace tops of your stockings, held in place by a garter belt. His hands go straight to your ass, gripping tightly as if it’s instinct.

The curse he whispers makes you smile.

“Take off the skirt and blouse. Get on your knees,” he says, cupping your face and pressing one more kiss to your lips. Then, with a whisper: “Please.”

Hearing this man plead is a dream come true, which is exactly why you nod right away and walk toward his office door.

You close it. Lock it. And as you return to him, you unzip the skirt and slip off your blouse, leaving it behind in your path. The air conditioning makes your nipples hard and sends chills across your skin, but Harry’s gaze, now seated deep into the couch with legs parted, more than makes up for the cold.

Next goes the skirt, and now you’re standing before him in just your stockings, panties, and garter belt.

His lips part as he draws in a deep, appreciative breath, eyes trailing slowly up your body. It’s almost as if he’s touching you with his stare. His hand goes to his tie, loosening it as you sink to your knees.

With your hands resting on your thighs, you watch as he pulls the tie off (the one you bought last month) and undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Next comes the belt and then the button on his pants. Harry leans forward slightly, legs still open, and pulls himself free from his boxers.

Despite the curiosity and heat flooding through you, you keep your eyes locked on his until your tongue brushes the tip of his hard cock. Harry exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut, and there’s a quiet power in watching a man like him unravel — even just a little.

That alone is enough to make you take him fully into your mouth, lips closing around his thick shaft, sinking him deep.

It earns you a low, guttural curse.

Harry gathers your hair in one hand, holding it tight at the base of your neck. You have one hand on his thigh, the other stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and for a few minute, you lose yourself in the weight of him on your tongue, in his taste, his scent, the sounds he makes just for you.

And then just one question slices through the haze:

“What would your boyfriend think, seeing you like this?” Harry asks, his voice so polite it almost clashes with what you’re doing. He pulls your head back, letting his cock slip from your mouth, dragging the tip across your lips like he’s marking you. “On your knees for your boss. Do you suck his cock this well too?”

You narrow your eyes.

There’s probably an unspoken rule about not mentioning spouses or partners during moments like this. The act is already betrayal enough.

But if Harry wants to play that game, you won’t back down.

You rise slightly on your knees, aligning yourself so he can press his cock between your breasts, and you reach for his mouth to whisper:

“And do you get this hard when it’s your wife sucking your cock? Because if you did, you’d probably want to be home right now.”

Harry smiles against your lips and kisses you again as you climb onto his lap, and he remains silent.

“Let’s go all the way,” you say, because you’re far too wet to let this go to waste. “Right?”

“Right,” Harry answers without hesitation. “No turning back.”

“Do you want to?”

He slips his hand into your panties and finds so much wetness that his fingers glide immediately. His answer comes when he lifts the same fingers to his mouth, eyes locked on yours.

That makes you rush to unclip the garter belt and slide off your panties, tossing them aside. Harry gets the message and starts striping off his pants and shirt. And suddenly you’re on your back with Harry’s heavy and sturdy body on yours, skin on skin.

Harry rolls down your stockings in one smooth, hurried motion. You wrap your thighs around his hips.

“I don’t have a condom,” he says, and God, if eyes could beg, his would be on their knees. “It’s not like a married man needs to carry one around.”

“I printed your test results last week. And I don’t have sex without a condom…” you begin—and then add, “…with my boyfriend.”

He gets it.

“Can I?”

“You can.”

Harry doesn’t even glance down as he guides himself inside you, keeping his eyes on your face, your mouth, his own opening bit by bit while sinking into the wetness. When he’s fully buried, you have to shift your hips to adjust to his thick length.

“Just a second,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He nods, and you take the moment to ask, “Had you imagined this before?”

“I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a pervert.”

You run your thumb across his eyebrow, studying his features in the dim light of the office.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I’ve imagined you while fucking my boyfriend?”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I want details.”

“Earlier that day you and I were at a meeting. You did some absurd calculation in your head, and it made me wet. So I went home and…”

“Fucked him while thinking about me,” he finishes, smiling. “Filthy mouth.”

When you keep staring at him, silently asking for his turn, Harry sighs.

“Of course I’ve imagined it. Every time we stay late together, or when you wear that damn red dress and walk into my office, and especially when you put arrogant assholes in their place. You drive me insane.”

You reach between your bodies, your fingers trailing along where you’re joined, circling the base of Harry’s cock. He jerks his hips reflexively, breathing out a soft moan.

“And…” you press.

“And sometimes I dream about you and wake up so fucking hard that…” Harry begins to move his hips slowly when you give him a nod. The thrust is deep, slow, excruciating, and he fills you entirely. You almost miss his next words:

“…I wake my wife up and fuck her.”

“While thinking of me.”

Harry grips your hips and covers your mouth with his:

“While thinking of you.”

Your mouths open into a kiss that matches the way he fucks you: raw, urgent, drenched in tension. Every thrust hits something deep inside you, something you’re not sure anyone else ever will again. You cling to his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at him, lifting your hips to match his rhythm.

You’re soaked, so much it’s nearly embarrassing, and you’re certain Harry’s lap is drenched with it too. As his movements grow more erratic, you slide a hand between your legs.

Harry catches your wrist, guiding it back to his shoulder.

“No, no… You’re gonna come on my mouth later.”

Well. Okay.

Harry shifts to sit back on the couch, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under his leg. He pulls you into his lap again, and this new angle makes him reach deeper, every little shift filling you completely. When he's about to come, he grips your waist tightly to keep you still and thrusts harder, driven by your moans, his mouth open against the space between your breasts."

“Can I come inside?” Harry asks, holding you firmly.

“Please.”

He groans, wrapping his arms around you, and just a few more thrusts later he’s pulsing inside you, breathing heavily against your skin. The warmth floods you in a way that makes you throb for your own release.

“Harry, I need to—”

“I know.”

You’re not sure how it happens so quickly, but in the next second he’s back on the couch, and you’re straddling his face. Then it’s his mouth, his lips on your aching clit.

You grip his hair and glance down, meeting his gaze. Your whimper turns into a moan as he drags his tongue along your folds, tasting both of you, and returns to sucking that overstimulated spot.

“Stick your tongue out,” you beg. “Please—”

He does, and you immediately grind against it, whispering Harry’s name over and over like a prayer.

It hits you like an earthquake. So sudden, so intense that your whole body trembles on top of him, and for a split second, it feels like you forget how to breathe. When you come back to yourself, you’re sitting on his chest, and Harry’s wiping his beard with the palm of his hand, a crooked little smirk on his red lips.

You look down at him and say:

“We’re going to hell.”

He wraps his arms around you and sits up, keeping you in his lap.

“I’m an atheist,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “So… okay.”

“Okay.”

“And now?”

“Now,” you say slowly, cupping his face and making him look at you again. “This never happened. We go back to our lives like nothing ever did.”

Harry sighs your name.

“You say a lot of smart things. That’s not one of them.”

You pinch his cheek, offering no reply, and slip off his lap to gather your clothes from the floor. Your stockings, panties, skirt, and blouse. When you return to the couch, Harry’s already pulled on his boxers and pants, so you sit next to him to do the same.

The entire process of getting dressed again is done in silence, and you’re not sure what you feel: shame, guilt, some strange sense of calm… The only thing that doesn’t hit you is regret — and that makes you feel guilty too.

As you’re slipping on your heels, Harry says:

“It’s only nine-forty.”

“Hm?”

“We still have two hours and twenty minutes before the night’s over. And I’ve got an empty apartment about twenty minutes from here.”

You look up at him, and he adds:

“If tomorrow we’re going to pretend this never happened, we might as well make the most of it tonight.”

You know it’s a terrible excuse. You know that tomorrow neither of you will be able to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t know what comes next, and the ring on Harry’s finger sits like a weight in your gut, but you’re not a good person.

You lied to Harry. Your morals are bent, and even though you’re fully aware of the circumstances, they don’t stop you.

Nothing could stop you from getting what you want. And right now? You know exactly what you want.

“I’ll wait for you in the garage,” you tell him.

[polychaeteworm]

Yeah this is a common sentiment among the garden folks in my area. The pest control culture is a symptom of colonialism and the way it disconnects humans from the environment, but I'm sure that's obvious on this thread.

I'm willing to bet that guy thinks red paper wasps are aggressive because wasps remember faces and exterminators are clearly genocidal murderers in their eyes. They attack threats. Just don't be a threat. It's easier than you think.

The waps at my garden center workplace are very smart about people.

Because I give them space and understanding, They land on me and drink my sweat sometimes (I'm not a fan but it's harmless and I try to be chill about it, I'm sharing electrolytes after all) but otherwise the only reason they even get close is because I'm holding a plant they are interested in.

They can see me stocking and they will stick to the plants I set down once I'm in a rhythm. They sometimes seem excited for certain plants. I must look like a meadow building creature to them or something.

They prevented the kale from getting devoured by green caterpillars because they were constantly hunting among the leaves. I call them coworkers.

When people say they hate wasps, in order to get them to even begin to understand, I'll ask:

"do you hate cabbage white flies eating your crops more?" And they usually go "oooooh they eat the caterpillars????? Omg I had no idea. That's actually pretty awesome"

Yes, things eat things and bugs do exist to do other things besides bother you! It's so cool and I love to watch people realize it.

But honestly the most disconnected take I've ever heard was

Customer: I'm looking for flower seeds

My manager: oh you're a little late for our flower seeds, they get bought up in February. We do have this honey bee mix tho-

Customer: oh no! No! I don't want bees!

Me and manager together: *surprised Pikachu face*

Me: all flowers attract bees I'm sorry to say.

Customer: well I'm just not looking to encourage it.

Ok.

Like ma'am.

What the fuck do you think flowers exist for? And you don't want to encourage your flowers to be pollinated? Are you ok?

If you're allergic to bees or something serious, keep a fern! Or one of those fussy tropicals that doesn't give you a flower until you pray and cry upon it for ten years.

The busy little ladies are making honey and collecting pollen, they care not about you. Look at how fuzzy they are, how can you fear something that must kill itself to harm you?

That poor pest control guy did not know what he was getting into, but given the state of my yard i feel like he should have known what he was getting into.

[chaoticwriting]

One's man trash is another man's treasure

Run

Run

Run

His little legs swing as fast as he can. Escape is all his choice left. As incompetent as he is, he is very good at escaping. However, they don't need an escaper. What they need a warrior. And he is not one.

So he run. The league wishes to kill him. His grandfather Ra's sees him nothing as a lesser being. Even his mother Talia despises him. He has no one else here. He needs to be gone while they are focusing on the newest recruit.

So he run. And run. And run. He doesn't know how long has he been running. He only stops at the end of the day to sleep for an hour and drink some water. He is not a good fighter. Mainly because he isn't capable of killing. But his physical abilities are beyond what any of peers have.

He doesn't know where he is now. All he could see is towering building that pierce the sky. People in weird clothing, walking fastly along the road. And a huge fountain.

Water!

Rushing to it, he jumps straight into the water. He could feel the gazes coming at him but the feeling of the cool water is enough for him to ignore them for now.

???: Hey, you!

He turns around at the voice and sees a girl that's a little older than him standing there with her hands and her hips. English

????: Yes, you. You can't bath there. And you can't drink from that fountain.

?????: Why?

????: Because it's dirty. And it's not good. You should take a bath at home.

?????: I don't have a home.

????: What? What about parents?

?????: My mother hates me.

????: Oh! Errrm, would you like to come with us then?

?????: *Vigilant* To where?

????: To our hotel room. My mom and dad are out searching for ghost. So you can come use our shower. We even has food.

?????: No thanks. I'm not hungry *grrrrr*

????: Well, your stomach disagree. C'mon. I will make sure you eat the best food you will ever eat.

As the girl drags his wet body and clothes away, he wonders what is wrong with this girl. He will sneak out after he finish eating and showering.

?????: I'm Danyal

????:Hey Danny, I'm Jazz.

Danny: Danyal. Not Danny.

Jazz: Wasn't that what I say?

Danny: *Gives up* Whatever.

----15 years later----

Danny: Yeah, mom. I'm right in front of Gotham U right now. Ehhh, it's okay but it gives off serious haunted vibe. No. There is no ghost here. I will deal with the ghost here if there is any. I know. I will say hi to Jazz for you. Bye, mom. Love you too dad.

Danny enters Gotham U and true to Sam's rambling, it has the 70s gothic vibe to it. Sam did try to attend here too but her parents make her go to Metropolis U while Tucker goes to Star U. It is kind of weird going to class without them but it is not something he can't do.

As he opens his enters his dormitory, a figure rushes down the hall and accidentally bumps into him. Thankfully, he is fairly strong and the impact isn't strong.

The guy apologizes and immediately disappears at the end of the hallway.

Danny: Huh, what a weirdo.

After he enters the dormitory, he settles down and goes on his day.

---Wayne Manor---

Duke: You wouldn't believe what I just see at Gotham U this morning.

Steph: What?

Duke: I met a guy that look almost identical to Damian. If Damian smiles and his skin a little lighter, that would have been him.

Tim: Are you sure? We could try to do a background check on him if you want?

Duke: Nah. It's probably just a coincidence. There is no way he is somewhat related to Dami.

Tim: Daniel James Fenton. Birth of origin: unknown. 18 years old. Male. Have 2 sisters, a brother and parents. Live in small rural town. The only significant thing about them is that his sister is working at Arkham Asylum and his parents is ghost hunters.

Duke: What the fuck?! How the fuck do you know who to find out?

Tim: *Imitating Batman's voice* I'm Batman.

Duke: Whatever. See! He really does look like Damian. I'm not crazy.

Steph: No one says you are, dude. Anyway, we should show this to Damian. Maybe he knows him?

Damian: What are you all imbeciles talking about?

Tim: Hey, Dami. Look at this guy. Does he looks familiar?

Damian: *Freezes*

Steph: Uh oh. That isn't a no.

Damian: Where do you find him, Drake? Tell me!

Tim: Woah, dude. Chill. Duke bumps into him at Gotham U. He is studying there for Aerospace engineering apparently.

Damian: I need to make a call.

As Damian walks away, all of them look at each other signifying their shared thoughts. Yeah, they are not gonna leave this alone.

[kunasthiast]

wagyu nights

you had exactly three things on your to-do-list that monday morning. yes, a monday. satan’s favorite day. the kind of monday where you wake up already annoyed, already hot, already feral. 

number 1. drink your overpriced espresso from starbucks that makes your heart do backflips and your soul exit your body. you only ordered it because that goddamn espresso song’s been living in your head rent-free for weeks. 

number 2. avoid signing another one of gojo’s illegal, morally questionable, legally actionable birthday cards. last time you did, his lawyer called you personally.

number 3. get a tattoo right above your ass crack and surprise your husband like the loving, stable wife you pretend to be in public.

because why the fuck not? 

you were thirty. rich. hot. emotionally stable (depending on the hour). married to that pink-haired demon of a man for five goddamn years – willingly and obsessively. no kids, yet. no regrets. just an unhinged, borderline feral, mutually destructive love story and an ever-growing collection of in-laws and nosy strangers asking, “so when are the babies coming?”

to which you always replied, smiling sweetly, creepily, and with too much eye contact: “we’re practicing really hard.”

and if there’s one thing sukuna adored even more than your face, your attitude, or your uncanny ability to outdrink him at every celebratory orgies of capitalism, it was –

“your fuckin’ back dimples,” he growled that morning, voice still hoarse, from where he lay starfished across your bed. shirtless. legs splayed. tattoos on full display like a fucking warning sign.

you stood in front of the full-length mirror, shirt lifted just enough to peek at your lower back, contemplating the most deranged monday decision possible: a sternum piece? an underboob tat? nah. a fucking tramp stamp.   

“what about them?” you asked absently, twisting for a better view, ass poked out, looking like a possessed girl in an exorcism movie.

his eyes raked over you like you were his personal religion (yes, you are), “they’re my favorite handles.”

“for what?”

“sin. more specifically, you bent over the bathroom counter-sin. five-star tasting menu kinda shit, babe.”

“romantic,” you deadpanned, still deciding between a cybersigilism tat, a cute hello kitty tramp stamp, or that fucking succubus design you’ve been manifesting since last month’s hormonal spiral.

but by the time your fourth sip of espresso kicked in and your third brain cell screamed YOLO – you were already texting yuki for a walk-in.  

because nothing says married life like getting a surprise ass tattoo and flashing it at dinner like a goddamn crackerjack prize. 

by noon, you were half in your sweatpants, wearing his hoodie over a crop top, sunglasses indoors, phone in one hand, car keys in the other. you looked like a rich housewife fleeing a crime scene. 

then, of course, sukuna came out of his office room, voice still scratchy from some hellish meeting (and yes, you definitely heard the phrase “who the fuck approved this?” echoed through the door). tattoos peeked out from under his rolled-up sleeves. he looked good. he always does. dangerously so. and he definitely came out because he sensed the chaos radiating off you like a sixth sense.

“where the fuck you going today, baby?”

you froze mid-sprint at the door.

“uhh… nowhere,” you lied, immediately. “just… errands, love.”

he stared at you.

you smiled.

he squinted harder, “… you only say ‘errands’ when you’re gonna make a dramatic and irreversible decision.”

“what?! noooo! do i look like i make bad decisions?” 

“baby. last time you said ‘errands’ you came home with a cat and a navel piercing. so yes. yes, you do.”

“well, you love both,” you shrugged, opening the door.

he cocked a brow. “i do. but if you come back with a fucking dog, a nipple ring, or another limited-edition cursed item from that thrift store you claim ain’t haunted, we’re gonna have a serious talk, baby.”

“fine,” you grinned, blowing him a kiss.

he narrowed his eyes like a man who knew his wife was about to commit arson, metaphorical or otherwise. “wait. hold up –”

ding.

his phone lit up. followed by another. and another.

“fucking hell,” he muttered, reading whatever fresh corporate nightmare just got dumped on him (his own company = his own chaos = karma’s kiss on the forehead). and just like that – fate (and capitalism) intervened.

“baby, i gotta take this. don’t do anything –”

click.

door’s already closed. too late. 

you were gone. off into the wild, espresso-fueled unknown with a dream, a credit card, and the dangerous confidence of a woman who pays her own bills and gets off on impulsive decisions. 

—

thirty-two minutes later.

yuki took one look at you from her desk and said, “okay, what are we permanently etching into your flesh today?”

“i need something that says crazily in love but also i know where the bodies are buried,” you said, peeling off your hoodie. “thinking tramp stamp. succubus, cybersigilism style. red ink.‘kuna’s initials. maybe a heart in the middle. definitely unholy.”

“hmm, classic monday,” she nodded, already grabbing her ipad to draw it on the spot. “want some glitter drips?”

“yes,” you grinned, too excited for this.

“he’s gonna lose his mind,” you grinned, high off espresso, reckless affection, and the promise of delightful spousal torment.

“in a good way or a divorce way?”

“yes.”

forty-five minutes later.

you were face down, ass-up on yuki’s table, hair in a messy bun, chewing gum like it owed you money.

“‘kay, hold real still,” yuki said, gloves snapping on. “‘bout to tattoo the most feral love note of all time on your ass.”

“god bless,” you whispered, as the buzz of the machine started.

two hours later, your phone buzzed like a possessed bee on the tray next to you. texts. missed calls. a voicemail that probably just said “baby” in ten different emotional tones.

but you ignored it, because sukuna would find out soon enough. and please, your marriage survived worse. like the time you accidentally sexted the family group chat (your side). 

or that time you thought it’d be romantic to surprise him with a homemade dinner, only to somehow set fire to the kitchen and set off the smoke detectors. sukuna waltzed in, unfazed, and ended up effortlessly whipping up a five-course meal in under an hour – leaving you sulking on the couch, watching him plate perfectly cooked dishes while you nursed a glass of wine (your only consolation being the fact that at least you hadn’t set the house on fire. this time). but then, just when you thought he was gonna give you the “i told you so” lecture, he kissed you on the cheek, gave you a hug, and murmured, “still love you, babe.”

anyway, at least the tattoo’s done. and it looks glorious as fuck.

you admired it in the mirror like it was renaissance art. well… satanic, slightly unhinged renaissance art.

a little heart with “R.S” in the middle. glowing red. framed by digital sigils and glittery hellfire drips. you looked like the cover of a cursed y2k CD and it was absolutely iconic. just what you loved.

“i’m never wearing any tops again,” you declared, pulling your sweatpants up.

“he’s either gonna fuck you into next tuesday or call a priest,” yuki said, proud of her work.

“either way, it’s a win.”

—

you didn’t go straight home after the tattoo, obviously. you were an emotionally stable adult woman with needs and responsibilities.

so after the pain and the buzz wore off a little (just for today, obvs), you stopped by paradise. ready for some retail therapy. with a necessary detour to just distract yourself from the inevitable chaos waiting for you at home.

a few hours and a few (more like 5) shopping bags later, you stopped by that place. the one with the overpriced wagyu and the mochi ice cream your husband pretends not to like but always, mysteriously, finishes. it was part guilt on not replying to his texts and calls (fine, maybe 30% avoidance), part instinct, part monday-night tradition. 

he cooks 90% of the time, but random weekdays? random weekdays like monday tonight is for takeout treaty nights.

so you picked up dinner and rolled into the driveway at exactly 9:47PM. full of caffeine, permanent ink, and deeply smug satisfaction. 

your phone buzzed with the energy of a hundred (okay, 50?) unread texts, but you had food in your hand and a hot husband waiting to yell at you (let him fucking try), so life was good.

the moment you stepped in, you immediately announced with maximum dramatic flair, “babyyy, i’m hooooome!” fully expecting to find him in his usual end-of-day poses: brooding in the kitchen, bossing someone around on the phone, or lounging on the couch with black mirror playing on the tv and whisky on hand. 

and, of course – there he was. shirtless, barefoot, and tattoos out, as usual. leaning against the kitchen island with a glass of whisky on his hand and a phone in the other (probs, terrorizing his assistant). his crimson eyes, sharp as ever, were already scanning you with that knowing look. 

“you’re late,” sukuna said as he ended the phone call, voice deceptively calm.

you just grinned, kicking the door closed behind you and waltzing in too happily. “told ya i had errands, baby.”

his eyes flicked to the five shopping bags hanging off your arms like battle trophies. “did you rob a boutique or black out in dior again?”

“bit of both,” you winked, dropped the bags on the floor, placed the takeout on the counter like peace offering, and kissed him on the lips. “got us dinner, daddy.”

he stared at the takeout bag like it was a peace offering from a war criminal he loved deeply, “sweetheart, what’d you do.”

“excuse me?!” you gasped, scandalized.

“you only bring home wagyu and mochi balls together when you’ve done something insane. or need to butter me up for something worse than a felony, sweetheart,” he said, already digging into the bag like wasn’t fully planning on giving you hell for ghosting him all day. “go ahead. confess.”

you just blinked at him. smiled. took the mochi ice cream container and hugged it like it was a baby kitten. “maybe i just missed my emotionally unavailable, incredibly stressed-for-today yet very hot husband and wanted to feed him like the loving wife i am.”

“uh-huh,” he muttered as he raised a brow, unimpressed. “i texted you fifty-two times. called you over twenty.”

“and i saw every single one of ‘em,” you said sweetly, pulling out plates and chopsticks. “and ignored all. with love.”

“obviously, given your non-existent replies.”

“i was processing,” you said solemnly, handing him a plate. “like a baby giraffe. learning how to walk.”

he gave you that look – one that said i both adore and fear you – and took the plate. “tell me you didn’t crash the car.”

“pfft, the car’s fine, babe.” you said.

“tell me you didn’t sign another one of gojo’s birthday cards.”

“why would i –”

he stared. you stared back. and then, just like clockwork, he reached forward and tugged at the hem of his (your) hoodie you were wearing, “baby. what is it.”

“nothing.”

“show me.”

“nope. absolutely not.”

“sweetheart.”

you bit into your mochi dramatically. chewing on it. and then very calmly turned around, lifted up your hoodie, and pulled down your sweatpants just enough to show off the new ink on the small of your back. that fucking succubus red-inked tattoo with his initials. all stylized. deadly cute. 

you didn’t need to look at him to know that he was staring.

sukuna blinked. put down his chopsticks. stared like you just pulled a gun on him. well, obvs  yeah, not literally. 

“oh, fuck,” he muttered after two seconds. 

you pulled your hoodie back down and faced him, still chewing. “like it? so freaking cute, right?”

his voice dropped. low.“you got my fuckin’ initials tattooed on your ass.”

“technically, above it.”

he exhaled like he’d seen god, “baby. what the fuck. ‘course i fuckin’ love it.”

“you’re welcome,” you said sweetly, stealing a piece of his wagyu like a menace.

he stared at you for a beat… then he started laughing. not chuckles. not that fake corporate laugh he does when he’s about to buy out someone’s soul. real, head-thrown-back, unhinged maniacal laughter your husband is capable of.

and then he said, still breathless: “fuck, baby, i love you. but the only position we’re doing for the next month is backshots.”

you picked up another mochi ball, chewed slowly, and said, like a woman casually signing a soul contract, “i mean, that’s all we can do right now anyway. tattoo aftercare, duh. can’t have friction. or—y’know—fluids.”

there was a pause.

“such a sacrifice. i’m selfless like that.”

—

which is how you found yourself bent over the fucking kitchen counter.

ass up. hoodie, crop top, and bra somewhere on the floor. tramp stamp fully on display. and your hot, undeniably feral husband was shoving his thick fucking cock in your pussy like this was his last day on earth. giving you that much deserved backshot. 

“fuck, baby. you’re so fuckin’ tight,” sukuna grunted, his teeth grazing your neck. his hands gripped your hips tightly as he pounded into you from behind, his cock stretching your tight pussy with each thrust. hitting deep and hard, so perfect. 

“mm, fuck yes, more baby more,” you moaned into the marble, eyes fluttering.

and sukuna – god, he was loud. and when he moans? he fucking moans it out. loud, unfiltered, guttural sounds right in your ear. “want more, baby?”

his words sent shivers down your spine, and you arched your back, pushing your ass against him, “mmm, harder, ‘kuna,” you nodded and begged, voice already wrecked.

he didn’t need telling twice. he slammed into you harder, relentless with forceful thrusts that had your tits bouncing with every stroke and making your toes curl. 

“shit, you’re taking me so fucking well, baby.” he growled, one hand found your clit, the other tightening around your hips. “gonna make you cum so fuckin’ hard tonight.”

your moans grew louder as he continued to hammer your pussy, the pleasure building with each powerful stroke, and very determined to make you cum hard on his cock. your moans filled the kitchen, each thrust sending you closer to the edge.

“oh god yes, yes, baby, just like that!” you cried out, feeling your climax approaching rapidly. “i’m cumming, i’m –”

sukuna shoved himself deeper, thick cock buried inside as your pussy clenched around him, milking his shaft for all it was worth. you screamed his name, back aching, and body shaking. 

“fuck baby, i love you!” he groaned, hips stuttering as he came with a loud, filthy growl. his hot seed spilling deep inside you.

you both stayed like that for a moment – breathless, trembling, and fucking grinning in the aftermath of your intense and sukuna’s selfless lovemaking. 

then he smacked your ass and said, with deep reverence, “i fucking love this pussy and that fucking tattoo.” 

“now that’s what i call romance, daddy” you said as you turn your face to look at him. his cock still very much inside you. 

yeah.

that was probably the night it happened.

the one that’d changed your life in about nine months.

but that was future you’s next challenge.

tonight, there was wagyu. mochi. your menacingly feral husband. your very smug tramp stamp. and a kitchen full of bad decisions marinated in love.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

a/n: this is me convincing myself that tramp stamps are fucking sexy and i’m getting them as my next piece of tat this year lol also fuck I need this sukuna in my fucking life – universe, gods, angels… PLEASE hear me out

[mahowaga]

a beeping sound. soft at first. foggy yet steady. faint.

beep. beep. beep.

the world feels like cotton—thick, warm, slow. everything is floating. you're somewhere between dreaming and not, hovering in a haze of surgical-grade confusion and the kind of drowsy bliss that only modern medicine can induce.

your mouth is dry. your eyelids are heavy. you're aware of your own existence only in the most abstract way.

and then—you see him.

standing beside the hospital bed. tall. serious. hands tucked into the pockets of his beige slacks. blonde hair swept back like a movie star in a noir film. clean-cut. broad-shouldered. absolutely devastating.

your eyes widen slowly.

beepbeepbeepbeep—

the monitor beside you—innocent, quiet just moments ago—has begun to panic. the beep becomes a warning, and a nurse looks up from the corner, startled.

"hnng," you mutter, trying to focus on the achingly handsome man next to you.

"heart rate's climbing," the nurse says, glancing over at him.

kento blinks. "oh."

"oh?" you whisper, blinking up at him. your voice is slurred, heavy with sedation. "who—who are you?"

kento blinks again, more slowly. "it's me. kento. nanami."

you squint. "that's not a name. that's a sound. like a—like a wind chime."

the nurse is trying hard not to laugh. she fails.

kento clears his throat. "you don't recognize me?"

you stare at him, utterly in awe. "are you a doctor?"

he hesitates. "no."

"a nurse?"

"no."

"are you—" your voice drops to a stage whisper "—an angel?"

this time, the nurse wheezes.

kento, ever composed, runs a hand down his face. "i'm your boyfriend."

you stare at him again.

then slowly—very slowly—you begin to weep.

"you're my boyfriend?" your voice is full of wonder and devastation, as if this is some beautiful tragedy you've just uncovered. "me? how did i get you?"

"darling, please—"

"you're so pretty," you sniffle. "like. too pretty. that jawline could cut glass. i look like a sock. a very soft sock, but still."

"you do not look like a sock."

"you're just saying that because you're so handsome and nice," you whisper dramatically.

kento exhales through his nose. his ears have turned ever so slightly pink.

"your voice sounds like warm bread," you mumble, eyes fluttering. "do you read poetry to me? i bet you do. do i cry everytime?"

"sometimes, yes."

"oh my god."

you clutch the edge of the blanket like it's the only thing tethering you the earth. kento shifts closer to the bed, expression softening even as the chaos of anesthesia unfolds. he takes your hand, and your eyes widen further.

"your hands are big."

he sighs again. "yes. that hasn't changed."

you gape at your interlaced hands like it's the most significant thing in the universe. maybe it is. maybe this is fate. maybe you're in a dream. maybe the drugs are doing their job a little too well. either way—

"oh my god," you whisper. "you have boyfriend hands."

kento raises an eyebrow. "boyfriend hands."

"yeah," you murmur reverently, brushing your fingertips over his knuckles. "big. strong. veiny. but gentle. like you could lift a boulder and cradle a baby bunny. i knew it. i knew the universe wouldn't give those hands to just anyone."

"i'll—i'll take that as a compliment."

"it is a compliment. it's the highest compliment."

kento tries to suppress a smile, but you see it anyway—the way his lips twitch, the way his eyes crinkle just a little at the corners.

"god," you sigh, still staring at your joined hands. "i bet you hold my bags for me. like, just casually. and you probably open jars without making it a thing. i bet you make me tea without being asked, too."

"i do," he admits, and that's when you gasp like you've just been shot.

"you do?!"

kento leans in slightly. "would it help if i reminded you that i also rub your back when you can't sleep and warm up your side of the bed in winter?"

you are now weeping in earnest.

"oh my god, i hit the jackpot. i knew i didn't do enough to deserve this life. i must've saved a bus full of orphan puppies in a past existence—"

the nurse in the corner is now doubled over behind her computer, shoulders shaking with laughter. she makes no attempt to intervene. she knows, just like kento does, that this has become a one-person stage production and the show must go on at the expense of your rapidly beating heart.

"do we live together?" you ask, eyes round and full of wonder.

kento nods, gently brushing a bit of hair off your forehead. "we do."

you suck in a breath. "do i cook?"

he hesitates. "sometimes."

"oh no."

"but i cook more often," he adds quickly.

you sag in relief. "do i clean?"

"you try," he says diplomatically, which sends the nurse wheezing again.

"i knew it. i'm the messy one." you look up at him, voice trembling with mock devastation. "you're the responsible one. i'm the whirlwind, and you're the tether. the calm in the storm. the spreadsheet to my glitter explosion."

kento's lips twitch again. "that's one way to describe it."

you exhale, dragging the blanket up to your chin like you're ready to ascend to another plane of existence. "and we love each other?"

"very much," he says, and his voice goes soft, quiet, undeniably warm.

that tone—oh, that tone—you believe it. even in your drugged-up haze, even with your brain a soft pile of mashed potatoes, it sinks deep. it nestles into your chest like a little glowing ember. his words. his eyes. the steadiness in his hand, wrapped around yours.

you blink at him, tears springing again. "do i ever tell you how lucky i am?"

"every day," he says, and his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles. "but i'm the lucky one."

"oh god," you whisper, overwhelmed again. "that voice. you could narrate a documentary. about whales. or like. the history of bread. i'd listen to it on a loop. do i have a playlist with you just reading grocery lists to me?"

"i could make one."

you whimper. "that's love."

kento chuckles quietly, low in his throat, and you beam at him like you've just discovered the sun for the first time.

"will i remember this?" you ask, a little sleepier now.

he looks at you for a long moment—fond, exasperated, helplessly in love.

"i hope you don't. but i will."

"why?"

"because this is adorable to me," he says, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers, "and deeply humiliating for you."

you hum, drifting already, eyes fluttering closed. "if you love me, you'll forget this ever happened."

"no chance."

a pause.

"you're gonna tease me, aren't you."

"absolutely."

"heartless," you mumble, voice trailing off into a sleepy sigh.

he stays beside you, holding your hand until your breathing evens out again, the monitor beside you returning to its quiet rhythm.

beep. beep. beep.

kento watches you sleep, eyes soft, and presses a quiet kiss to your forehead.

"a sock, hm?" he whispers, lips ghosting against your skin. "you do not look like a sock."

and he stays there for hours, loyal as ever. because even when you're half-conscious, absurdly dramatic, and talking about angelic boyfriend hands, he loves you—with a kind of devotion that doesn't fade, even in hospital rooms and pain and panic.

especially then.

[changeling-droneco]

#i fully used the jkr stuff to hopefully get some allos to actually pay attention and I am not ashamed#i would do it again in heartbeat

Honestly it's nothing to be ashamed if even one person saw that going down and decided to look deeper into aspec stuff or at least put forward a bit more of an effort to support it, totally worth it. Talking about some of my own experiences under the cut, it's a bit heavy with serious themes therefor, cut.

I got pretty lucky back then due to being a rather smaller blog at the time who mostly just reblogged other people back then so I dodged anything specifically targeting me but it really did feel like every other day someone I followed would reblog just something super aphobic out of the blue and I'd have to block them. I changed my icon to the ace colors back then as a part of being prideful of my identity yes, but also as a show of "you can't make us go away" I genuinely thought over whether it was worth the potential attention and hate from other queer people.

I remember finding cool lesbian blogs or whatever and having to check their faq or info or just search asexual and nine times out of ten be met with some cheeky aphobic response about how we weren't real or that our acceptance was heavily conditional like "ace" or "aro" was just an unimportant additive to our REAL label. I remember the gore and the sheer amount of sexual violence. I remember being TERRIFIED in june because it all got SO MUCH WORSE and more violent during pride an instinct that took me YEARS to get over.

I was there for the Thomas Sanders stuff and the tldr is someone sent an ask going all "hey what do you think of ace people" and thomas sanders the gay tiktok star was like "yeah ace people exist I support them" and then he IMMEDIATELY got accused of being a groomer pedophile and people dug for MILES to find anything even SLIGHTLY incriminating, he took a selfie that featured his butt? pedophile.

He was "cancelled" basically overnight the moment he said that with everyone complaining about how he was being homophobic by just acknowledging we exist. Like, right before that he was SUPER popular and hyped up but the moment ace people popped up? nope, he's a gay class traitor now. Genuinely despicable, no one ever apologized for THAT either.

It's still kinda hard to talk about this stuff, I was one of the luckier ones who dug my heels in but was also small enough to go under the radar, we lost a lot back then.

We were begging people to understand that to the rest of the world we were also seen as something wrong, something incorrect, something that needed to be fixed through pills and conversion therapy or sexual violence, and all we got was victim blaming and telling us that the language we used wasn't made for us and it was actually lesbophobic of us to use that language of corrective rape actually!

Oh also also any teenager who associates with Asexual has clearly being groomed by the Asexual Agenda tm because asexuality is purely about just SEX obviously and thats GROSS because obviously talking about kids and teens about sex in literally any capacity is bad. so we're cancelling sesame street for having an ace flag in their pride video because it's pedophilia did you know sesame street promoted pedophilia?

Plus that teen girl who got MURDERED in part for being asexual? not only are we going to spam the tags with her murder picture, we're going to gaslight everyone about how it was JUST about misogyny the asexual stuff had nooothing to do with it. It wasn't like we were constantly getting threats of assault and death. I remember you Bianca, and I'm so fucking sorry your memory was used to hurt your own community.

We're still here though with our black and white rings, and we'll always be here, but I know this shit comes in cycles, I'm just waiting for us to end up on the chopping block again.

I guess you could call tumblr's support for us very.....all or nothing

Honestly, I am pretty frustrated by the "haha why would anyone hate ace people" responses to Rowling's tweet.

Don't get me wrong, the support is nice. But if you want to be an ally, you have to do so on our terms, not yours. And that means actually engaging with the aspec community, not just posting positivity every now and again. And what those responses highlight to me is what I've known for a while; you guys only support aspec people when it's easy and convenient.

It's easy to support aspec people when it's J.K. Rowling being awful again. It's easy to support us when it's just reblogging an "aspec people are queer" post.

But what about when we are talking about amatonormativity and the relationship hierarchy? When we are discussing the enforcement of compulsory sexuality? When we are pushing for greater awareness and support for aspec identities that are not asexuality or aromanticism? When we are criticizing terminology that you use but harms us? Because I can tell you right now, I rarely see allo people engage with those posts.

Why do people hate asexuality (or any other aspec identity)? Because it challenges the societal norms that benefit them. And that is uncomfortable and scary. So they turn to hate and oppression in order to assure that the changes we push by just openly existing never happen.

That means that to be a good aspec ally, you can't just make a positivity post every now and again, and you can't just laugh about how stupid aphobes are. You have to openly challenge the societal norms that harm us, even if they benefit you. Including but not limited to:

The idea that romantic and sexual attraction is the default state of being (amatonormativity)

The idea that a romantic, sexual relationship completes a person

People in marriages receiving special privileges and benefits

The idea that platonic, familial, etc. attraction are default states of being

The idea that not feeling some form of attraction must be compensated for through another form of attraction

The idea that love (not just romantic) is inherently morally good, while not feeling love is inherently a moral failing

The idea that any one form of relationship is inherently more important or deeper than any other (relationship hierarchy)

The idea that any one thing makes someone human

The idea that not having sex is shameful or infantile

The idea that having sex without romantic love is callous

Gendered divides of sexual and romantic attraction

Other aspec people please feel free to add on/challenge any of this. Allo (not aspec) people please feel free to ask questions.

I've placed some resources for learning more about these topics under the cut.

Amatonormativity:

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5 - also in the Loveless section] [6 - also in the Compulsory Sexuality section]

Marriage Benefits:

[1]

Other Aspec Identities:

[Aplatonicism] [Afamilialism]

Loveless:

[1] [2 - also in the Amatonormativity section] [3] [4] [5]

Compulsory Sexuality:

[1 - also in the Amatonormativity section] [2]

Relationship Hierarchy vs Relationship Anarchy:

[1] [2] [3]

Oppression:

[1] [2] [3]

Miscellaneous:

[1] [2]

Books and Video Essays:

An Ace Discourse Retrospective by Jenny Geist

Ace: What Asexuality Reveals about Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex by Angela Chen

Refusing Compulsory Sexuality: A Black Asexual Lens on Our Sex-Obsessed Culture by Sherronda J. Brown

[strawberrystepmom]

dante x f!reader. established relationship, a minor disagreement that ends up in hurt/comfort. | wc: 1.4k, reading time: ~5 minutes

“I’m coming with you.”

Your remark is firm while you practically chase after Dante who slumps down in the chair behind his desk for the briefest moment, pulling equipment from the drawers of his desk and putting it into his pockets. 

“No, you’re not.”

It irritates you how he won’t even look up, preoccupied with getting out of here. Your jaw slackens, eyes narrowing.

“Why not?”

Now he looks up, his own teeth clenched. 

“Because I’ve said no ten times and meant it every one.” 

He hates fighting with you. In fact, he hates telling you no about anything and you’re all too well aware of it judging by the way you seem to think you can wear his defenses down into a yes right now. 

Disengaging by looking down, he loads a few bullets into his guns which further irritates you. 

There’s no such thing as a truly unexpected job in his line of work. He gets calls at all hours of the day or night sometimes, reporting to wherever he needs to be to take care of business, but you don’t understand why he won’t let you come. It’s midday and he’s clearly playing coy about the threat level of whatever is out there meaning there may be a need for help.

Laughing sarcastically, you stand in place in front of his desk. 

“It amazes me how you are never this serious about a no until it has to do with what I want.”

Whipping his head upward so fast his hair falls out of place against his forehead, the man you love more than any other curls his lip and points all five of his fingers toward you, eyes wide.

“And it amazes me that you’ve never bothered to wonder why I'm so serious about it. How many times have we had this exact conversation?" 

There has never been a time where he’s raised his voice at you and he has no plans of starting now but you are seriously testing his patience. 

You fold your arms across your torso and raise your brows adversarially high. "I wish you’d just admit it’s because you think I'm weak and can't protect myself. Your little liability."

Finally, you push Dante to the point of a frustrated, humorless chuckle punctures the tense air of the room. You flinch in place, averting your eyes from him to other corners of the room that seem a lot easier to look at. Walls don't have eyes that pierce to your very soul the way his are right now, feeling them even if you don't see them.

"Will you please stop thinking the worst about me? I know better than anyone you can take care of yourself." 

He scoffs, another ironic chuckle following it. 

"In fact, this isn’t even about you. Have you ever thought for even a second that I keep you away from my jobs because I don't know what I would do if something happened to you? That nobody does?" 

You look up and he looks directly at you, brows furrowed. 

"Yeah, I've been called out about it before. By Trish and Lady and everyone who has ever seen the way I am when it comes to you." He shakes his head, rising from his seat behind the desk, reaching across it and grabbing your trembling hands. "They’ve all had the same thing to say about how you can't be around because my focus becomes keeping you safe."

He looks away from you, retreating to somewhere distant in his mind. 

"I catch myself thinking about a world without you sometimes and it's dark and heavy and...and I know I couldn't do it if I didn't have you."

"Do what?"

"Any of this.” He waves his hand around the waiting room of Devil May Cry dramatically. “Exist."

"Dante..." 

You click your tongue, chest aching at his words. They’re well meant but even the faintest insinuation of him stumbling into the bad shape he was when you first met makes you feel hollow.

"I mean it, sweetheart. You could come up with a hundred arguments and probably already have but I wish you wouldn't waste your time arguing with me about what the truth is. It’s not that you're weak, it's that I'm weak for you."

Now you feel like a real problem, pouting like a little girl while he airs out the truth. “Stop it.”

“No, you stop. Let me tell you how I feel and maybe, just maybe, actually listen to me for once.”

Pushing your fists against your eyes, you take a deep breath and allow the pressure of your knuckles to keep the levy holding back your tears from breaking. You probably look as pathetic as you feel standing there like this, shoulders slumped inward and breaths coming in staggered pants. 

Merciful man that he is, Dante never lets you suffer for long. 

You hear his footsteps round his desk in the  same pattern you memorized a long time ago, his warm arms coming to cradle you even if you won’t look at him. Your body naturally leans against his chest, fists pressed against his shirt, face hidden. 

“You’ve made me a man, not just someone pretending to be half one.” He unburies your face to kiss the tip of your nose, pulling you against his chest to bury your head beneath his scruffy chin. “And you’re one thing I wanna keep safe forever because of it. Is that so wrong?”

Shaking your head no, you sigh in lighthearted defeat. How can you put up a fight, especially when he is safely nestling his beating heart in your hand? You protect it, he protects you. 

It’s not all that bad of a deal when you really think about it. 

“You’re starting to give me a stomach ache,” you joke, lifting yourself up on the tips of your toes to kiss him. It’s a little brush of lips against lips, far less searing then how you usually approach. 

Still, it says everything. The pair of you remain locked together - two bodies and one shared soul - refusing to part even to continue the conversation. 

“Sorry for thinking the worst.” 

Your apology is only slightly muffled, mashed between his mouth and yours. He parts his lips to reply but chooses to kiss you instead, tongue dipping between lips he could not successfully exist without. You’ve given his world more than color, you’ve breathed life into every last corner of it. The least he can do is tell you so once in a while. 

Smiling against your lips, he stops for a breath and backs away enough to look down at you. 

“Let me know next time that happens so I can get ahead of it, okay?”  

A lighthearted reminder, sealed with another small kiss. The tension in the room gradually soothes itself, minute by passing minute. The safety of his arms even improves your mood slightly, your fists pressed against the center of his chest rather than over your eyes. 

“Please stay behind and let me come home to you in one piece.”

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you fight the urge to insist you need to continue fighting for your place in his life. He’s telling you clearly that you’ve earned it. 

“Alright,” you acquiesce, raising yourself up on tippy toes to kiss him again. 

Opening your mouth to continue speaking he shoots you a look, not venomous or dangerous, but serious. He doesn’t wanna argue about this again. 

You lean into him, big eyes staring. “Fine, God, okay. But you need to call me as soon as you’re done because I don’t know what I’d do without you either and cannot think about it so please don’t make me.”

Dante nods, chuckling. 

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Later on, after you’re less emotional and he’s home safe and sound, you’ll admit he’s right. You’ll mutter against his hair that he’s not merely a good man but the best one for thinking of you the way he does and that you constantly question if you deserve it or not. He’ll whisper to you that nobody has ever deserved it more, rocking you gently until you fall into a fitful sleep and leaving him awake for a little longer. 

Only then will he find himself alone enough to silently thank whatever force brought you, this stubborn, beautiful woman, into his life to save him. He’ll insist to this same force that he’s only making up for lost time by protecting you from danger to begin with. 

It happens every time.

[random-twst-things]

*Ace, Epel, Grim in the office getting in trouble*

Crowley: So, because you and the perfect count as one student, it would only be fair to punish them as well!

Crowley: Said punishment will be given to you all, of course! You'll all be helping the janitors clean around the school for a month!

Ace: What?!

Epel: Fair?!

Grim: A month?! The hench-human didn't do anything! They're gonna ban tuna for the whole month!!

Crowley: That's unfortunate! But, I am trying to be a fair and reasonable headmage!

Grim: You can't do that to me-! I mean, them!

Ace: Dude, they're gonna kick ours asses for roping them into this!

Epel: We're done for.

Ace: Okay! How about this? You leave the perfect it of this! Don't even tell them!

Ace, leaning in: And the next time there's an anti-drug assembly, I will ask a question....

Epel: Ace, don't! What're you? Crazy??

Ace: Quiet Epel! Quiet!!

Ace, looking serious: I will ask a question of the speaker.

Crowley, taken aback: No one has ever asked a question at assembly...

Ace: I will ask one.

Grim: 😨

Crowley: A real question?

Ace: Yes.

Ace: Not like a, "Can we see your nipple?" kinda question. Like, a real one.

Crowley: Like, "how can I help ensure my school remains drug free"?

Ace: Like, "Who should I tell if I suspect a peer is on drugs?"

Crowley, shocked, hand on chest: Great Seven...

Epel: Ace, no-! No!

Ace: Shut up!

Grim: It's not worth it!!

Ace: Shut up! It's for the perfect! For us!!

Crowley, now serious: You have your deal. And may the seven have mercy on your soul.

Ace, Epel, and Grim: Thank you!

Dividers from/by @/cafekitsune

[kakashisacademia]

pairing: katsuki bakugo x you | warnings: oral (Kats receiving), soft- slight possessive sex

summary; while giving Katsuki a blow job he decides it’s a good time to propose

ೃ⁀➷ Shut up, I’m proposing

You’re on your knees, lips warm and wet around him and Katsuki Bakugo is barely holding it together.

One hand’s fisted in your hair, the other gripping the couch cushion like it might anchor him to reality. His sweatpants are pushed down just enough to free him and you’re working him with slow, teasing precision, tongue curling, throat flexing, just like you know drives him mad.

“Shit… fuck babe… y’r killin’ me,” he grits out, head tipping back and jaw tight.

You hum around him like you’re innocent, like you’re not doing it on purpose and his hips twitch up in response.

“C’mon, I… hah… ‘m not gonna last if you…fuck, baby.” His voice breaks at the end.

But he doesn’t stop you. He never does until… “I been… fuck, been thinkin’ about it. The thing. The,” he pants. “The ring thing.”

Your brows furrow, mouth still full, but he just powers through, panicking and moaning all at once.

“You said… said you wanted it to be special, and I…I had a plan, okay? It wasn’t this… fuck, princess.”

He looks down at you, face flushed, sweat dampening his hairline and his expression crumbles into the softest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Shit,” he chokes, voice cracking as you suck harder.

And then the bastard actually fumbles in the couch cushion next to him. Reaches behind a pillow with trembling fingers.

You blink, his cock still in your mouth as he pulls out a tiny black box.

“Knew I couldn’t fuckin’ wait,” he mutters like he’s pissed at himself.

He flips it open. There’s a ring and you just freeze.

“Yeah, I know, I know, it’s not how I wanted to do it,” he rambles, eyes wild, lips twitching between panic and grin. “But you, fuck, you’re down there bein’ all perfect and I… fuck, will you just marry me already?!”

You pull off of him with a wet pop, eyes wide, spit shining your lips. “Kats, what the hell?”

He stares at you, completely red.

“I’m fuckin’ serious,” he says. “I want you. Forever. Even when you drive me crazy. Even when I’m a jealous idiot. Especially when you wear my shirt and suck my dick while I propose like a dumbass.”

Your breath catches. Then you start laughing half shocked and half breathless.

“You’re such a disaster,” you giggle, reaching up to take the ring with trembling fingers. “You really just during?”

He shrugs helplessly. “I panicked!”

You slide the ring on and it fits perfectly.

Then you crawl back into his lap, straddling him and kiss him softly. “I love you, Katsuki Bakugo.”

He swallows hard. “…So that’s a yes?”

You kiss him again. “Hell yes.”

“You said yes,” he whispers after a moment of silence.

It’s almost reverent the way he says it. Like he can’t believe it. You’re straddling him, chest to chest, the ring gleaming where your left hand rests on his shoulder. His cock slides between your folds, hard and aching but not rushing. Not yet.

Katsuki’s breathing hard, eyes locked on you like he might wake up. “You really said yes.”

You nod, smiling, cupping his face. “Of course I did, dumbass.”

He groans, head falling to your chest, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he mutters into your skin. “Make sure nobody ever forgets who you belong to.”

You roll your hips and he shudders.

“Then do it,” you whisper, rocking down onto him in one slow, deep slide.

“Fuck baby, so tight. Always so perfect for me.” He grinds out.

You start to move, slow and steady, grinding down into him while his hands grip your hips like a man starved. He watches you wide-eyed, lips parted, barely breathing.

“My fiancée,” he groans. “Fuck, my fiancée.”

“Say it again.”

He thrusts up into you, deeper this time. You gasp.

“My perfect girl,” he pants. “My fuckin’ fiancée… mine forever. Gonna marry me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you moan, head falling back. “Gonna wear your ring, your name, fuck Kats, your everything.”

And he loses it. Not in speed, but in depth and in emotions.

He starts thrusting up into you harder, dragging your body down to meet each movement, forehead pressed to yours.

“Gonna fill you up,” he murmurs. “Every night. Just like this. Gonna take such good care of you.”

“You already do,” you breathe, clinging to his shoulders. “You already do.”

You feel the heat coil between your legs, tight and needy and he knows.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers. “Come for me again. Just like this. Wanna feel my fiancée fall apart for me.”

You gasp his name as your body arches, nails digging into his back, pleasure wracking through you in waves. And he follows with a deep and guttural groan, so full of love it makes your eyes sting.

When it’s over he keeps you pressed close. Doesn’t pull out and doesn’t move. Just holds you, trembling slightly.

“You’re really gonna marry me,” he whispers, almost like he’s in disbelief.

You smile into his shoulder. “Only if you keep calling me that every time you fuck me.”

He chuckles, tired and soft. “Oh, baby. That’s never gonna stop.”

[heartyluv]

would you ever consider writing sleepy, soft, clingy zayne? baby is completely wrapped around you and won’t let go, even if you have to get up and go to the bathroom 🥺🥺🥺

Note: Fluffy Zayne is always the cutest because you just know he only lets himself be that way in front of you. I listened to Comfortable by H.E.R while I wrote this and it’s just soooooo ADORBS. I hope you love this!

No Warnings! :)

Clingy!Zayne/Reader

I’m outside. Please open the door for me, love.

When you read that notification, your heart starts to flutter like crazy in your chest. You can’t stop smiling, even past your shock as you quickly stand up from the couch to throw on some pants. Even if he’s your boyfriend, you don’t tend to answer the door in your panties.

Quickly, you run to your apartment door and pull it open to find your boyfriend standing there with a tired expression on his handsome face. But he smiles softly, looking at you with so much love.

He’s dressed appropriately for the cold weather in all black with his long peacoat, slacks, and button up shirt with his classic Oxfords. He presses his rectangle wire framed glasses up on his nose, opening his arms when he sees you ready to run into them.

His unique scent and expensive cologne fills your nostrils, bringing you comfort. You missed him so much.

“Babe, why didn’t you tell me you were coming back today? I thought I wouldn’t see you for another week,” you mumble against his neck as he braces one solid arm around your waist to hold you close. He deeply inhales your scent as well.

Home, is all that fills his mind.

“I was able to finish everything quicker than anticipated. I wanted to come back to you,” he answers truthfully as he places one gentle kiss below your ear.

Zayne had been sent across the country for a series of serious research meetings that included things he couldn’t exactly discuss right now, but they were doing big things. Good things. He was gone for a whole month and you never thought it was possible to miss another human being as much as you missed him. Seeing as he was able to miraculously get a week’s worth of anticipated work done within two days, the feeling was mutual.

When you two hesitantly pull apart, you don’t pry him with questions or anything. You’ll save that for when he’s well rested. You can hear how tired he is. You know he’d be more than willing to sit up and talk to you, but you could never do that to him.

“Hungry?” you ask him as he rests his suitcase beside your shoe rack before shutting the door.

He shakes his head, pulling off his coat, but hesitating as he answers. “I ate on the plane. Are you? I can head back out and get you something.”

You smile at his thoughtfulness and shake your head, helping him pull it off completely. “I’m okay, bub. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

He accepts your help. “Is it okay if I shower first?”

“Of course,” you nod. “ You know I have some of your clothes here, too. And I can get your laundry started and in the dryer to finish overnight. Just take your time.”

“You’re too good to me,” he says genuinely, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. But that’s not enough, so he presses three more to your soft mouth before actually pulling away this time to get cleaned up.

You do just what you said you’d do, going inside his suitcase and washing the simple garments, making a note to bring his work clothes to the cleaners.

Zayne’s finished and back to you within thirty minutes, just as you start his clothes in the dryer. His face is free of his glasses, but not his exhaustion. He’s shirtless, only wearing a simple pair of gray sweatpants.

“Your apartment is warm,” he answers when you can’t help but stare at his muscular chest. That makes you laugh, pressing a kiss to one of his pecs when you walk up to him.

“Need me to turn it down?”

“No need,” he answers. “Are you ready for bed?”

You tell him yes, shutting off all your lights and climbing into your bed once in your room. Your poor baby is so tired, so you don’t small talk as you let him rest his head on your chest, wrapping his arms around you to finally get some good sleep—something he hasn’t had since he left you.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I’m not as talkative right now. But I will be in the morning. Thank you for everything.”

You run your hand through his partially damp hair, admiring the softness of his dark strands. “It’s okay, I understand completely. I’m just glad you’re here. I’d do anything for you.” He snuggles into you deeper at that, making your heart swell. “Sleep well, okay? We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

When the sun rises, you blink away the sleepiness as you wake up and admire the golden glow of the light streaming in through your windows. You and Zayne are in the same position that you were last night. This time though, his leg has both of yours trapped. He’s wrapped around you entirely and he did it all in his sleep. You look down as he rests on your chest so peacefully, admiring the gentle curve of his nose.

You just take the time to admire him in his entirety. You think of how lucky you are to have such a man like him as yours and in your life. You couldn’t want for anything when your everything is right here.

You look ahead at your clock that’s on your dresser, seeing 9:27 AM. It’s early for you, but this is sleeping in for your hard working man. You want him to get more of that, but you want to have some food ready for him as well as get his laundry folded.

And you have to pee.

You start to slide away, at least you try to. But Zayne’s grip on you is surprisingly stronger than you expected. You chuckle at his bicep, watching the muscle that refuses to release you, flex so effortlessly.

“Stay,” he mumbles sleepily, nuzzling into you more and huffing out a breath through his nose.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you frown. “I gotta get up though, babe.”

“You don’t have work.”

Of course he knows that’s. Even if it’s a Thursday, he knows your schedule just as well as he’s mesmerized his own.

“I want to take care of some things for you, is all.” Your rake fingers down his scalp, smiling at how he shudders. One of his weak spots. Bonus for you that his hair is extra fluffy after air drying over night. You relish in this because he’s not going to let it stay that way when he gets up, but you just love how extra soft it is when it’s like this.

“We’ll go out for breakfast, so you don’t need to cook. Don’t leave me. I’ve been without you long enough,” he speaks, but the tiredness in his voice makes you feel awful. You really didn’t want to bother your sweet baby.

“Can I pee, at least?” you shake with a laugh and you see the corner of his mouth tilt up in amusement. Even if he’s so hesitant, he cares about your health. He wouldn’t be your Dr. Zayne if he didn’t.

“Two minutes,” he commands. And you listen, rushing up and using the bathroom quickly. After taking care of your business and washing your hands, he’s on his back on the left side of your bed.

You climb back in, and he gets on top of you immediately, placing himself in between your legs and putting his face right on your boobs. He hums, wrapping his arms around you tightly as you start to rub his scalp again while he uses the silk of your nightgown and your pillowy breasts like a pillow.

The bed is long enough so that his feet isn’t hanging off of it, and he uses this to his advantage to be sandwiched close to you.

“I missed you so much,” he says with closed eyes, making yours water at how loving his tone is. You’d do anything for this man. He’s your universe.

“I missed you too,” you admit, kissing the top of his head and rubbing down his strong back.

“Is it alright if I stay for a few days? I don’t have work until Monday. Being with you is all I’d like to do.”

“You don’t even have to ask. You can stay as long as you’d like. Forever is an option, as well.”

He kisses your breast, placing his cheek right back on top and getting comfortable.

It’s silent for a moment between you two for a moment—comfortable.

“I love you,” he squeezes you even tighter.

The butterflies in your stomach are holding hands and spinning in circles while singing the cheesiest love songs at his affection. “I love you most.”

You eventually fall back asleep, resting for the whole morning and into the afternoon as Zayne stays glued to you. He’s like that for the rest of the day as well as each one after that during the days you spend together.

Being able to have a safe space like you is all he’s ever wanted and being lucky enough to have it is all he’ll ever need.

[intoblonde6ftwbbplayers]

lil Paige one shot

im bored rn || request are open!

also yes ik none of this is accurate probs but pls dont judge.

pairing - Paige Bueckers x y/n reader

summary - you and Paige are "close" fiends and the fans are suspicious especially seeing you guys interact on Kk's live

warnings - none just pure fluff and clingy Paige

||

Looking over at KK and Ice who had stopped arguing long enough to finally start the live. You went over to them and say hi to the people.

A string of comments rolled in asking how you were and how your test went last week. Even though you weren't on the team you were always with them, on lives, in posts, anywhere.

'Y/N OMG MY QUEEN HOW WAS YOUR TEST?'

'I LOVE Y/N'

'y/n you're so pretty ilyyy'

'Y/N Y/N Y/N'

'y/n apartment tour??'

'oh to be y/n'

you always loved reading comments. they were mostly kind to you and people were pretty funny. You would especially laugh when they realized Paige was there and start thirsting over her. I mean they weren't wrong about what they were saying about her.

Distracted while reading comments you didn't even notice the fact Paige was there you until she came up and wrapped her arms around your waist hugging you from behind putting her face in your neck.

"hey ma" she said into your neck that nickname had you weak although you tired your best to hide it.

Paige loved having her head in your neck or lying on you. Ever since the first time she fell asleep in 2 seconds after laying her head in your lap she decided that leaning her head on you was the best place in the world. Only for her though.

You didn't know it but whenever your other friends would get overly touchy with you it would make her so incredibly jealous. She would make it her mission to never leave you alone long enough for the to happen but thats a story for another time.

"Hey lil Paigey" you said teasingly to her. You called her a lot of nicknames but that one was always so funny to you and it was your favorite. Paige just hummed in response taking a deep breath still in her same position.

"you okay?" you asked quieter and with a little concern as she normally had so much energy but it seamed like right now all she wanted to do was be held (by you).

"dont worry y/n she's just tired from practice" Ice said.

"yeah a certain P Boogers forgot to set an alarm and showed up late to practice so coach made her do suicides" Kk said laughing a bit as they've all been there in the past and tease each other whenever something like this happens.

"broooo" Paige said finally looking up at KK and Ice. They both laugh at their teammate knowing its not serious and go back to answering comments from the live. So you go to do the same.

'is it just me or is Paige always touching y/n'

'I NEED PAIGE AND Y/N TO DATE'

'PAIGE IS SO FINE OMG'

'nah y/n and Paige need to just admit it atp'

'KK ILYYYYY'

'they never beating the allegations'

'PAIGE IS SO CUTE OMFG'

'I need to know what Geno said to Paige when she got there late'

As you scan through the comment you just laugh slightly and shake your head. One particularly got you to actually let out a laugh and you read it out loud.

"read these comments and found out they AREN'T tg??" just making you giggle again.

"sorry to break it to you guys but me and Paige are not dating she's just a little clingy" you say ending the sentence looking over at the blonde girl who is still wrapped around you.

While your speaking Kk moves to sit on the floor going to start on her legos but not before turning the camera to face you, Paige, and Ice

"I think it's more than a little at this point" Ice said looking at the two of you.

Before you can reply you're being pulled back the other side of the couch. You let yourself be dragged by Paige having an idea of what she wants. She sits you both down on the couch and goes to hug your waist again immediately collapsing into you like you knew she probably had been wanting to.

Kk and Ice look over and shake their heads at their teammate who is gripping onto you like a koala right now and Kk catching it all on camera

"alright maybe its more then a little but I don't mind" You say looking back at Ice while your hands slowly start running up and down Paiges back making their way under her hoodie to do so like you've done a million times

you've all forget about the live that Kk has currently propped up to face the three of you

"oh we know you don't" Ice replies with the biggest smirk ever

thats when you guys all remember your one live so when you look at the screen you already know all the comments are going to be about you and Paige

Kk tosses you the phone and you catch it now holding it so the screen looks like a FaceTime

you read though the comment and reply to as many as you can

'are you and Paige dating?' "no guys we are not dating just really good friends" you say with a soft smile looking down at her half asleep with her face in your chest

'idk if I wanna be y/n or Paige in this situation'

'PAIGE IS TOO CUTE OMFG'

'Y/N UR SO PRETTY ILYYYY'

'y/n and Paige deniers real quiet rn'

'Paige and Y/n are meant for each other'

'PAIGE AND Y/N SUPREMACY'

"listen guys if you've never cuddled with friends you're missing out just saying" you say with a shrug moving the camera to Paige knowing thats who most people wanna see anyway

"Paige anything you wanna say?" you say in a different tone knowing that everyone could probably hear the smile you have while talking to her. Because yes you did like Paige but you weren't sure if she liked you.

"Nah y/n right we just friends.. and I had a long day" Paige says turning her head so only half of it is against you now

"what's that thing called love-smth with like 5 different ones?" She asks you moving her head so her chin in now resting against you scooting up so your faces are closer and you're looking right at each other (with heart eyes coming from both of you)

"5 love languages?"

"mhm those isn't one of em touch or sum shit?" Paige asks you making sure she's right and once you nod she moves back to using you like a pillow and facing the screen again

"Yeah so I think its just that me and y/n both like the physical touch one so thats why we like this" Paige said to the fans knowing thats not the real reason she's so clingy with you

all you do is hum in response and begin playing with Paiges hair while she talks to the live

this goes on for a couple minutes until you hear Paiges talking slowing down and see her struggling to keep her eyes open

You take this as a sign that it might be time to end the live as Ice has gone to her room and Kk is locked in on the legos she's building

you take the phone from Paige and she mumbles a sleepy "thank you ma"

"alright guys we're all a little tired so ima end the live. We love you guys bye!" you say finally ending the live and tossing the phone back to Kk

Paige shift on top of you trying to get comfortable and as always she ends up with her head in the crook of you neck and her hands find their way to your hips under your hoodie

"I got you p just go to sleep" you say quietly in her ear as her breathing slows down and her eyes flutter shut

once the words leave your lips you can feel your own body relaxing further into the couch and let yourself fall asleep with her as well knowing that when you wake up there will be countless photos of you both circulating the gc and possibly their stories

||

thank you for reading

I hope you enjoyed!

[bonniesbluee]

artist!art who draws u nude like the scene in the titanic. uhhhh huh yes. he’s all nervous and blushing cus ur just so pretty

"turn a bit to side.." as your turned, he got blessed with the side profile of your boobs. the way your nipples were perked up, or how he could see the bumps of your body was all so beautiful. "just like that, stay like that, baby."

his hands are trembling. he bites his bottom lip before starting on his painting. you look so pretty and oh so beautiful in that pose. and so so pliant against his orders. he is completely entranced by your curves, how the lighting of the room enhances the curve of your hips.

after a while he is finished, and not to toot his own horn but he did amazing. he captured all of your beauty and flaws. managed to paint your beauty. "i-im done." he says softly, you perk up, walking to him. he tries to ignore the way your breasts bounce as you eagerly walk towards him. "tadaa." he says shyly, scared of your reaction.

you gasp, leaning down to were his sitting. "oh my god." he inhales sharply as your boobs press against his shoulder. "are you serious?!" you cup his cheek and look at him with the biggest smile he has ever seen on a woman. "art this is amazing!!" you squeal, hugging him tightly. he processed how you're completely nude against him. but he likes it. but he needs to stay professional. "really? im glad you like it." his big hands settle on your waist as you hug him. "its so so so good."

you keep an arm around his shoulders, and that's when he realizes his fixation with your boobs. he had painted them perfectly, and in person they were perfect too. plush, soft. everything about you was soft except for a few scars, but he loved that. he smiles, keeping his hand on your waist as you gaze at the painting.

"how much do you want for it?" you ask while reaching for your wallet, but he grabs your hands and shakes his head. "keep it. please." he looks up at you, softly rubbing the curve of your hip without him noticing. you smile even more before kissing his cheek.

"i have to pay you somehow tho." you mumble, nodding towards the tent on his pants he didnt realize he had.

"oh." he gulps before nodding softly. "o-okay."