#loving the algorithm tonight

[waitmyturtles]

[greaseonmymouth]

logged into Netflix for the first time in a while looking for something brain dead I can watch while I zone out before I go to bed and Netflix immediately hits me with “suggestions for tonight! Explore personalised picks” so I go yeah sure why not and the first film on the list is 2004 classic The Day After Tomorrow. I’ve never felt more called out

[queen-scribbles]

🎧🎧! - em

Scarecrow (Alex & Sierra)

The harvest moon is wicked, I know that you've been hurt But I swear I'm here for good, I'll never leave

Love in a Box (The Workday Release)

She’s nothing short of lovely Does she notice that I can’t breathe? Everything around me's getting hazy I’ll loosen up my tie, no use in being shy

[autism-corner]

[rafesteddy]

𝓢𝓷𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 𝓛𝓲𝓷𝓴𝓼 𝖎𝖗𝖑/𝖘𝖒𝖆𝖚

𝓑𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀…

𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜!𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 (baseball!rafe)

+18 -> smut | You didn’t expect much from tonight’s date—and got even less. But one message from Rafe changes the whole rhythm of the night. What starts casual might be getting dangerously close to something neither of you can ignore.

c/w: swearing, casual sex, jealousy, possessiveness, blurred boundaries, light humiliation, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, cum play, oral (female receiving after orgasms; both), spanking, slight choking, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, rafe says “I’ll kms” jokingly + banter during sex

𝓨𝓸𝓾 - 𝓓𝓮𝓾𝔁𝓪𝓿𝓮, 𝓑𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓷 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓼…

You wore the dress because it made you feel good. Simple, black. A little backless. Not too much. It made you feel like you still knew how to show up—how to try, even when you weren’t sure why you were bothering.

You met him on Raya. His profile was filled with sunset gym selfies, gold chains, and at least one yacht that didn’t belong to him. But your friends insisted. ‘He’s hot. Give him a chance.’

You gave him a chance and now here you are, staring at a half-full glass of sparkling water while he tells a story about benching three plates and putting a coach ‘in his place’.

“Like, bro. Don’t test me,” he says, laughing and pointing at his own chest. “I’m not that guy. I don’t play submissive.” You nod in agreement, trying your hardest not to look at the clock. He smirks. “You get it. You’re chill. That’s hot.”

Holy shit… This is dating now? Endless one-way talking. Endless egos. And you’re starting to think being “chill” just means letting men be mediocre without calling them out for it.

𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 - 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓪, 𝓑𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓷 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓼…

He met her at the gym. She stopped him mid-set to ask about his program; hair slicked into a perfect ponytail, lashes too long to be natural. She smelled like vanilla and spray tan. He didn’t even think. Just said ‘yes’.

Now he’s here, picking at an overpriced plate trying not to wonder how fast he could get out of this without looking like an asshole.

“So you get paid to throw balls?” She teases, one manicured finger tracing the rim of her wine glass. “Kinda iconic.”

Rafe nods, smiling without teeth. She’s been talking about brand deals and algorithm slumps for twenty minutes straight. She hasn’t asked him a single question that didn’t have a “likes” count attached.

“Honestly,” she says, “I feel like people don’t understand how hard it is to stay relevant in this industry. 400 thousand likes and you’re a flop. You miss one trend and you’re done. Poof. Digital death.”

He coughs, trying to cover up a laugh, raising his beer to hers. “To survival.”

She rolls her eyes and giggles, lifting her glass as well. “You’re funny. You should be on TikTok more.”

𝓨𝓸𝓾 જ⁀➴

The food isn’t bad. It’s actually good. Which almost pisses you off more—because it means you can’t even use that as an excuse.

You were hopeful, foolishly so. You gave your hair the extra ten minutes, exfoliated, rehearsed your little “in your free time” spiel in case he didn’t respect your actual job. You wanted this to go well.

But now, with each story he tells—about how “soft” the world’s gotten, how “crazy” his ex was, how “girls just don’t know how to take a joke anymore”—you feel yourself slipping into that quiet, numb space in your mind. The one where you just let the man talk while you think about how cozy your sheets are going to be when you slide into them alone and what movie you're gonna put on instead.

“This was fun,” he says as he signals the waiter for the check, smiling like it’s a done deal. “We should grab a drink after this. My place is, like what, five minutes away. Killer view. Hot tub. You’ll love it, babe.”

You smile, but it’s thin. Doesn’t reach your eyes as you meet his across the table. “I think I’m gonna head home.”

He blinks, surprised. Taken aback. An answer this man surely isn’t used to hearing when he extends the offer. “C’mon. Just one drink.”

“I don’t really drink,” you murmur, fingers curling around the handle of your purse, two seconds away from bolting out the door honestly. He laughs, the sound loud in the quiet between you.

“Everyone drinks.”

“Not me.” A lie.

𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 જ⁀➴

The walk outside is short and silent until she brushes her shoulder against his, fingers grazing, desperately hoping to intertwine but they don’t. She looks up at Rafe, with a look on her beautiful face that usually pulls praise easily from men, but his mind is somewhere else.

“You should come over. Just for a little bit. I’ve got this sauna that would be so good for recovery. And a bottle of wine that’s basically a religious experience—”

“—Appreciate it,” he says, stopping her before she can even finish. “But I’ve got training early.”

She pouts her pillowy lips, batting her lashes which has almost the opposite effect on him. “You’re no fun.”

He pauses; lips tugging to the side as he weighs his options. Could say ‘yes’. Could let it play out. But everything about this feels empty. Another night of people pretending that this could go anywhere.

“Not tonight. But thanks—really. This was nice—” He closes the door of her Uber before she can reply, pocketing his keys, with someone better on his mind.

𝓑𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓪𝓽 𝓗𝓸𝓶𝓮…

You shut the door, the quiet click too loud in the empty room. Your heels go first. Then your purse hits the floor with a heavy drop. The house is quiet in the way that always makes you feel a little lonelier after a night like this.

You move through the motions: wine, music, robe, lights dimmed low. You could call it self-care, but really, it’s just a ritual for disappointment.

You curl up on the couch with your legs tucked under you and sip slow, mumbling against the rim of your glass in his deep, stupid voice, “c’mon just one drink.” You laugh weakly as you toss some back, feeling the burn in your throat, and the sting of the night. Tonight, you just wanted something. And you got nothing.

You pull your phone into your lap; not even sure what you’re looking for, just running on autopilot, going through the motions, looking for a reason not to delete every dating app you’ve ever downloaded.

That’s when the notification lights up your screen.

It’s a gym selfie. No caption. Just sweat, muscle, and that familiar smirk. You bite your lip, swiping the screen to your text messages—and just as you do, the little text bubbles appear. Someone has the same idea…

Rafe: hey pretty. you free?

You don’t answer right away. But your fingers are already hovering.

He doesn’t follow up with a question mark or a ??? or where you at? Rafe never does. That’s part of the deal. You keep it easy. No pressure. No expectations. Just a simple rhythm you’ve both fallen into. The man shows just enough effort that he’ll drive by at night, looking up into your room. Curtains open, Spotify glowing through the glass, bedside light on. An unspoken, I’m home and ready, Rafe. The rest is up to you.

You set your phone down without replying, take one last sip of wine, and head to your bedroom. You already know he’s on his way.

You change into the cotton Calvin Klein set he always notices—the powdery white bralette, matching thong that isn’t meant to be sexy, but somehow always is. Comfortable. Soft. Barely a statement, which is exactly why he likes it.

You’re lying on your stomach, book open in front of you, toes grazing the edge of the comforter, when you hear his keys drop on the counter. A muffled “hey baby” to no one.

The door shuts; shoes hitting the floor with the same tired thud as your purse. You don’t look up when you hear the zipper. Don’t say a word when his shirt and jeans thump lightly onto the hallway floor; big feet pound against the hardwood with each swaggered shuffle, walking in like he lives here.

He doesn’t. But sometimes it feels like he could.

You feel the mattress shift beneath you before you see him. A familiar weight dips near your thighs. Then his hands plant on either side of your hips and he crawls up the bed in just his boxers, heavy and warm.

You gasp when he presses against you, his broad chest brushing your back, his mouth near your ear.

Your giggle slips out before you can stop it.

“Book club tonight?” He mutters, voice low and amused as he kisses your neck.

You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back, he grabs your hips and flips you onto your back. Rafe’s big body presses down into yours, your wrists pinned to either side of your head.

“Shit, look at you,” he hums.

His eyes roam your face, then drop to your lips. And for a moment neither of you says a thing.

You shift slightly beneath him, the cotton of your bralette stretching as you breathe in.

Rafe’s palms still frame your wrists, warm and rough, but he isn’t holding you down anymore. Not really. Just resting there, like he likes the excuse to touch you, taking this mental picture of you below him.

You tilt your chin up, your voice soft and sweet, making the corners of his lips curl into a smile.

“What’d you do tonight?” You whisper, cheeks heating up under the weight of his gaze.

“Went on a date.”

You quirk an eyebrow, saying so much with a single look. “And it went well?”

He lets out a frustrated groan, burning himself in your neck, saying even more with his tight embrace. Your words make him laugh, the warmth of his breath fanning across your throat. “Fuckin’ sucked,” he says, dipping his head until his nose brushes the curve of your jaw. “She thinks I could be TikTok famous. What do you think, baby? Think I should hang up the cleats?”

You stifle a giggle and fail. “The world will be a dark place without Rafe Cameron in baseball pants—”

“That’s what I said,” he mumbles as he nuzzles in closer. “Food was cold before she even ate it. She needed to get the perfect picture for her story or some shit.”

“Did you check her TikTok page?” You ask as you trace lazy circles on his back. “She might have called herself a WAG in the caption—”

“Please,” he chides, his eyes practically rolling out of his head, “Didn’t even make it to dessert.”

“That’s your favorite part,” you shoot back, tone light, as your fingers toy at the back of his hair. You feel him tense a little under your touch, breath hitching against your throat.

He lets out a half-growl, a sound that almost makes you smile. “Well shit,” he mutters, voice dropping a shade. “Maybe that’s why I’m so goddamn pissy, huh? Couldn’t take anymore. Made me wanna knock over the candle and light the table on fire—”

“Jesus fuck, Rafe,” you cut in with a laugh. “Why are you bein’ so hard on her I’m sure she was stunning—”

“—Hey,” he interjects playfully, giving you a little more of his body weight, making your breathing a little tighter. You grip his shoulders pushing him back slightly. Rafe pulls back with a boyish smile, looking down at you. “Didn’t say the view wasn’t nice. But that’s not what it’s all about, you know that.”

“Mhmm… Wise words.”

You stretch your arms above your head, twisting slightly underneath him. His hands slide down with you, skimming your ribs, your sides, the soft dip of your waist, tongue tracing along his bottom lip as your nipples turn hard below the thin fabric.

“You wore this for me, did you?” He asks.

“I wore this for me,” you respond as his hungry eyes flick up to yours, calling you bluff instantly.

“Whatever you say, princess,” he smiles. Rafe’s rough fingers glide up your inner thigh making goosebumps rise on your soft skin. “What about you?” He asks after a pause as the tips of his fingers hook under your panties. “What’d you do?”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you’re nervous—because you want him to react. So you say it lightly, flicking your gaze up at him too. “Went on a date.”

Rafe pauses, his hands still, just a little. “With who?” He asks, quieter now.

“Mason Williams. He played for the Lightning and now he plays for—”

“The Bruins. Yeah, I know the guy,” Rafe mumbles. The flicker. That little twist in Rafe’s face. His jaw clenches, mouth parting like he’s about to say something smart and cocky—then thinks better of it. But you see it.

You run your fingers down his strong arms as a taunting smile plays on your lips. Rafe rolls his eyes, laughing at himself, completely caught in the act. “Is someone jealous?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m not—” He cuts himself off, sucking his teeth, trying his best not to show all his cards. “Not jealous. You’ve never hooked up with another athlete before.”

“I’m on Raya now.”

His hand squeezes your thigh like he can’t help it. “No shit…”

“I didn’t know you liked hockey.” He adds, voice amused but slightly tight, thumb flexing against your thigh.

You arch your back slightly, head falling a little deeper into the pillow. “I still don’t.”

“She was trying to get me to go back with her,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter, more serious.

You nod once. “He asked me to go home with him too.”

There’s another pause, heavier this time. He doesn’t move; just watches your face.

“Why’d you say ‘no’?” He asks. You push his hair back, fingers grazing his temple.

“He was kind of an ass.”

His mouth twitches, like he already knows there’s more. “Yeah? And?”

You let out this small breath, tracing down the side of his face, thumb brushing his jaw. “And I was really hoping to cum tonight.”

His breath catches and then his smile deepens, slow and knowing. “Well, shit,” he mutters, leaning in until your noses brush. “I think I can help with that.” You can feel the air change the second he settles above you.

Rafe’s forearms bracket your head, his chest brushing yours, bare skin on cotton as he gazes down. You can feel the flex of muscle under his skin, the slow drag of his breath as he looks between your eyes and mouth like he’s choosing which part of you to taste first.

“So, I’m the lucky guy tonight?” He hums as he kisses lower, between your breasts. “Not gonna have to worry about Williams tryin’ to do what I can—”

You giggle, threading your fingers through the back of his hair. “You act like I have a roster, Cameron.”

“Please tell me you don’t,” he says dryly. “I’ll kill myself I swear.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you chuckle, still smiling when he glances back up, blue eyes sharp and warm and a little bit smug. “Just you—”

“You need to stop dating men who hate women.”

“You need to stop dating women who hate women.”

“Touché,” he mutters, against your clothed pussy, running his tongue along the wet patch that formed, moaning at the subtle taste of you on his tongue before yanking them off.

Rafe nudges your thighs further apart with his knee, dragging his palm over the inside of your leg like he’s not even thinking about it—like his body’s already memorized every inch of you as he crawls back up your body. His thumb grazes where your underwear used to be, gliding through the slick mess between your thighs.

“Not sure if you care, but I only do this with you,” he adds under his breath. You try not to show it. Not to let him see how that lands. You nod, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Your breath hitches as he grinds against you, slow and deliberate—not inside, just enough to tease, to make you squirm and ache for more.

His lips find your throat, kissing down, then back up again, and he doesn’t stop until your breath goes ragged. When he finally sinks into you, it’s slow, all the way, one fluid, deep thrust that makes you gasp and cling to his shoulders. He’s so thick it burns in the best way, and you feel your hips tilt instinctively, seeking more.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your jaw. “Always so tight. You miss me?”

You nod fast, whispering, “Yes, yes—Rafe.”

His hand clamps around the back of your thigh, hauling your leg up high around his waist. The next thrust shoves a gasp out of you. He kisses you through it—messy and hungry—his hips grinding harder, deeper, like he’s got something to prove. Like he’s trying to tell you that you made the right choice tonight.

“Say it,” he growls softly, lips brushing yours.

“I missed you.”

“Yeah?” He grunts, fucking into you just a little harder, wet skin clapping against his. “Tell me. What’d you think about when he was askin’ you to come over, pretty?”

“You,” you breathe, honest and raw.

He smirks, sweat forming at his temples. “You were wet for me, weren’t you?” You can barely manage a nod. “Thinkin’ about me at dinner? Already thinking about me fucking this perfect pussy,” he whispers, brushing his lips against yours with every word. “Should’ve worn this set to dinner,” he says, fingers tugging gently at the band of your bralette. “Show him what he couldn’t touch.”

You grab your bra, lifting it to your collarbone, boobs bouncing with each thrust; Rafe’s eyes rolling back in his head. “Think anyone’s gonna fuck you like me?”

“Don’t be a dick,” you laugh breathily.

He bites down a groan, snapping his hips, making you cry out his name. “You fucking love it—” He kisses the words off your lips, deeper now, hands bracketing your jaw as he grinds into you just right—over and over. “You wanna know what I was thinkin’ about during dinner?” He murmurs, voice dark and thick with want.

You gasp, fingers tugging in his hair. “What?”

“You. Ridin’ me. Couldn’t get it outta my fuckin’ head.”

You bite your lip, heart racing, thighs clenching around his waist. “Let me,” you whisper, eyes sparking. With a rough groan, he grabs your hips and flips the two of you—flat on his back now, hands pulling you up to straddle him.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he rasps, eyes dark as sin. You sink down on him slow—one teasing grind, then taking him deep as a moan spills from your lips. “Fuck,” he breathes out, head falling back for a second, his grip bruising on your hips.

His gaze doesn’t move, locked on you—his touch is everywhere—grabbing, too hard, not careful at all. Like he can’t stand the space between you.

But he doesn’t guide you. Not once. Just watches—lets you fuck him exactly how you want, the man losing more control with every roll of your hips.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice rough. “A fuckin’ dream. That’s it, baby.”

You ride him harder now, bracing your hands on his chest, moving faster, chasing your climax.

“Rafe—”

“I got you,” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs, fingers finding your clit. “Cum for me,” he pants. “Fuck—Wanna feel it.” And you do—shaking, gasping, crying out his name as your body locks down on him, vision hazy. “So fuckin’ perfect,” he grits out.

With a wicked grin, he reaches up, hand wrapping his hand around your throat, sending your pulse racing all over again. “My turn,” he rasps, flipping you to your back in one breathless move.

Rafe drives into you hard and deep; hips cracking against you, dragging desperate sounds from your throat as the room starts to spin.

“You feel that?” He murmurs into your skin, voice gritty and low. “How fuckin’ wet you are for me?” You nod, breathing too labored to answer. Rafe groans, smirking even as his hips jolt. “Mmm, greedy little thing. Squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. You gonna cum?”

He slows down, grinds instead, dragging the thick length of him against that spot inside you that makes you shiver. His thumb slips between you, brushing over your clit in tight, practiced circles as your mouth falls open with a helpless sound.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “Right now—” It crashes over you so hard you sob his name. He groans when you squeeze around him, thrusting a few more times before he follows. His whole body shudders against yours, muscles trembling with the force of it, the sound he makes so raw it leaves your heart stuttering in your chest as he spills inside you.

And then the room stills.

Only your breathing, tangled and soft, fills the space between your bodies. Rafe doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t roll off. He just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, fingers stroking your jaw.

“You ruin me,” he says.

You smile, eyes fluttering open to find him already looking at you. “I could say the same,” you whisper, and brush your lips against his, sweet and slow.

And even though no one’s said the words, even though this is still nothing on paper, you both know better.

He pulls out, slow enough to make you gasp, and spreads you wide beneath him again. You’re still pulsing around nothing, body buzzing and undone, your thighs sticky and spread, the sheets bunched beneath your hips. And then he touches you again; fingers slow, spreading you open just to look. One palm cupping your thigh, the other thumb grazing over your slick folds like he’s deciding what to do next.

“Wanna take a video so fuckin’ bad,” he mutters under his breath, still completely out of breath. “Couldn’t tell you how many times I’d watch this shit, sweetheart. It’s probably for the best,” the warmth of his words hits hot against your skin. You smile, lip caught between your teeth.

Rafe drags two fingers through the mix of you and him, pushing his release back inside you, rubbing it in slow, ghosting lazy circles over your clit.

Rafe dips down and presses his mouth against your center, licking soft and slow—torturous tongue flicks, the kind that make you squirm but he grabs for you, curling his biceps around your thighs to hold you in place.

His nose brushes your skin, stubble scraping gently along the inside of your legs as he moans into you. He hums low against your clit, the vibration making you grip the sheets—Ding.

Your phone lights up beside the bed. The air still thick with sex, heat clinging to your body like a second skin, and you almost don’t hear it over the sound of your own breathing but Rafe does.

He reaches for it without asking, still between your thighs, and lifts it toward him.

“New message on Raya,” he says, snorting under his breath. “Damn, baby. You think I should tell him how good this pussy feels? Bet he’d love to know what he missed tonight.”

You laugh, but the sound catches when you see his face shift. The amusement drains slowly. His mouth tightens; brows twitch just slightly—not enough for most people to notice, but you’re not most people.

He hands you the phone without another word and moves off the bed like the sex just cracked something open in him and now he’s trying to patch it up.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

You glance toward his phone as he picks it up, already tapping on the screen, swiping like he needs to be doing something—anything. Like looking busy might keep you from noticing the ache behind his silence but it’s too late for that.

You look down at the message… A teammate of Rafe’s. Someone you’ve met before. Someone who’s looked at you too long when Rafe wasn’t paying attention.

You try to play it off, you both do. This was never supposed to be more than a warm body. A reliable rhythm. Mutual trust. Late nights and early mornings with no promises in between.

“Rafe…”

He doesn’t look up right away. When he finally does, his eyes are unreadable.

“I know we’re nothing serious,” you say carefully. “But I wouldn’t do that to you. Okay?” His eyes fall to your screen as you delete the message.

His gaze flickers over your face, so many unsaid words locked behind his lips. Instead, he dips closer, skimming a knuckle beneath your chin before pulling you in, mouth finding yours with a quiet sigh and a tender kiss.

You watch from the bed, sheet barely covering your hips, heart still hammering too loud for no reason. He throws his hoodie over his head, jeans riding low on his hips, the muscles in his back shifting with every movement.

He flashes you a crooked little smile as he walks to the door. The same one he always gives you when he’s pretending to be fine.

And then he’s gone.

You sit up slowly, sheet pooling at your waist; bed still smelling like him.

Stepping off the bed you pad over to the window, drawing back the blinds, watching from behind the curtain as Rafe steps out into the street, phone glowing in his hand, thumb swiping.

Tinder.

Your lashes flutter, stomach sinking in an instant, and it stings. More than it should. More than you’ll ever let him know because there’s a chance he doesn’t feel the same, and then what? You’re done? That can’t happen.

You slip back into your sheets, body still tingling from everything he gave you. But something feels hollow now—Ding.

Sarahhhh: Tell my brother I said hi 🖕

Your Name: Haha he just left babe. You’re ridiculous.

Sarahhhh: So what’s with you two?

Your Name: Just casual. You know us.

Sarahhhh: Do us all a favor and find someone worth your time already.

Your Name: Bold of you to assume I’m not perfectly happy with my bad decisions rn Sarah 😛

Sarahhhh: STOPPPP 😂

Sarahhhh: Ok but seriously. Just look at this for me? [link attached: Paradise Palms - Casting Now 🌅 🌴]

Your Name: Lmao Sarah no. There is NO way I am going on some reality show

Sarahhhh: First of all it’s not like that. Second of all it’s fun. Third of all just fucking do it. You might be surprised.

Your Name: I’ll think about it

Sarahhhh: Do it or else

Your Name: Why so ominous 😂😂😂😂

Sarahhhh: Scaring you was the next tactic ☺️ Love you bye

You stare at it.

Then you click.

One tap, one breath held too long.

CASTING NOW: Netflix’s newest unscripted romance series—Paradise Palms is looking for singles ready to take a chance on love. Apply now.

𝓑𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓪𝓽 𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮’𝓼…

“The fuck is this, Wheezie?” Rafe mumbles as he pulls the door shut behind him and breathes out hard through his nose as his sister sends him some spam about a new Netflix reality show.

He rolls his eyes and kicks off his shoes, feeling the weight of the silence in his house, wishing desperately that he didn’t ruin it by looking at your phone and he would have gotten to stay longer but he knows better. Knows the rules. You’ve never been anything but clear—no promises, no labels, no strings. So why the fuck does his chest feel tight?

Ding.

Zander Jones: You done with her yet? Tryin to shoot my shot.

The blood drains from Rafe’s face before he can stop it. For a second, he just stares at the screen, frozen even though he knew this was coming.

He taps out of the message and sinks down on his leather couch, kicking back his feet as he swipes open a dating app for the nth time. Like muscle memory at this point. Like a balm that will ease the ache in his heart.

And across town, in your bed that’s still warm with his heat and rich with his smell you feel your frustrations swell. If he can swipe, you can click.

You draw a deep breath as your stomach twists in knots because deep down, you already know you’d never go to paradise for love. You’d go because you couldn’t stay away from him.

You’re never going to get over this. You’re just trying to forget.

But you know damn well—you won’t.

No one forgets about Rafe Cameron and he feels the exact same way about you.

New tag list 🏷️

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rcameronlova1

[kathaelipwse]

Offline, It’s You - C.Seungcheol

Requested: Yes Trope: Online Friends to Lovers, Hidden Identity, Slow Burn, Angst with a Happy Ending Warnings: Social Media Hate, Brief Mention of Anxiety, Mild Swearing, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE. Genre: Romance, Angst, Fluff Word Count: 2910 words {10-ish mins} Synopsis: A late-night interaction between Seungcheol and a small fan account leads to an unexpected connection. But when the truth comes out, and the world finds out about you, will he fight to keep you by his side? Author’s Note: I wanted to explore the idea of Seungcheol craving something real beyond the idol life—someone who sees him, not just his stage persona. This is a story of comfort, connection, and the kind of love that feels like home. Hope you enjoy it! It's a rushed one shot *sighs

Seungcheol had long since lost count of the days. They blurred into a relentless cycle of pre-dawn wake-ups, grueling rehearsals, high-pressure meetings with producers, and the dazzling, yet draining, energy of live performances. He was SEVENTEEN's leader, the anchor, the rock. He had to be strong, always. But the weight of expectations was crushing him.

Tonight, the silence of the sterile hotel room was a stark contrast to the roaring cheers of the crowd from just hours before. He lay in bed, the cool sheets a small comfort against his burning exhaustion. His phone was a lifeline and a distraction, the blue light harsh against his tired eyes. He scrolled through the endless stream of social media, a sea of fancams, stage edits, and fan art. He appreciated the love, but tonight, it felt like another reminder of the persona he had to maintain.

Then, he saw it. A small fan account, tucked away in the algorithm. It wasn't flashy or attention-grabbing. It was quiet, thoughtful, and… different.

Instead of focusing on the surface—the charts, the visuals, the perfect choreography—this account wrote about him. Not S.Coups, the leader. Not Seungcheol, the performer. Just Seungcheol, the person.

One post caught his eye: "Sometimes, I wonder if he ever gets tired of holding everything together. He always looks so strong, but even the strongest walls can crack."

His breath hitched. It was like the words had reached into his chest and squeezed. He felt a lump form in his throat. He scrolled further.

"No one asks if the strongest one needs a place to fall. Everyone expects him to be the support, but who supports him?"

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. He quickly blinked them back. He wasn't supposed to be emotional. He was the leader. But these words… they resonated with a depth that surprised him. This fan saw him, truly saw him, beyond the stage persona.

His thumb hovered over the "like" button on an older post. He hesitated, then pressed it. A wave of panic washed over him. He shouldn't have done that. It was a mistake. He should just scroll away, forget he ever saw it.

But his curiosity was piqued. He couldn't resist. He clicked on the account's profile and sent a direct message.

@ scoups17: "Your posts really hit different. How do you see things this way?"

His heart pounded in his chest. He felt a mix of excitement and dread. What if they ignored him? What if they recognized him immediately? What would he even say?

He waited, his anxiety growing with each passing second. Then, a notification popped up.

@ yourusername: "Hello! I am sorry, who are you??"

And just like that, his world tilted on its axis.

That simple question opened a door to a world Seungcheol hadn't known existed. He hesitated before replying, unsure of how much to reveal. He decided on a cautious approach.

@ scoups17: "Just someone who appreciates your perspective. I'm curious about how you see the world."

The response was immediate.

@ yourusername: "The world? It's a mess, but there's beauty in the chaos if you look hard enough."

Their conversations flowed effortlessly. They talked about everything and nothing—music, books, dreams, fears. You shared your thoughts on life, your observations of the world, your quiet hopes for the future. Seungcheol found himself drawn to your insightful perspective, your genuine kindness, and your disarming honesty.

He learned that your name was (Y/N). You were studying art, passionate about capturing the fleeting beauty of everyday moments. You had a quiet strength, a resilience that he admired. You weren't blinded by the glitz and glamour of his world. You saw the person behind the idol.

He found himself opening up to you in ways he hadn't with anyone else. He shared his anxieties about the pressures of leadership, the fear of disappointing his members, the loneliness that sometimes crept in despite the constant attention. You listened without judgment, offering words of encouragement and understanding.

Their late-night exchanges became a lifeline for Seungcheol. He looked forward to them with an eagerness that surprised him. He felt a connection with you that transcended the digital divide.

One night, he was working on a new song, struggling with the lyrics. He shared a snippet with you, a verse that felt particularly raw and vulnerable.

@ scoups17: "And in the silence, I hear the echoes of my doubt, a constant whisper that I'm not enough."

You responded with a simple, yet powerful message:

@ yourusername: "Doubt is a liar. You are enough. You are more than enough."

His heart swelled with gratitude. Your words gave him the strength to push through, to finish the song. He felt a sense of peace and validation he hadn't experienced in a long time.

As the weeks turned into months, their bond deepened. They exchanged playlists, discovering new music and sharing old favorites. They developed inside jokes, phrases that only they understood. They sent each other blurry, candid pictures at midnight, glimpses into their separate worlds.

Seungcheol found himself falling for you. He knew it was dangerous, that it was complicated, but he couldn't help it. You were a source of light in his often-dark world.

He hadn't planned on telling you the truth. He cherished the anonymity, the freedom to be himself without the weight of his identity. But one night, he slipped up.

He was talking about an upcoming concert, his excitement bubbling over. He mentioned a detail about the setlist, an unreleased song, a story behind a particular performance—something only someone on the inside would know.

He realized his mistake the moment the words left his digital mouth. A heavy silence fell between them. He waited, his heart pounding in his chest, anticipating your reaction.

@ yourusername: "Wait… how do you know that?"

His fingers trembled as he typed a response. He knew there was no way to avoid the truth now.

@ scoups17: "I… I'm Seungcheol."

The silence that followed was deafening. He could almost feel the tension radiating through the screen. He waited, his stomach churning with anxiety.

Finally, your response came.

@ yourusername: "You lied to me."

The words hit him like a physical blow. He felt his heart sink.

@ yourusername: "I trusted you, and you— You were SEVENTEEN's Seungcheol this whole time, and you never told me?"

He had no defense. He had betrayed your trust. He had prioritized his own comfort over your feelings.

@ scoups17: "(Y/N), I—"

But before he could finish his apology, your account was gone. Vanished into the digital ether.

He stared at the blank screen, his heart aching with a pain he hadn't anticipated. He had lost you. He had lost the one person who made him feel like just… Seungcheol.

The loss of your presence in his life left a gaping hole. He felt adrift, lost in the sea of his responsibilities. He tried to focus on his work, but your absence was a constant ache in his chest.

He poured his emotions into his music, the one place where he could truly express himself. He wrote about the loneliness, the regret, the longing for connection. He wrote about you.

When SEVENTEEN's new album dropped, it was a massive success. Fans celebrated the catchy tunes, the intricate choreography, the group's undeniable charisma. But there was one song that stood out, a ballad tucked away as Track 11.

It was titled "Offline."

The song was a raw, vulnerable confession. It spoke of meeting someone who felt like home, someone who saw him for who he truly was, but losing them because of his own insecurities. The lyrics were filled with longing and regret, a desperate plea for forgiveness.

The final lines, whispered like a secret, were the most heart-wrenching:

"I never meant to deceive you. You were the only person who made me feel like just… me. And now, I'm lost without you."

The song resonated with fans on a deep level. They praised its honesty, its vulnerability, its raw emotion. Little did they know the true story behind it.

And somehow, you heard it.

A week after the album's release, he received a notification. Your account had reappeared. He hesitated, his heart pounding, before clicking on it.

@ yourusername: "That song… 'Offline'… was that for me?"

His fingers flew across the keyboard.

@ scoups17: "Yes. Every word."

And just like that, the door was open again.

Two years of texting, voice calls, blurry pictures exchanged at midnight—but you had never met in person. The digital world had been their sanctuary, a safe space where they could connect without the pressures of the outside world.

But now, the time had come to bridge the gap.

Seungcheol was a bundle of nerves. He had chosen a quiet café, tucked away from the bustling city center. He wore a simple hoodie, trying to blend in, but his heart was racing. He felt like he was about to go on his first date.

He arrived early, choosing a table in a secluded corner. He scanned the room anxiously, his eyes searching for you.

Then, you walked in.

You paused at the entrance, your eyes scanning the room. They landed on him, and for a moment, neither of you moved. It was like time stood still.

He felt his breath catch in his throat. You were even more beautiful than he had imagined. Your eyes held a spark of mischief, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

Then, you smiled—small, teasing, exactly like he had pictured in his mind.

"You're even moodier in real life, huh?"

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, but the warmth in his chest betrayed him.

"Shut up."

The tension broke, and a wave of relief washed over him. It was you. It was really you.

You walked towards him, your steps confident and graceful. He stood up, his heart pounding in his chest.

"It's… it's really you," he said, his voice a little shaky.

You laughed, a light, melodic sound. "Of course it's me. Who else would it be?"

He reached out and took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. Your touch was warm and real, a tangible connection that grounded him.

"It's just… it's surreal," he said, his eyes searching yours.

"I know," you said, squeezing his hand. "It's surreal for me too."

They sat down, the initial awkwardness quickly melting away. They talked for hours, catching up on everything and nothing, bridging the gap between their digital and physical worlds.

He learned more about your art, your dreams, your fears. You learned more about his struggles, his hopes, his unwavering passion for music.

The hours flew by, and soon, the café was closing. They walked out together, hand in hand, the city lights reflecting in their eyes.

"It was… perfect," he said, his voice soft.

"It was," you agreed, smiling up at him.

He leaned down and kissed you, a gentle, tentative kiss that spoke volumes. It was a kiss of relief, of longing, of hope.

And just like that, everything fell into place.

Their newfound happiness was short-lived. The world of fame and scrutiny was always lurking in the shadows.

A single paparazzi photo, taken discreetly through the window of the café, leaked online. It was a simple picture—you and Seungcheol sitting together, laughing, holding hands. But the internet exploded.

The narrative twisted instantly. The comments were vicious, the accusations unfounded.

“She’s a sasaeng.”

“She manipulated him.”

“She was never a real fan, just a clout chaser.”

Your face was plastered across social media, your identity exposed to the world. Your inbox was flooded with hate, threats, and lies. People dug up old posts, misinterpreted your words, and painted you as a villain.

Seungcheol watched in horror as your life was torn apart. He felt a burning rage, a fierce desire to protect you. He knew he had to do something.

He stormed into the company’s office, his voice low but sharp.

"Fix this, or I walk away from everything."

He demanded they release a statement, denounce the lies, and protect you from the onslaught of hate. The company tried damage control, issuing a generic statement that did little to quell the storm.

It wasn't enough. The hate continued to pour in, relentless and unforgiving.

So Seungcheol did something no one expected. He went live on Instagram.

He sat in front of the camera, his face serious, his voice calm but firm. He addressed the rumors directly, his words measured and deliberate.

"I approached her first."

He told the truth, the whole truth. He explained how he had reached out to you, how you had become a source of comfort and support, how you had never sought fame or attention.

"She’s not a sasaeng. She was there for me when no one else was."

He spoke about your kindness, your intelligence, your genuine heart. He defended you with every fiber of his being.

"If you truly support me, stop the hate. Stop the lies. Let her live her life in peace."

The fandom shattered. Some apologized, recognizing their mistake. Some refused to believe him, clinging to their preconceived notions. The damage was done.

And you? You couldn't bear the pressure. You deleted everything—your social media accounts, your online presence. You disappeared from the digital world, leaving Seungcheol heartbroken and filled with guilt.

Seungcheol didn’t care about the consequences. He didn’t care about the cameras flashing, the reporters clamoring for a statement. He had to find you.

He knew where you lived. He had memorized your address, a detail he had tucked away in his mind, hoping he would never need it.

He drove through the city, his heart pounding with anxiety. He pulled up to your apartment building, his hands shaking as he turned off the engine.

He ran to your door, his knuckles rapping against the wood with urgency. He waited, his breath held captive in his chest.

The door opened, and there you stood.

You looked tired, your eyes shadowed with pain. But you were there.

The second you opened it, he exhaled sharply, taking in your fragile expression, your tired eyes.

"I’m so sorry for everything." His voice shook. "I should’ve protected you better."

He reached out to touch you, but hesitated, unsure if you would allow it.

You stared at him, searching his face, looking for any sign of deceit.

And then—before he could say another word—

You grabbed his collar and kissed him.

It was a passionate, desperate kiss, a release of pent-up emotions, a confirmation that you were still there, that you were still connected.

He froze for a moment, surprised by the suddenness of your action. Then, he melted into it, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you impossibly close. He poured all his love, his regret, his longing into the kiss.

When you finally pulled away, you smirked, a hint of your old teasing self returning. "So… two years, huh? Took you long enough."

Seungcheol groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. "Shut up."

You laughed, the sound music to his ears. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a sense of peace, a sense of belonging. He was home.

"I missed you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"I missed you too," you replied, your voice soft.

He kissed you again, a gentle, loving kiss that promised a future together.

The road to recovery was long and arduous. The scars of the scandal ran deep, both for you and for Seungcheol.

You took time to heal, to rebuild your life away from the glare of the spotlight. You focused on your art, finding solace in the creative process. You surrounded yourself with supportive friends and family, people who loved you for who you were, not for your connection to a celebrity.

Seungcheol, too, had to navigate the fallout from his actions. He faced criticism from some fans, disapproval from the company, and the constant pressure to maintain his image. But he remained steadfast in his commitment to you. He knew he had done the right thing, even if it came at a cost.

Slowly, things began to improve. The hate subsided, replaced by a growing acceptance and understanding. Fans started to see you for who you truly were—a kind, intelligent, and compassionate person who had brought joy and happiness into Seungcheol's life.

Seungcheol continued to support you, both publicly and privately. He never wavered in his love and devotion. He understood the importance of protecting your privacy, of allowing you to live your life on your own terms.

He also used his platform to speak out against online hate and cyberbullying. He became an advocate for mental health and the importance of kindness and empathy. He wanted to use his influence to make a positive difference in the world.

Months later, everything was calmer. The storm had passed, leaving behind a sense of peace and tranquility.

One night, you were curled up on the couch, wrapped in Seungcheol’s oversized hoodie, scrolling through your phone. He watched you, his heart overflowing with love and gratitude.

He snapped a picture and whispered 'I love you, sunshine' to which you blew a kiss to him and said 'I love you more cheolie'. He knew he couldn't win an argument against you. More likely you would give him that adorable pout and dude's heart will completely be melted within a matter of seconds, just like how ice-cream melts in Miami's heat during the summers.

The picture he clicked. It was a candid shot, blurry and imperfect, but it captured the essence of your relationship—the comfort, the intimacy, the genuine connection.

Without thinking, he posted it on his private Instagram account, a platform where he shared glimpses of his life with his closest friends and family. The caption was simple, yet profound:

"Offline"

[savi0rr]

more vik w wife scenarios plsss 🙏🙏

Loving Wife .ᐟ

Viktor x Wife! Fem! Reader

In which, Viktor makes it a point to visit his loving wife. Even if it means that he's being followed.

a/n: you better like this or else anon.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Viktor's crutch echoed softly against the cobblestones of the quiet streets of Piltover, the rhythmic sound a stark contrast to the stillness of the midnight hour. Typically, this time would find him immersed in the dimly-lit confines of the lab at the Academia, conducting experiments or poring over complex algorithms. Yet tonight, an inexplicable urge pulled him towards home—towards you. He let out a weary sigh as he fumbled with the keys, his fingers trembling slightly as he unlocked the front door of your townhouse. Stepping inside, he was greeted by a rush of familiar warmth and the comforting scents that reminded him of you.

Just outside, hidden in the shadows, Jayce peered cautiously around a street corner. “Damn it… where did he go?” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. A step behind him, Mel huffed in frustration, her keen eyes scanning the dimly illuminated area for any sign of Viktor. It was then she spotted him standing at your doorstep. Without thinking, she swiftly covered Jayce's mouth with her hand. “Will you keep it down?” she muttered, her voice terse and low as she narrowed her eyes at him. “I think it's his wife's house,” Jayce replied in a hushed tone, inching closer and using the shadows to conceal his movements. Mel rolled her eyes, a mixture of irritation and curiosity, and followed him in silence.

Inside the townhouse, Viktor stepped into the darkened entrance, closing the door quietly behind him and letting out a relieved sigh. Though the Academia provided him with certain comforts—his own room, the latest equipment, and the thrill of innovation—tonight his heart tugged him toward the simplicity of being home with you. The very thought of you had a magnetic pull that often made him reconsider the sacrifices he made for his work. A part of him wanted to unite his personal and professional lives, but he feared that the mere presence of your warmth would distract him from his endeavors.

He moved through the familiar hallway, each step sending a comforting wave of nostalgia through him. As he pushed open the bedroom door, he was greeted by the sight of your sleeping figure, illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. His heart softened at the sight, a warmth blossoming in his chest. He knew it was unwise to show up unannounced, that you preferred predictability, yet the very idea of being scolded in the morning felt trivial in comparison to the joy of simply being close to you. Losing himself in the moment, he placed his crutch aside near the bed and crawled carefully into the sheets beside you, making sure not to disturb your slumber.

Meanwhile, just outside the window, Jayce and Mel crouched low, their eyes straining against the darkness as they tried to glimpse what was unfolding inside. With a huff of annoyance, Mel pulled away from the window, crossing her arms over her chest in disbelief. “I can’t believe we’re stalking them,” she sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. “I just wanted to confirm what I saw!” Jayce shot back, glancing quickly at Mel. He tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. “Besides, you were the one who insisted we investigate this.” With a reluctant sigh, Mel shook her head, still feeling the stirrings of frustration. “Let’s just head back to the Academia,” she suggested a note of defeat evident in her voice.

Back in the safety of your bedroom, Viktor lay on his back, careful not to disturb you, but unable to take his eyes off your peaceful form. The gentle rise and fall of your chest soothed him, and yet, he held back, overcome by a rush of emotions that twisted within him. Just as he began to relax, you stirred, the softness of your voice breaking the stillness. “Viktor? Dear?” Your sleepy tone wrapped around him like a warm blanket. He felt a spark of anxiety as he realized you had awakened, instinctively bracing for any discontent you might express. 

Rubbing your eyes, you slowly turned to face him, a smile spreading across your face as recognition dawned. “Ah—I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Viktor asked quietly, turning his head towards you, his voice barely above a whisper. You merely shook your head, still feeling the remnants of sleep. “No, I could feel you a mile away,” you muttered playfully, shrugging as you inched closer to him, your movements slow and relaxed. Viktor stayed silent, his heart racing as he savored the proximity, feeling an urge to reach out, yet hesitant to do so.

“I just… needed to see you,” he confessed, allowing vulnerability to seep into his voice. It wasn’t that he saw himself as clingy, but when he spent too much time away, he felt a palpable emptiness in his chest that only your presence could fill. A soft giggle escaped your lips, lightening the mood as you shook your head in a teasing manner. “You’re welcome here anytime,” you murmured sweetly, your fingers tracing along his arm in a tender gesture. “You are my husband, no?” The teasing lilt in your tone sent a shiver down his spine as you leaned in closer, your breath warm against his skin. 

Viktor flinched slightly at your sudden touch, a mix of surprise and delight fluttering within him. “I suppose I am,” he grumbled good-naturedly, unable to suppress a smile as he shook his head, surrendering himself to the moment.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Back at the Academia, amidst the clutter of Viktor’s lab, Jayce and Mel continued their search. Papers were scattered across the desk, papers and blueprints littered carelessly. “What exactly are we searching for?” Mel asked, glancing at the array of items surrounding them, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Something that proves he does have a wife,” Jayce replied resolutely, rummaging through drawers with purpose. Mel rolled her eyes at the absurdity of the situation.

[provinzpoet]

On Engagement Bait

Whenever you see it, that's an additional five years. All currently active negative effects are dispelled.

A lil' essay.

I hate engagement bait - with a passion.

"Reblog if you care" "Reblog to mark your blog safe for [marginalized group X]" "Reblog or your mom dies in her sleep tonight."

"Reblog, or else."

I know most of these are made in jest. Harmless fun, right? But to me, "harmless fun" doesn’t excuse poor taste. Especially when it veers into manipulation.

So, here's a little something below the cut. If you're here for the poetry, you're free to scroll. If you're here for the ramblings, keep reading.

Either way, have another look at the duck. That's another 5 years on the house. Download it, look at it whenever - stack that immunity to last a lifetime. No engagement bait shall ever touch you again.

That little ducky up there was born in response to a post about you not having any original thought for the next five years.... unless you reblog.

It was meant as silent defiance, as a soft out. Then @bred-is-a-dumb-name reblogged my little ducky. With the following tags:

First and foremost: Thank you for speaking so clearly. Your tags were the push I needed to sit down and write this.

I. The Premise

Engagement bait plays with a simple human desire. Recognition. People want to be seen, they want to be recognized. Above all, they want to be validated.

From the early days of social media 'likes' equaled validation.

On tumblr, the currency of choice is reblogs. Reblogging equips a post with wings, allowing it to touch down on your own blog, be exposed to your own audience. The growth potential here is exponential, as reblogs don't just live tucked away in your profile, but are the groundwork of the tumblr algorithm on what content to show to its userbase.

My Thesis: You are responsible for the content you pass along to your mutuals. Even if you didn’t create it. Even if you reblogged it "ironically."

From the creator’s side, engagement bait is often a way to chase notes - a hit of serotonin from the numbers ticking up. And I get that. I love seeing my posts resonate too - reading your tags, your comments, the ways my words find you.

But I would never boost engagement through pain, coercion, or bad vibes in general. And I think no one should.

II. The Danger

Here's the catch: reblogging engagement bait feeds a manipulative feedback-loop.

But, at the same time, Let me be clear: Not all engagement bait is created equal.

Baity posts like "reblog to show your moots you appreciate them" (you know who you are! And I appreciate you too! c: ) are fine. Sure, they're meant to play the algorithm and the very human rationale that 'external validation is more valuable than internal validation' . basically: "If I reblog this post it'll mean more than if I just tell my moot they mean a lot to me".

At best, they're a reminder to be kind.

But - and this is the important part - there is also a different kind. Engagement bait like "Reblog or your mother will die tonight", "Reblog or no more creativity for 5 years".

These aren't funny to everyone. To some, they're not even neutral.

They're cruel. They are emotional abuse hidden under the guise of a 'funny context'. Of the absurdity of a duck holding that power.

Let's be real. It's not holding that power. And you'll reblog it ironically with funny tags in the vein of 'oh, better be sure, mighty duck'. Unless you don't.

Because guess what? It IS holding that power.

To those with OCD. To those in intrusive thought loops. To those with deeply rooted fear of loss. To the neurodivergent. Maybe even to you? To those, these posts can be triggers.

III. The Mechanics of Harm

To people like that, the harmless meme becomes a source of real-world stress.

It's toying with - to me - deeply problematic, psychological concepts:

Compulsion and Intrusive Thoughts For someone with intrusive thought patterns, seeing a post that ties inaction to harm can spark a cycle that’s hard to break. It’s not a meme - it’s a trigger.

Guilt-Tripping and Moral Coercion There’s a quiet cruelty to coercion wrapped in kindness. ‘Only good people will reblog’ is just a digital form of social blackmail.

False Urgency & Manufactured Stakes The moment a post tells you "do this now, or else" - it's bypassing your agency. It swaps thought for panic.

Neurodivergent Sensitivity to Harm Avoidance This isn’t about superstition. It’s about the fear of what happens if we don’t play along. That fear is real. Many neurodivergent folks have built entire internal systems around minimizing perceived danger. These posts poke at that. They exploit it.

The Illusion of Safety through Compliance Some users - especially those who’ve seen harm happen "coincidentally" after ignoring a chain post - develop ritualized engagement. It becomes a way to feel in control, even when logic says otherwise. Engagement bait can reignite old fears tied to punishment, loss, or abandonment. And I get it. These posts feel silly. But they sit in the mind like a splinter.

Yes, it's uncomfortable having it called out like this - and it should be. It's meant to be.

IV. Walk a mile in their shoes

I’m not writing this from a pulpit.

I’ve wrestled with compulsive thoughts and weird little rituals my whole life. So when I say this stuff can hurt, it’s not theoretical. It’s personal.

And I’m not here to scold. I’m just inviting you to zoom out. To consider that your reblog might have more impact than you intended.

V. Being Responsible

I try to bear responsibility for what I put out here. Tumblr is full of vulnerable, brilliant, open people. The way we talk to each other matters.

Don't get me wrong, sharing a joke is fun - But if you knew a joke would hurt your friend, you'd probably hold it back. The same logic applies here.

I'm not here to shame anyone - unless you’re making this kind of post in bad faith. If you’re knowingly feeding on people’s fears for notes? That’s not a joke. That’s cruelty. That, to me, is despicable.

All I wanted was to offer this, another point of view. And just maybe, if you’ve ever reblogged something like that without thinking, this helped you see it through a different lens.

Be nice to each other. Look out for each other.

We're all navigating this life for the first time, let's not make it any harder than it needs to be, okay?

Yours truly,

Poe

Just silently accept. The donkey will know.

[meadowfics]

new director

namgyu x f!onlyfans!reader

this is a part two to my namgyu fic linked here

warnings: minors do not interact. 18+, smut. sex work involved and included in this fic. vulgar dialogue. switch!namgyu. switch!reader. vocal namgyu. p in v unprotected. breeding kink.

a year has flown by since you and namgyu became partners, both as a couple who happened to grow as each other's best friend as well. everything has clicked into place.

you’re still fantasygalaxy on onlyfans, your online empire thriving with subscribers who can’t get enough of your photos, videos, and sultry voice calls.

the money’s steady and flowing (big bank ayyy), the work’s fun, and you’ve got it locked down. there is never in-person stuff, just digital seduction from the safety of your penthouse.

namgyu was the one exception, the only guy who’s ever crossed that line from screen to reality. he’s cool with your hustle, never bats an eye when you spend nights filming, transforming into whatever role your fans are craving.

thats one great thing about your boyfriend, he respects you outside of this work. he loves you as y/n, even though he appreciates fantasygalaxy too.

sometimes he is there just off camera, watching you while he’s still pentagon.gyu. he loves throwing cash at your content like it’s a game.

he does it half to support you, half to mess with you, like he’s staking his claim as your number-one fan.

“I gotta keep the algorithm happy,” he’ll joke, but you know he loves it. early on, you both set a hard rule: he stays out of your videos. no appearances, no hints of a boyfriend.

your subscribers, especially the men and gay women, would lose it if they knew you were taken, and neither of you wants to tank your income over some drama.

you’ve built something solid with namgyu.

it’s not just sex, though there’s plenty of that, it’s coffee runs, late-night takeout, him teaching you how to play some dumb video game while you laugh at his nerdy excitement.

he’s your boyfriend, your bestfriend, and it’s weirdly normal despite how you met.

still, you keep your worlds separate: fantasygalaxy is for the fans, but namgyu’s for you.

one night, you’re prepping to film, hyped for a new role-play you’ve been teasing on your page. you’re going full naughty housecleaner—think skimpy black dress, frilly apron, thigh-high stockings, maybe a feather duster for extra flair.

you’re arranging your setup in the living room, candles flickering for ambiance, when disaster strikes.

your tripod, that trusty piece of junk you’ve been meaning to replace, snaps in half mid-adjustment.

“are you fucking kidding me?” you shout, hurling the broken legs across the room. they clatter against the wall, and you’re fuming, pacing like a caged animal.

“this is just my luck tonight.”

namgyu’s sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone, one eyebrow raised at your outburst.

“ you good? what’d the tripod do to deserve that?” he’s teasing, but when he sees the genuine frustration in your eyes, he sits up, tossing his phone aside.

“okay, for real, what’s the problem? you look like you’re about to set it on fire.”

you groan, slumping against the table.

“it’s fucked. i was supposed to film tonight and I promised a big post, got everyone hyped, and now my setup’s ruined.” you kick at the broken pieces for emphasis.

“i can’t just hold the phone myself. it’ll look like amateur hour.”

he stands, stretching, and walks over, nudging the wreckage with his foot.

“so what’s the move? you canceling?” you shake your head, chewing your lip.

“no way. i’ll lose momentum if i skip. i just… ugh, i don’t know.” then it hits you, and you look at him, eyes narrowing with an idea.

“actually… you could help.”

he freezes, hands halfway into his pockets.

“help? like, what, hold your props or something? i’m not getting in your videos, y/n. we agreed since I don't need weirdos to come into club pentagon and jump my ass.” you laugh, waving him off.

“not like that, relax. i mean film. hold the phone, get the angles, be my director. you stay behind the camera, no one sees you, no one knows. you could be a friend for all they know.” he blinks, processing, then a slow grin spreads across his face.

“director, huh? you trying to put me to work now?” you step closer, poking his chest, voice dropping playfully.

“come on, it’ll be fun. you get to boss me around for once, and i’ll… make it worth your while later.”

he’s sold, eyes glinting, “deal. but i’m not going easy on you. i want oscar or daejong worthy shit.”

you snort, already heading to change, “yeah, yeah. just don’t drop my phone.”

you slip into your outfit with a tight black dress that barely covers your ass, lacy apron tied loose, stockings gripping your thighs just right.

the tattoos on your arm, those starry swirls namgyu’s obsessed with, peek out as you adjust the straps. you catch him staring as you step back into the room, and he clears his throat, picking up your phone like it’s a lifeline.

“fuck, you look…” he trails off, shaking his head.

“nevermind, let’s just do this before i lose it.”

you tweak the role-play on the fly. instead of a solo housecleaner bit, you pitch a new angle: you’re a maid who’s slacking off, and the

“director”—namgyu, behind the camera—catches you, ordering you to make up for it with a show. it’s perfect. he’s involved without showing his face, just his voice barking commands to sell the fantasy, and you can play off it without breaking your no-boyfriend rule.

“so,” you say, twirling the duster, “i’m lazy, you’re pissed, and i gotta make it right. sound good?”

he nods, already in director mode, “yeah, but you better sell it. i’m not holding this thing for nothing.”

you start filming, and it’s electric from the jump. you saunter over to a table, bending low to “dust,” your dress riding up to flash your panties—black lace, a fan favorite.

you glance at namgyu, and holy shit, he’s struggling. the poor man's joggers are doing a bad job hiding his boner, the outline of his dick clear as day, but you bite your lip and stay focused.

“is this good, sir?” you purr, dragging the duster slow across the table, arching your back for the shot. his voice comes rough from behind the phone.

“not good enough. you’re slacking... make it worth my time.”

it’s hot, the way he’s leaning into it, and you’re feeding off his energy.

you strip halfway, peeling the dress off to reveal a matching bra and panties, tossing the apron aside like it’s an afterthought. you climb onto the table, crawling slow, letting your hips sway as you look at the camera...not at namgyu, but it’s hard not to when you know he’s right there.

“better?” you ask, spreading your thighs just enough to tease.

“keep going,” he says, and you catch the strain in his tone.

“you’re not done till i say so.” you roll onto your back, trailing your hands down your stomach, stopping short of anything too explicit.

it’s a tease, not a finale, and you want to keep the fans begging. you slide off the table, straddling a chair, running your fingers along your thighs, smirking as you hear namgyu shift, probably adjusting himself.

“cut,” he finally says, voice like gravel, and you’re on him in seconds. you snatch the phone, toss it onto the floor somewhere, and crash your lips into his, climbing into his lap.

he groans, hands flying to your hips, pulling you flush against him.

“what the hell, y/n.. stop teasing me?” he pants, already grinding up into you. you can feel him through the joggers, hard and throbbing, and it’s driving you wild.

“tease?” you murmur, biting his lip.

“i’m about to give you everything, baby.”

you slide off him, tugging his joggers down, and his cock springs free... thick, leaking, begging for you. you don’t hesitate, you climb over his lap and sink down onto him right there on the floor, his length stretching you in that perfect, aching way.

“oh, fuck, yes,” you gasp, rolling your hips as he grabs your ass, thrusting up hard.

“fuck you’re such a desperate little slut,” he growls, voice dripping with venom, “couldn’t even wait to post that video, huh? needed my dick right fucking now.”

you laugh, clenching around him, making him hiss.

“talk all you want, namgyu, but you’re mine. i can ride this cock whenever i damn well please and you know that.. you let me every time.”

he’s losing it, hands roaming your back, your thighs, like he can’t get enough.

“shit, you’re so fucking soaked,” he moans, slamming up into you.

“I love watching you work for those losers online, but this? this is all mine.” you lean forward, nails digging into his shoulders, voice sharp.

"ahhh-- fuck! its all yours.”

it’s vulgar, messy, skin slapping as you fuck him hard, chasing that high.

“you love it, don’t you?” you taunt, slowing your hips just to mess with him, “knowing you went fro being one of them to being the only one who gets to fill me up.”

he’s close, you can tell since his thrusts are sloppy, desperate, and he’s cursing under his breath. you’re right there with him, but you try to hold off, squeezing around him to drag it out.

“don’t you fucking dare,” he snarls, catching your game, “don’t hold what i’m trying to get out of you.”

he thrusts harder, deeper, and it’s game over...you’re cumming, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as your body locks up, pleasure crashing through you.

he’s right behind, groaning your name as he finishes inside you, hot and thick, spilling inside of your walls until you’re trembling.

you collapse against him, both of you gasping, sweaty, wrecked. Namgyu's arms wrap around you, loose but warm, and he kisses your shoulder, muttering, “holy shit!”

you laugh, still catching your breath, head resting against his chest, “you’re not bad for a first-time director.” he smirks, already cocky again.

“give me a week, i’ll have you nominated for best actress.” you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, content to stay there for a minute, his cum still warm inside you, feeling like the world’s just you and him inside of a studio... when in reality it is just your sky-rise penthouse.

masterlist

[ceoofyearning]

half algorithm, half deity - (Mafia AU) Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader (Rhysand’s Sibling)

Summary: You try to date other people, but in truth you’ve only ever wanted Eris Vanserra.

Tags/Warnings:

Explicit (18+, MINORS DNI), SMUT with plot, Angst, Modern Mafia AU, Established FWB, Mentions of past Tamlin x Reader (brief), Mentions canon typical violence, Mentions of minor character death (Rhysand’s mom and other sister)

Alcohol, Oral (M & F receiving), Rough but make it tender & loving too, Hair pulling, P in V, Overstim if you squint (please lmkif i missed anything)

Word Count: 6.5k

Links: Masterlist | My Art

Despite your father’s best efforts, you didn’t inherit your family’s propensity for violence. 

You drink your wine and remind yourself of that fact for the umpteenth time tonight. But if this male gives you another backhanded compliment or, Mother forbid, another unsolicited criticism, you might reconsider that fact. Rhys had made sure you knew how to gut a man in just three moves and you remember each precise stroke as effortlessly as a breath.

To dissuade yourself from such thoughts, you take another generous gulp of wine - your only saving grace as you listen to him drone on and on about his most recent business acquisition. For the past forty-five minutes, the man has managed to recount his entire genealogy, his academic history and recited what felt like an itemized list of all his professional accomplishments. This is supposed to be a date, you’re tempted to remind him, not a chance to whip out his dick and measure it. 

He has yet to ask you anything about yourself, of course, entirely preoccupied with stroking his damn ego. You’ve stopped trying after the fifth cycle of appropriately timed ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s, seeing he doesn’t seem to need you to continue his tirade. Your pointed glares and longing glances at your wristwatch remain unnoticed too. The number of drinks you’ve had seems to be an entirely different story, however. 

"You know, you should really slow down," he remarks, his sardonic smirk exposing a set of eerily straight white teeth.

“And why is that, exactly?” You ask before taking another long sip of wine with deliberate slowness. His jaw clenches ever so slightly, his smile little more than a collection of clenched teeth. 

“You wouldn’t want to be too drunk for later.” He makes a show of raking his beady eyes over your form. The predatory glint in his eye makes your skin crawl and your hackles raise in equal measure. 

“Bold of you to assume there would be a later,” you drawl, your eyes narrowing into slits, nostrils flaring in silent outrage. 

“Oh, there will,” he declares with an impressive amount of unearned confidence. “How else are you going to pay me back for this meal, sweetheart?” He says it as though it’s a given, like your body is something he’s owed for this paltry display. Fuck, if you don’t leave now, you’re sure you’ll end this night behind bars, probably charged with manslaughter. Rhys would get you out of it, of course, but he’d be incredibly smug about it and you couldn’t have that. 

The man makes another show of tracing his slimy gaze over your body, making a pleased sound in the back of his throat. “I must say, I wasn’t a big fan of the dress - too revealing to be classy, in my opinion - but I suppose it wouldn’t matter when it’s on the floor of my penthouse.”

You admit that you don’t try very hard to hold back a gag. Without even dignifying him with a response, you hail the waiter and gesture for the bill in the hopes that the expression on your face is enough to convey the urgency you feel. To her credit, it only takes her a minute to rush to the table in all black and white salvation, the bill in hand. 

With haste, you pull out the cash from your wallet and slam it down the table. It should be enough to cover everything, even the tip. You give the man one last scathing glare before you rise from the table. A fish out of water - that’s what he looks like, wide-eyed with his mouth opening and closing, probably on the cusp of claiming to everyone in the room that you’re crazy, that you’re overreacting.

Before he can do any of that you pivot sharply towards the exit, ignoring the man’s indignant sputtering. Your feet protest beneath you, your new stilettos digging painfully into your skin with every step. Only when you’re five blocks away from the restaurant do you let yourself slow to a stop. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, undoubtedly ruining the makeup you spent such a long time putting on earlier that night. 

Suddenly, the dress you felt so confident in now feels suffocating. The fabric clings to your skin fat too tightly, constricting your every movement. The silken garment you had thought to fit you like a glove now surrounded you like a cage. You tug at the neckline, trying to find some relief, but the discomfort only intensifies.

Frustration bubbles in your gut as you collapse onto the nearest bench to catch your breath. You feel so stupid. Although you don’t want to admit it, you’ve been looking forward to a nice night out after an entire week of slogging through work. Instead, you ended up sacrificing what little free time you have to satisfy some asshole’s vanity. 

The city continues in indifferent chaos around you. The fluorescent streetlights overhead and the headlights of passing cars slice through the night. People bustle past, absorbed in their own lives, oblivious to your existence. At this moment, you’ve never felt more alone. 

Seeing Feyre and Rhys fall in love has been an eye-opening experience. You’ve watched them gradually find happiness in each other, watched them build a life together. There’s also Nes and Cass, Viv and Kal - all so utterly content, so in painfully love. It is a relief to know that love is possible despite the kind of lives you live. After what happened - your gun slotted in between those bright forest eyes, finger frozen at the trigger; the stumbling string of sorries, of depthless regrets; white marble tiles stained crimson by blood - happiness hadn’t seemed like a possibility. All you’ve had since then are inconsequential flings and ill-conceived dalliances, nothing that could lead to anything more.

It’s difficult to admit that you want something more.

But since you’ve started seeing other people, it’s only been a series of disappointments one after the other. What made basic empathy and human decency such a scarce resource these days? In all honesty, you’re starting to lose hope, starting to think that maybe that love just isn’t in the cards for you. 

You cared for Tamlin in your own foolish, fumbling way. He was solid ground, he was stubborn certainty. He clung to control so tightly that his nails left angry red indents on his palm. In many ways, you were his antithesis, his unmaking. He tried to be good but the both of you hadn’t been good for each other. Perhaps the two of you had been too lonely, too stubborn, too fucking young to realize not all forms of love were healthy.

Eris Vanserra is an entirely different matter. He came to you as a flicker of flame in the darkest night. He was a breath of fresh air - a lungful of ember and possibility - setting you alight from the inside out. More importantly, Eris understands you the same way one side of a coin knows the other. That, however, didn’t mean you could be together. 

Perhaps in some ways, knowing made the longing worse.

Your hand clenches around air, around the vestige of a memory you can’t seem to let go of. Your fingers itch to dial the same set of numbers you’ve deleted from your phone time and time again. You remember it anyway, though. Your mind has faithfully cataloged every memory of him - silky red hair brushing against your cheek, amber eyes crinkling in mischievous delight, arms wrapping around your body, making you feel safe for the first time in your life. 

Your body moves before your better judgment can catch up. Before you know it, the familiar set of numbers is staring accusingly at you from your phone screen. Droning rings of an outgoing call pierce the silence. On the third one, Eris picks up. 

“Firefly.” That word. You can hear the amusement in his tone. You refuse to acknowledge the hint of relief you sense there too, the note of near manic joy. It’s been months since you’ve last seen each other, since you told him that you needed something more - more than stolen moments, more than simply falling in and out of each other's beds only to be nothing but mere strangers come morning. 

You say nothing, trapping unsaid words behind teeth clenched so tightly it’s a wonder you don’t break your jaw. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Eris laughs, smooth, sensual, and utterly addicting. The sound sends a shiver down your spine. You fight the sudden urge to feel his lips shape the words with your own, to feel the vibrations of his laughter with the tips of your fingers. 

“Tell me where you are,” he tries again. You can hear him lean back on his office chair, undoubtedly working late yet again. To anyone else, he would’ve sounded perfectly calm. 

“I don’t know,” you sniff, fighting back the traitorous tears. “I’m near the Moonstone Palace.” It’s the overpriced restaurant you had been in earlier, the reason you’re going to have to struggle with rent this month. You could always ask Rhys, but you’ve long since divorced yourself from your family’s wealth.

Eris exhales, and you hear a suspicious amount of rummaging in the background. “Could you send your location to me?” He suggests, and you can make out the faint sound of a door opening and closing. 

“Okay.” It comes out as a resigned sigh. 

Before he hangs up, he makes sure, “Are you safe?”

“I am.” 

“Give me fifteen minutes.” 

Eris arrives in ten.

You’re slumped on the bench, clutching your purse to your chest as the frigid night air rushes past you. In your haste, you completely forgot to retrieve your coat before rushing out of the restaurant. But then, the low growl of an engine captures your attention. You turn to find a sleek black Benz gliding into view before coming to a halt right in front of you. 

The window rolls down to reveal Eris’s smug face, familiar and foreign all at once. His bright fiery locks, longer now, have been tamed into a braid behind his back. Loose strands frame his sharp features, highlighting the severity of his beauty. He looks paler than usual, freckles now barely visible across his cheeks. 

Eris grins, voice laced with far too much delight. “Didn’t I tell you, Love? You wouldn’t be able to stay away.” 

Your nostrils flare involuntarily, equal parts irritation and wry amusement warring in you. When he notices the redness of your eyes, however, his smile banks. The only reason you can tell he’s worried is because you’ve spent an inordinate amount of time learning his tells, mapping the meaning behind the slivers of genuine emotion that sometimes slip through his carefully constructed mask. You’ve got it down to a science, interpreting him the same way astronomers find reason in the depths of the cosmos.

Without another sly remark, he steps out of the car and slips out of his coat as he strides toward you. When he moves to wrap the garment around your body, you try to protest. “That won’t be necessary.”

“You’re freezing,” he insists before dropping the surprisingly heavy coat over your shoulders. The effect is immediate. Eris is a walking furnace most days and traces of his heat still linger on the cloth, thawing the ice that has gathered beneath your skin.

You groan in relief despite yourself, finally acquiescing and pulling his coat tighter around you. Eris smirks, and you shoot him a perfunctory glare in response. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t comment on the way you bury your face in the upturned lapels, inhaling a lungful of his cinnamon and woodsmoke scent.

“Fun night?” He asks once you’ve plopped down the passenger seat. 

“Obviously,” you reply, words thick with sarcasm. “I had the time of my life, really. Nothing like a date with another entitled, self-involved trust fund asswipe to liven up my Saturday night.” Eris looks entirely too pleased with this information. 

He shrugs. “Your dates can’t compare?” He shoots you a knowing look. You resent the implication, but can’t entirely deny it either. 

The truth of the matter is that you’ve never truly gotten over Eris. As brief as your explosive affairs may have been, the male has found a way to burrow beneath skin, to etch himself onto the surface of your mind. There is no washing him off you. In these last few months, all you’ve done is find fragments of him in faceless men. 

“Can’t compare to your arrogance, maybe,” you retort a beat too late.

 

“Oh Firefly, you know you love it,” the smug bastard shoots back smoothly. 

“You think you know me so well,” you grumble, crossing your arms defensively.

“Well enough.” Eris’s smile widens, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Well enough to know those men you’ve found aren’t worth your time.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the fact that he is at least vaguely aware of your failed attempts at dating. Embarrassment coils in your gut, betrayed only by the steadily rising flush of your cheeks. “Maybe one day I’ll find someone who doesn’t make me want to scream.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, a hint of mischief lingering in his eyes. “But where’s the fun in that?” He leans toward you, face hovering over yours. The intensity of his gaze feels dangerous, almost like a threat, a promise that he could easily tear down all your walls if he pleased. Memories flash - of him devouring your mouth with his own, of bare bodies intertwined on soiled sheets, of him greedily drinking in each moan from your mouth as you clench tightly around his length - playing on torturous repeat in your mind. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Your breaths come short, voice trembling. Eris’s smile widens, canines glinting beneath the warm light - a well-honed predator to and through. 

Eris chuckles. “And yet, here you are.”

You sincerely can’t tell whether you want to clock him in the jaw or pull him down for a kiss. But then, in a rare show of mercy, Eris withdraws. He simply pulls your seatbelt down and fastens it beside you before turning back to the wheel. You release a breath you don’t realize you are holding. 

The engine roars beneath you and Eris begins to maneuver the car back onto the highway. You slump further down in your seat, only to have several objects dig into your ribs. You jolt up, patting down his coat for the offending items. In your search, you produce a stiletto hidden in the inner lining and a Glock 19 in one pocket. 

“Really?” You quirk your brow at him as you drop another knife on the car floor.

Amber eyes dart towards you for the briefest second, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, before turning his gaze back to the road. You don’t doubt Eris has more hidden on his person, maybe even in this car. 

“Can’t be too careful,” he replies with a shrug, his hand flexing on the wheel. You follow the movement with rapt attention, transfixed by the rhythmic contractions of the muscles beneath, by the faint blue of the veins that run in webs up his forearm. 

Eris, the bastard, catches your preoccupation with his body. Of course, he does. 

His smirk widens into a full grin, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Enjoying the view?"

You snap your gaze back to his face, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "Keep your eyes on the road," you remind him, stalling, trying to regain your composure. “Perhaps you should put up a show for me, and I’ll decide then.” 

Eris chuckles at the challenge, a deep, resonant sound that never fails to send shivers down your spine. 

The rest of the drive to your apartment is spent in comfortable silence, Eris content to leave you in your corner, brooding and bundled up in his coat. You lean your head on the window, letting your thoughts drift by at the same pace the scenery slips away from view. You don’t realize you’ve dozed off until you feel Eris tucking strands of your hair behind your ear.

“We’re here.” 

Your eyes flutter open, reality reluctantly coalescing into focus in front of you. There's an amused expression on the redhead's face as he watches you wake. A part of you is tempted to curl back into a ball, content to pretend at peace just a little longer. Eris has no such qualms, however. He undoes your seatbelt and tugs you out of the vehicle. His arms remain loosely wrapped around your waist, though, even as he closes the door to the passenger seat.

“I should go.” He is so close his hot breath brushes against your cheek, the scent of mint permeating the air between you. 

“You should.” 

But none of you move to part. Your hands remain tightly fisted on his otherwise pristine shirt, while his arms create a cage around you, his body pressing you against the cool metal of the car. 

“Why did you call?” Eris asks instead. His cheek rests on your temple, his nose buried in your hair like he can’t quite help but gravitate towards you. Your grip on him tightens the same way the sun pulls celestial bodies into its orbit, completely, inevitably.  

“You know why.” 

“Tell me anyway.” He pulls back just enough to look straight into your eyes, molten amber burning into you. 

“I want you.” You confess. I’ve only ever wanted you, your mind further supplies. His gaze is searching, as if scouring for all the ways he can turn over your words in his head if the new angles would reveal some hidden meaning.

“I want to forget.” You continue, tugging him down by the collar. He follows willingly and rests his forehead on yours. Lips hover over your own, breaths mingling in the scant space between you. His mask turns translucent. Joy, pain, and regret flash in quick succession across his face before you can even parse their meaning.

“As do I, Love.” 

The moment you step into your apartment, all traces of tenderness dissipate. 

Eris has you trapped between the wall and the firm line of his lithe body. He easily towers over you. With one thigh wrapped around his slim waist, only his firm grip on your hips and his thigh slotted between your parted legs keep you upright. Your remaining leg stands precariously on the tips of your toes, teetering dangerously in whichever current Eris pulls you in.

His mouth is latched onto your neck, leaving blooms of red in his wake. You should tell him to stop, tell him not to leave any visible marks. But all words and reason are lost to you when his teeth scrape against the sensitive skin in time with a particularly well-timed roll of his hips. 

“Eris!” You keen, clawing at his back in a vain attempt to find purchase. But there is no safe harbor to be found, not here. Eris is a force of nature. He is the living embodiment of wildfire, burning brightly, holding you so firmly, that it’s as though he intends to fuse your bodies together.

“What is it, Firefly?” He whispers the words against your ear, right before he catches your lobe in between his teeth. You can feel his lips curl against your skin. “What does my pretty girl want?”

“You.” It comes out as a demand, a desperate plea. 

“Use your words, love.” His movements settle into a languid pace, excruciatingly slow, pulling a whine from your throat. His single hand encompasses your entire jaw. Pads of his fingers press against the joint, his grip firm but gentle. Eris turns your face so you’re looking straight into his burning eyes. “Let’s try again, shall we? Tell me, how do you want me?” 

“I need your cock in my mouth,” you whisper your want against his lips, confessions you’d never be able to make in the light of day. Amber eyes roll back at the image your words evoke. Eris forces his eyelids shut as you continue to speak. “Then, I want to feel you inside me, fuck me into the mattress, until your name is the only word in my mind, until I can feel you for days after.” 

“Firefly.” With his face in the crook of your neck, he groans like you’re torturing him. You allow him a few short moments to gather himself - heavy heated breaths blown onto your nape - before tugging him by the hair insistently. His braid comes loose and a river of red falls in delicate curls over his freckled shoulders. Eris is an entirely different person when his head snaps up to meet your gaze.

“On your knees.” 

Electricity crackles through the air between you at the sheer command in his voice. Obediently, you sink to his feet, gazing up at him with wide hungry eyes. To his credit, Eris’s expression remains impassive, his ardor betrayed only by the tension in his jaw and the glint in his eyes. With his thumb, he presses down on your bottom lip. 

“Suck.” 

Your mouth parts to welcome him, until you feel the cool press of his signet against your lips, a welcome contrast. You swirl your tongue around the digit, bobbing your head for a few beats. Eris clenches his jaw, the pad of his thumb lightly digging onto your tongue as he pulls it out. You release it with a pop of your lips.

“Good.” 

Eris tilts his head, a silent permission to continue. While you gradually slip off his belt and undo the zip of his trousers, Eris gathers your hair in his fist. With a single push, his impressive length is revealed to you, long and heavy. Anticipation sparks in your chest, eager to feel his weight on your tongue.

“Go on then.” 

So you do. You flatten your tongue against the base of his cock, licking a stripe to the tip. There, you take the head into the wet heat of your mouth and suck. Eris makes an involuntary thrust, despite the tight leash he normally keeps around himself.

“Fuckin’ Hel,” he groans, grip now deliciously digging into your scalp. You moan your appreciation against him, and the male shudders in response. For a few moments, you simply alternate between lazily bobbing your head and swirling your tongue against him as best you can. Your hand twists in tandem to accommodate the remaining length of him. 

“You’re a damned tease,” he accuses. “A demon.”

With wide eyes, you blink innocently up at him from beneath your lashes. Eris scoffs, rolling his eyes, but allows the torturous cycle to continue. When you sense his movements grow more erratic, his muscles tensing beneath your palms, you slow your movements just in time to deny him his release. At the third time of doing this, Eris looks close to breaking.

“Enough.” He growls, the command reverberating through the silent room, through every fiber of your being. 

You still immediately, the intensity in his voice sending a thrill through you. He adjusts his grip on your hair, winding the strands around his knuckles and tugging lightly as if to test his grip. You groan at the bite of pain, your arousal dripping from you.

“I’m gonna fuck your pretty face now, Firefly.” He whispers with such disorienting tenderness. “Tap my thigh twice if it becomes too much, understand?” 

“Yes.” Your too-eager reply draws a lopsided smile from Eris’s otherwise stoic demeanor. “Please,” you add as an afterthought as you brace your hands against his thighs.

Eris tilts his head once more, and you take that as your signal to proceed. Your lips wrap around him, cheeks hollowing out, tongue curved around his length. His thrusts begin tentatively, but it doesn’t take long for him to find his rhythm. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat with each thrust, his firm grip on your hair directing each movement. You will yourself to relax, angling yourself to take him better, deeper. For a while, all your thoughts evaporate, your entire focus simply on breathing through your nose and watching the look of ecstasy unfold across his face. 

“You feel amazing around me.” Eris pants as he pushes impossibly deeper. You struggle to take him, throat spasming around him. “My good girl,” he coos, his thrusts stuttering. You groan against him when one stroke allows him to bottom out completely. Nose nuzzling the thin line of red on his lower stomach, tears bloom in your eyes. You look up, only to find him already gazing at you. His amber eyes were wide with want, transfixed at the sight of you taking him completely. 

“I’m about to come, Love. You’ll be a good girl and take it, won’t you?” A drawn out mhm is all the permission he needs. “Every. Last. Drop.” Each word is punctuated by a thrust. 

Then, on his final advance, Eris holds you there by the head until the very last moment, until the fire in your veins has spread into each lobe of your lungs. When you swallow around him, he chokes, rolling his hips into your mouth. Your fingers curl into claws against his thighs but you don’t tap out. He moves once, twice, then he’s gone. Eris allows you a bit of reprieve by retreating into your mouth as his length pulses the rest of his release onto your tongue. 

“Fuck.” He rasps. Then, with a single tug, he pulls you off of him and onto your two wobbly legs. Eris only gives you a few seconds to catch your breath before his mouth crashes against yours for a kiss. He groans as he tastes himself on your tongue. 

“So perfect for me, made to take me.” His hands roam your body as though eager to discover every square inch of exposed skin. This is Eris in his rawest form, you realize, all control turned into liquid flame in his hands. He practically tears your dress from your body, pushing down the silk until it pools on the floor. 

“Yesss,” you hiss, clawing at his shirt and shoving it off his broad shoulders. “Only you.” Heavy thunks follow soon after - the gun holstered at his side, the knife strapped to his thigh.

“I fucking love you.” He growls in between breaths. Without giving you a chance to reply, he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, nipping at the raw flesh. 

You don’t even realize he’s corralled you into your room before he pushes you onto the bed. He pulls you to the edge by the ankle. Eris stands tall before you, rendered in sharp angles and steady lines, softened only by the warmth in his amber eyes. Then, slowly, he kneels between your parted thighs like a supplicant before their God and your body is the only conduit of worship he knows. 

“You okay?” He asks this while his head is pillowed on your thigh, as though he hadn’t just blown your mind. Eris, you’ve discovered, is a collection of contrasts - rough one second, and painfully tender the next. No amount of studying him could let you predict the direction of his passion. You don’t mind, though, you’d happily be carried away in his current.

“Perfectly.” 

“You remember your word?” He removes your stilettos, brushing over the raw skin where the straps have dug in.

“I do.” 

“Say it for me.” He lines your heels neatly at the foot of your bed. 

“Ember.”

“Good.” Eris begins his meandering path up your legs. A kiss on your ankle, lips ghosting over your leg. Once his lips reach your thighs, he starts to nibble and suck on your skin. The simple declaration of possession shouldn’t please you as much as it does, but it only deepens the pool of desire and anticipation in your gut. 

“Eris,” you whine, breathless, as he pauses at the seam of your thigh. His smirk only grows at your increasingly desperate pleas and the erratic movements of your hips.

“Use your words, Firefly.” Eris reminds you beatifically. “Tell me what you want.”

“Your mouth,” you begin, already struggling to form a coherent string of words. “Please?” 

“My mouth?” He asks, pretending to consider it. “But I thought you said you wanted my cock?”

His taunting jolts you out of your reverie, always rearing to meet his fire with your own. You come up to your elbows to level him a raised brow. “Well, you’re already on your knees, aren’t you?” Despite knowing you’ll pay for your words later, you try to inject as much bravado into your voice as you can. The effect is dulled by your obvious desperation though.

Eris chuckles, shaking his head as if in disapproval. “What to try that again, Firefly?” He blows a hot breath towards your core, the sudden sensation sending a jolt of electricity down your spine. “I’m sure you can do better than that.” 

You clench your teeth, a vain attempt to keep the pleas trapped within your mouth. Eris remains steadfast, of course, staring you down with obvious amusement. His lips travel a languid path, teeth teasing, mouth nipping, veering closer and closer but never close enough. This is a battle you’ve already lost from the start. 

“Please?” You grit out. “Can I please have your mouth?” 

“You’re a greedy little thing aren’t you?” Eris laps at the marks he’s left, just a few millimeters from where you want him to be. Practically vibrating with need, you dangle on the sharp edge of anticipation. The bite Eris plants on the soft flesh of your thigh is what pushes you off the precipice.

“Please,” you plead, each syllable dripping with need.  “Can I please have your mouth?”

“Well, since you asked so prettily,” Eris drawls, entirely indulgent. He places your leg over his shoulder and dives in. First, he runs the flat of his tongue over your flimsy thong, lapping at your slit. You shudder at the sensation, melting against the sheets as he continues.

“You taste divine.” He growls, the vibrations making you tighten around nothing. Then, closes his mouth over your slit and begins to suck. You throw your head back, heel digging into his back, hips arching towards the pull of his mouth. Your arousal seeps into the cloth. A heartbeat, a fraction of eternity, then Eris licks the lace greedily like a man starved.

“I can’t get enough of you.” He mouths against the fabric. You feel the truth of his words as surely as the growing flame in your gut. Then, he slides your undergarments down one thigh, keeping it wrapped around the other, a mockery of a wedding garter. Finally, his lips close around your clit as he slides one long finger in you, then two, scissoring them inside. You release a choked sob. His fingers are much thicker than your own, but the stretch is a burn you’ve been craving for far too long. 

“Fuck, Firefly, you’re so damn tight.” He murmurs against your skin. He begins thrusting his fingers in and out of you, making it a point to curl his digits in just the right spot. The precision of his movements is enough to drive you out of your mind. Eris shifts between murmuring sweet nothings against your heated skin and drawing precise circles around your clit.

At some point, Eris’s free hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers with his own. It doesn’t take long for you to climb that familiar high. Hurtling over the edge so fast, you don’t even realize you’re cumming until you’re overtaken by a wave of pleasure. It saturates your senses until the only thing that makes sense is Eris, Eris, Eris. 

He doesn’t stop. His fingers hit that torturous angle, while his tongue laps at your bud. “One more,” he demands and you whine in protest. “Just one more, Love.” 

“‘S too much-“ you try to say, but your words crack into a sob. “I c-can’t-“

“You can,” he coos. “My good girl, my lovely little Firefly.” The praise does more for you than his hands could. “Always so perfect for me.” 

Desire is a living thing inside you, an inferno building beneath your skin. You crush his fingers in your grip, while the other threads itself through his silken locks, needing something to anchor you unspool for him.

“Eris, I’m-“ your voice cracks, reality blurring around you as you spasm around him, hips gyrating, driven only by pure primal instinct. He groans, as though your pleasure is as good as his own. His fingers speed up, his tongue licking your bud to and fro with dangerous precision.

“Cum for me, Firefly.”

You do. You break into flames with his name on your lips, back bowing, eyes trained to the unseen sky. You barely even register when Eris climbs into bed with you, too preoccupied with reacquainting yourself with your body. Only when he pulls your pliant form over his chest do you meet his gaze. 

“Are you alright?” There is concern in his gaze, and you wipe the worry from his face as you run your knuckles over his cheek. 

“Perfectly.” An invisible tug calls you to dip your head and taste yourself on his lips. Eris licks the seam of your mouth and waits patiently until your lips part for him. 

Without breaking contact, you wrap your hand around his girth and begin stroking him to full hardness. Your tongues meet, and you relish the trace of your taste in his mouth. Once his cock is ready, you line him up with your entrance. 

You lower yourself onto him, slowly, inch by inch, until you’re fully on his lap. For a moment, you simply stay like that, with him seated deep within you, lips locked in a languid ebb and flow. When you begin to move, you do it together, rising and falling in question and answer to the other. You wonder if there will always be this constant compulsion to have Eris near, the need to feel his skin against yours, to feel his beating heart thump in step with your own. Somehow, against all reason, he’s managed to worm his way into your life, to make a home for himself within the chambers of your heart.

Eris becomes the ruined wreckage of a man as you slide off him up until only the tip remains, before slamming back down. Eris keeps his gaze on you as though he’d rather die than miss a single moment of this. He groans, meeting each and every single one of your movements. His one hand grips your hip, guiding and grinding, fingers digging into you. The other cups your breast, his thumb tracing over your nipple. When your thighs begin to ache, legs quaking, powered only by desire and desperation, Eris easily flips you over. 

“Harder,” you choke out, “deeper.”

“So demanding,” Eris teases but seems happy enough to comply. He places a pillow beneath your hips. You almost whine at the pause, but Eris doesn’t give you a chance. He begins with an unforgiving pace, pistoning in and out of you with abandon. The new angle is torture specifically designed to tear your remaining sanity into shreds. Your legs lock around his waist, hands clasped tightly with his own. His lips hover over yours, drinking in each whimper, each moan, like it's ambrosia and you’re the sole source. 

“Are you about to cum for me, Love?” Eris breathes. And you nod frantically.

“Tell me, Firefly, who’s making you feel good, hm?” He punctuates the sentence with a hard thrust that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“You are,” you rasp, convulsing around him as his cock nudges the perfect spot inside of you.

“My name,” he demands.

“Eris.” It comes out as drawn out moan, a plea, a promise.

“And who do you belong to?” The force of each slam has you seeing sparks, and when he begins to circle your clit with his thumb? You’re gone, utterly defeated and consumed by the flame. 

“You!” You scream, repeating his name over and over and over. 

“That’s right,” he purrs. Your thighs shake, back arching completely off the mattress. The world breaks apart around you, reality melting into a flash of blinding light. He slows down and fucks you through the throes of rapture, extending seconds into eons while you flutter around him. With one last grind of his hips, you feel his cock throb as he spills deep inside you. 

Eris collapses on top of you, surrounding you in his scorching warmth. For a long while, only your shared breaths exist in the silence. He nuzzles deeper into the crook of your neck, as though unable to help himself.

Eris doesn’t tell you he loves you again. He shouldn’t, for both of your sakes. But you feel it in the featherlight kisses he leaves over your shoulder, his gentle touch as he traces each curve, line, and ridge of your body. He does it with such ease, as though it’s an art he’s perfected through the years, through lifetimes. 

Instinctively, you begin to run your hands over his back, fingers running over the lattice of faded scars there. Anger is a flaming arrow through your chest. Beron is not an easy father to have. Eris, as the prospective heir to his empire, receives the brunt of his brutal scrutiny. What you’d give to have the opportunity to tear that old bastard’s head from his shoulders.

As if sensing your sudden agitation, Eris’s roaming hands become more insistent, kneading away all the tension from your muscles. “Relax,” he whispers against your ear. 

Although he rolls off of you, he doesn’t go far. Without letting you out of the cage of his arms, he curls beside you like a cat, each plane of your bodies perfectly aligned. With his head resting over your heart, a rumble of contentment escapes him.

It’s startling to think that to anyone outside of this room, Eris is a villain, as well-versed in savagery as his father. But you know him, seen parts of him the world would never know. You and Eris have always been two sides of the same coin. 

He understands what it’s like to endure and inherit a father’s rage, to house a mother’s bottomless grief, to be saturated with so much shame it steals your every breath. The two of you are so different and yet are hewn from the same ore, forged from the same fire. Although there are a multitude of reasons why the both of you can’t be together, it feels as though Eris is the only one who's ever truly seen you as you are. 

But self-denial is a circus act you and Eris perform with practiced ease. You’ve already fucked up before and it wasn’t you who ended up paying the price. No, it had been your mother and your sister. Their blood will stain your hands for the rest of your life. 

You won’t make that same mistake again. 

Two twined heartbeats, breaths released and taken in unison, Eris drifts off as your fingers card through his hair. You drink him in, long lashes fluttering as he flits into sleep, faint freckles like stars scattered over the ridge of his nose, and his face, for once, open and devoid of that familiar mask. You map its planes with the tips of your fingers, cataloging each detail and etching them onto the back of your mind. 

Eris will be gone come morning. He always is. The only proof of his presence would be the ache between your thighs and his scent still lingering on your sheets. But for now, though, he is yours, as fleeting as this moment may be. 

This is enough, you tell yourself. 

AN: hello this is my first smut fic in a while & this is a bit different from my usual thing so i was a bit nervous about posting this one. Let me know what you guys think!

Dialogue and banter aren’t my strong suit but i tried my best ;u;

This started as pwp fic but now there’s plot and I’m invested. I’ve got a few ideas and I kinda want to do a series of one-shots for these two.

English isn’t my first language. If you see any mistakes please let me know thru DM! Thank you 💙

[fatliterature]

The Streamer

Something was happening to Carlos. 

Before it began, he was an early 20s hoodie-wearing streamer boy. See his tub of protein powder on the shelf behind him, his laundry basket in the corner, his gym bottle reflecting the blue LED lights of his room. He had all the gear, the lights, the mic, a good brb animation, his subscriber count wasn’t crazy but he was happy with his progress. ‘What is uppp guys uhhhhhh I’m gonna stream some Fortnite tonight guys… but I also wanna watch some stupid videos on YouTube maybe?’ See his face framed by his hood. He’s cute, he has big dark eyes and thick eyebrows, lots of potential. This is the night he makes a mistake. ‘Okay okay okay lemme get up my YouTube okay I have uhhhh…’ He shares his screen with the viewers. There is a kind of guilty pleasure in seeing a streamer’s screen shared for a few seconds, a weird wallpaper, a messy desktop, how many notifications? He opens the browser and brings up YouTube. It’s the usual recommended videos, they look like yours, games, video essays, meme compilations. But what’s that? The bottom right hand corner. There is a recommended video. It’s on his ‘watch again’ list. The screen changes but it’s too late. The chat starts to react. ‘Uhhhhh what are you all talking about?’ There’s a long pause. Belly play video. Belly play video. Bro…. Belly play video? WTF LMAOOOOOOOOO. Bro is watching belly play videos whatttt. OMG. No. No, no, no, no. ‘Chill. Someone uhhhh somebody sent that to me as a joke chat literally chill.’ It’s fine. They’ll move on. They’ll forget it. Jesus why would the algorithm do him dirty like this. Last time he ever shares his screen on his YouTube homepage. Plus, it was TRUE, somebody had sent him it as a joke, and he had loved it, he’d laughed and watched it again, and again, and again. Each time laughing less, each time getting a little quieter, totally perplexed, and… curious. ‘OKAY guys, we’re gonna go to Fortnite.’ He thinks the moment is forgotten. But someone watching him won’t forget. 

It’s a few months later. And chat is driving him crazy. He had started eating on stream, just snacks and whatever. But someone in the chat was making it into a thing. 600 calories! The first time they did it he barely noticed. But the next time he ate… 450 calories! Was that the same person in the chat? 1800 calories!!! OMG yesss! Okay, so every time he ate something, they were gonna comment the amount of calories it had, kind of a weird joke. Also, what the fuck, this meal has 1800 calories? He finished his soda. 400 more calories! Keep it up king! Fuck. Something about this was making his brain feel funny. ‘Chat why is everyone calorie counting me? Let me live!’ He looked away from his game for a second and read the chat. We love it king. You should eat more. Everyone spam 5000 CALORIE GOAL in the chat right NOW. 5000 calorie goal!! 5000 calorie goal king Carlos!! You can do it! BANG! He looked back at his game. Game over. You placed #80th. ‘Fuck.’ How long had he been staring at those words? ‘Alright guys, clearly I suck at this game tonight.’ His heart beat a little faster. ‘You wanna see me reach 5000 calories by the end of the stream? Get me to 5000 subscribers! Then maybe I’ll think about it you fucking weirdos.’ 

It’s a few months later again. This is where it’s safe to say, something was happening to Carlos. He tried not to think about it too much. His audience of subscribers had grown, a lot. And they seemed to be in on the joke. It was a joke by the way, the calorie counter at the top of the screen, which had made the chat go WILD when he first put it up to make them laugh. Carlos found that the more he leaned into the joke, the more his subscribers grew. The more he did what they wanted, the more they came back for more. The more he ate, the bigger he got. And he had definitely gotten bigger. ‘I mean chat, look at me, you’ve made me blow up it’s not even funny, I don’t move off this chair and you want me to RAISE the daily calorie goal are you insane?’ He jiggled a little when he laughed. His brain felt funny a lot of the time now, it made him feel kind of foggy, to play along with this. But what was he doing? He had actually gained weight… and he had yes, gained a lot of subscribers too. And they loved it, they loved it more than the games he was streaming. His breathing got a little faster. What if my subscriber count just kept getting bigger? What if I kept it up? Could this be like, my gimmick? Ge could just let his chat decide how big…. His breathing got a lot faster. Up until this point, he had denied the semi erection that happened every time he started thinking like this. He tried not to think about it too much. But he wanted those subscribers, he wanted his platform to grow… he wanted…to grow. What? ‘Chat I think you guys are messing with my head.’ A long pause. The comments appeared… We just want you to be who you truly are - Calorie Carlos! Omg yes. Calorie Carlos… our fat streamer boy. Carlos felt dizzy. Calorie Carlos! Our growing streamer pig lmaoooo. Okay, his erection wasn’t going away. What the fuck was happening. He tried not to think about it, as he reached for the keyboard. He tried not to think about it, as he raised the daily calorie counter to 6000 a day, he tried not to think about it, as he lifted his hoodie, jiggled his belly for the camera, and changed his name to Calorie_Carlos. 

It’s a year later. The games Carlos plays are almost irrelevant. The calorie counter glows in the corner of the screen, it makes sounds and animates as it tracks his every meal, and every time it updates the chat goes wild. The more he gave in, the more he shared his growing belly and showed himself eating, the more every stream filled with responses. Encouragement. Looking good Calorie Carlos! Looking BIG. Keep growing! This changed the landscape of his chat. It…. turned him on, it KEPT him turned on. And eventually it began to change the landscape of his brain. Good streamer. Good piggy. Never stop. He couldn’t get away from it. The hazy brain fog that happened when he read these things, it became how he spent most of his days. Show your belly in the next 1000 calories king. Good fat boy! Eat more for us. What effect did this have on Carlos? He stopped worrying about why this turned him on, the validation he received from so many subscribers meant his mind was filled with encouragement and gluttony, it struggled to find space for anything else. His personality began to change. See his tubs of ice cream on the desks around him, his neglected gym gear pushed into the corner and hidden under empty pizza boxes, his 2 litre bottles of soda reflecting the pink LED lights of his room. He is Calorie Carlos. ‘What is upppp guys uhhhh URPP tonight I’m getting a HUGE fast food order and I’m gonna rate it all as I eat it, I know you all wanna see this massive belly when it’s full ha! Well, you’ll just have to keep watching.’

[3fingersofscotch]

Blood and Ink

‧₊˚✩彡Summary: Scroll… Scroll… Double-tap… Scroll. Stuck in an endless doom scroll. Scroll… Stop. Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause. Striking colors… Impressive linework… unique designs. His art is immaculate. You need it on your skin.

-A Rafayel Tattoo Artist AU-

‧₊˚✩彡Pairing: Rafayel x Female/AFAB reader

‧₊˚✩彡Warning: 18+ MDNI, Vaginal Sex, Tattoos, Tattooing, Dominate/Submissive themes, Reader is a Switch, Rafayel is a Switch, Power Fucking, Pussy Pounding, Nipple Piercings, Rough Sex, Protected Sex, Porn with Plot, Mating Press, Alternative Universe, literally the cutest ending.

Ao3

Scroll… Scroll… Double-tap… Scroll. Stuck in an endless doom scroll, you check the time and do the math.

If you fall asleep now and sleep in an extra 15 minutes tomorrow morning, you will get… 6 hours of sleep.

You tell yourself that you really will turn your phone off and go to sleep… after the next reel. Wait, no. 10 more reels, just in case the next one is an ad or trash.

Scroll… scroll… the algorithm is failing you tonight. Click on one inositol ad for ovarian health and for some strange reason, Instagram puts a hundred ads in front of you; supplements for a tasty pussy. You roll your eyes at another pussy gummy ad and scroll.

Scroll…

Stop.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause. A tattoo needle pierces skin as Stray Kids blasts.

🎶Cookin’ like a chef I’m a 5 star Michelin

“미”의 정점을 찍고 눈에 보여 illusion🎶

The edit draws you in even as the line still makes you laugh internally. Restaurants can only get a max of 3 stars. Are they saying that they have 2 restaurants? One with 3 and another with 2?

The song still slaps.

You lose count of how many times you let the reel play. The “Birds of Prey” version of Harlequin is lined in vivacious neons. The piece was made for the female gaze and you simply have to look at the artist’s page.

It's… inspired? Chaotic?

It’s different.

You scroll and scroll and you fall in love. A nebula captured in a cat outlined in white, a black and white portrait of a toddler but with eyes full color that look so real it’s uncanny, a sky-scraper skyline you recognize because it’s your city and its in watercolors… you love every piece more than the last and scroll back up to find the artist’s link tree.

His studio is in the same city. His studio. You curse internally for many reasons.

Your first tattoo was done by a complete pig and the memory of him instantly makes you shudder. He kept making comments on the fullness and shape of your breasts as he tattooed your ribcage. And as a timid 18-year-old, you sat there and took it in extreme discomfort.

You sought out femme artists since then to make yourself feel more at ease. You didn’t usually find such inspired artists on your Instagram page that were in your city and you normally would just pin their art to your pinterest. Riffard is in France, Pablo Frias in New York, Pikkaman in LA. You didn’t have to struggle with the internal debate because all these artists were so far away. But TattedRafayel’s studio is literally within walking distance of your inner-city apartment and his work is stunning.

You practically salivate as you think about the larger pieces that you haven’t gotten done because you want them to be done by the best. In your city, you had yet to find an artist whose style seemed to match the type of art that you really wanted on your body.

at least, not until today…

‘Nope. Not going to do it,’ you tell yourself firmly and you feel your heart break a little. It’s hard to make peace with a man being so intimately close to your skin for that long. The mere thought of being held hostage under a tattoo needle with no possibility of escape was nerve-wracking.

Not worth it.

Finally locking your phone and rolling over to sleep, your mind replays images in your head. Striking colors… Impressive linework… unique designs.

His art is immaculate. You need it on your skin.

‘Sleep,’ you tell yourself. It is unwise to make a decision when you are this fatigued. But seconds turn into minutes, and minutes turn into an hour and you are still thinking about all the tattoos that you want.

He could pull them off.

You curse silently and grab your phone to open Instagram and request a consultation. That first tattoo with the shitty artist that was obsessed with your tits had faded pathetically and you needed it touched up. Perhaps a quick refresh with him would give you insight to his character and you’d feel more comfortable sitting down for a longer session with him later?

You feel the excitement begin to bubble. If this goes well, you can finally start your dream sleeve.

The nervous energy was practically rolling off your body in waves. You aren’t exactly a stranger to the process but still. A thorough shower, copious amounts of deodorant, perfume, and of course… skin prep. You’ve had such good results after applying hyaluronic acid and lidocaine to the area you would be getting tatted and today would be no different as you carefully rub product into your skin.

Did you smell pleasant enough to be around?

Your last tattoo artist was nice, but you could tell she skipped the shower the night before and she needed it. It was an unpleasant hour.

You wouldn’t dare to be late to an appointment out of respect for the artist’s time, so you gargle your mouthwash on the way out to your car.

The studio is so close, it only takes about 3 minutes for you to arrive and the nervous energy still radiates off you.

Blood and Ink- The name of the studio is etched into the glass door and you take a deep breath before entering to find an empty reception desk. 3 people pop up from their cubbies to study you and you realize you have no idea what Rafayel looks like.

“I… I am looking for Rafayel.”

A man with large gauges in his ears and filed teeth smiles slyly at you.

“Raf isn’t here today, but I’d be more than happy to help you, sweetheart.”

One of the other heads to pop up belongs to a very sweet looking girl who rolls her eyes and walks out of her cubby to approach you.

“Hi, I’m Pepper. Ignore Tony. He is a douche.” Tony whines in protest, but you get the feeling Pepper isn’t wrong about him. “Rafayel is in the back, sanitizing his station. Follow me.”

Rounding the corner, you spot horned headphones nestled in purple hair and pause.

Is that Rafayel?

You weren’t expecting him to be so striking. How can eyes be rosy and blue at the same time? You wonder silently, studying him carefully as he continues to diligently prep his work station

You never really knew what to expect when meeting the artists working on your body, but Rafayel was... elegant in his self-expression. A glint of gold catches your eye and you see the thin lip ring threaded through his lariat piercing. His ears are gauged with small plugs made of real and beautiful amethyst. The grace in his movement is enough to make time stop and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

The movement of his hands catch your attention and the tattoos on his fingers strike you. The fine line work was sophisticated and the subtle switch from solid lines to clustered dots in areas like knuckles where skin can crease shows you that he knows the way that tattoos heal and fade. And finally, he realizes you exist. He pauses before he glances up at you, pulling his headphones off his ears and standing up straight.

“Thank you, Pepper.” Pepper happily chirps that it was her pleasure before bouncing away adorably and Rafayel finally looks at you. “You must be my 1 PM appointment? Tattoo refresh? I’m Rafayel. Have a seat.”

Vibrant colors peek out from under his asymmetrical collar, but not nearly enough for you to be able to make out what hides underneath his dark blouse. His shaggy purple hair nearly covers the fish tatted behind his ears, one red, one blue, both simple and gorgeous.

“Where should I put my things,” You ask as you take a seat carefully.

“Hm?” Rafayel pulls his seat closer to get a good look at you and the aroma of his shampoo invades your nostrils. He smells like vanilla and sea minerals and you almost forget what question you were asked when he answers. “Oh, yes. Sorry. You can place your belonging on the side table behind you. And thank you for asking. I can’t tell you how many times someone comes here and throws their phone and keys on the sanitized work station with my needles and ink.”

“That would suck. Its not my first rodeo. I know the drill.” You reach back and set your bag down, grabbing your phone and earbuds, just in case you need something to help you occupy your mind.

“Alright. So the tattoo on your ribcage…” You wore a crop top to make it easier to be worked on and Rafayel leans in to look at the faded tattoo in question.

“Okay, to review your online consultation, you want the color refreshed, and to add a little extra flair. And from the mock ups, you wanted option B. Add more florals?”

“Yeah, the quick sketch you did was simple but lovely.” You were surprised by how quickly Rafayel took the picture of your tattoo and added more sophisticated detail.

“Alright. For the flowers that you have right now, what were their original colors?”

“Pink petals and a yellow pistil.” Your response makes Rafayel grimace.

“I can’t even tell, by looking at it. These colors have almost completely faded. Are those the colors you wanted to stick with?”

Your mind goes blank. Since you were just coming in for a refresh, you hadn’t considered making a color change.

“Oh, I… I’m not sure. Looking at you, it seems like you are good at putting together a cohesive look.” Rafayel perks in response. “I’m open to suggestions.”

He grabs his phone and pulls up a few images.

“Its called a burning ember lily,” he turn the phone and your jaw nearly drops. Dark purple petals are lined in vibrant oranges and yellows and the center practically glows with red and orange hues. “Your skin tone is kinda perfect for it.”

“Yes! I’m excited!”

Rafayel nods, a hint of a smile plays on his lips.

“Alright. Have you applied anything to your skin recently?” He examines your tattoo a little bit closer.

“Hyaluronic acid and 4% Lidocaine.” Rafayel’s nose scrunches in concern.

“Some skin type become too soft and difficult to get precise linework when lidocaine is applied. Is it okay if I touch your skin around the tattoo area for a moment? I need to see if your texture was affected.”

You nod and Rafayel carefully feels and stretches the skin on your ribs, looking closer to see how you are affected. “Hm. I don’t see anything of notable concern. However, if I do notice that it is an issue moving forward, we may have to stop and try again later.”

“I totally get it. But the lidocaine didn’t impact the quality of my last two tattoos, so I think we will be okay.”

You point at 2 other small tattoos. 1 on your collar and one on your shoulder and he breathes a small sigh of relief.

“That makes me feel better.” He rises to apply the stencil and when you give him your approval he washes his hands and pulls on gloves.

“Alright. Just wanted to let you know, I will be recoloring the tattoo in full, which means that it will be like getting the full thing all over again, just like the first time. Otherwise, the faded ink will be obvious.”

You nod. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“Alright, you ready?” Rafayel checks in one more time and you give him permission. The needle comes into contact with your skin, and although its uncomfortable, its not unbearable like the first time.

“You good?” he asks, politely checking in and you nod, popping your ear buds in and selecting a playlist to help you vibe for the next 2 hours.

Rafayel works mostly in silence, occasionally checking in to make sure you are okay. And honestly you are. Ribs are supposed to be extremely painful to tattoo and your first experience hurt quite a bit. A nagging feeling in the back of your head screams that the tattoo may come out poorly because he is too light handed. But you remind yourself that you applied lidocaine and your first artist fell very short of professional and was likely very heavy handed.

You hear him speak, just barely through the music and you take one earbud out. “I’m sorry. What was that?” you ask, having not been able to hear him over your music.

“Oh, nothing. Just a comment. Your skin absorbs ink well. Makes a nice canvas. Doesn’t make sense how faded this tattoo is.”

Oh.

“Yeah. I get that from every artist.” Rafayel simply nods and continues his work.

Your earbuds go back into your ears for almost the whole appointment. Despite the slight discomfort of the needle, you find yourself drifting off.

The buzz of the needle stops and you see a hand wave in front of your face.

“Yeah?” You pull your earbud out again and blink the sleep out of your eyes.

“We are about an hour in. You good? Don’t have the shakes or anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. Honestly just sleepy.” You rub your eyes and yawn, causing Rafayel to yawn in response.

“Oh, God. Don’t do that.” He can’t help but yawn again, his eyes watering and with gloves still on, he can’t wipe the tear forming in his eye.

Without thinking you grab a tissue and blot the moisture away and he chuckles softly.

“That was very helpful. Thank you. You sure you don’t need juice or a bathroom break?”

You shake your head and lean back.

Rafayel nods his head and looks back at your ribs. “This looks like may 40 more minutes of work left. You let me know if you need to take a break, okay?”

The needle buzzes back to life and you find that the vibration against your skin makes it easier for you to drift back to near slumber even if it stings a bit. The songs you enjoy playing one right after the other until a gentle pat on the shoulder make you jolt awake.

You really did fall asleep.

“Its not often people fall asleep in the chair. You are all done. Want to take a look in the mirror?”

Rafayel flashes you a polite smile and carefully walks you to the mirror. It wasn’t uncommon for people to pass out after a tattoo and you could tell that he was weary, stance ready to catch you if you fell.

The world comes to a halt, however as you stand in the mirror, a half dozen flowers surrounding the Kanji for “Love” on your ribs and it looks like they are made of fire on the cusp of dying out and being swallowed by the darkness.

“So… Kanji for love? Let me guess. You were crazy about Gaara?”

You laugh a bit, still admiring the tattoo in the mirror. “That obvious, huh?”

He nods, smiling a bit sheepishly. “Can’t say I blame you though.” He lifts his blouse a bit, revealing the same kanji on his hip albeit, a lot smaller than yours. “Gaara is pretty cool after all.”

He leans in to apply saniderm to your skin. “Do you like it? The new look, I mean.”

“Love it!” You say with enthusiasm and you mean it. The experience was comfortable and the tattoo was stunning.

“Too bad it was a small tattoo. Your skin is like the perfect canvas for ink.”

“Oh, I’d like to get some larger ones. I’m thinking about a ½ or ¾ sleeve.” You pull your pinterest board up with the inspiration photos of all the artists you admire.

Rafayel scrolls through, becoming completely engrossed in your phone.

“No black lining?” He observes with peaked interest.

“I want my lining in vivid colors.”

For the first time he really looks at you, making direct eye contact. His nostrils flare and pupils dilate.

“Please,” he pleads quietly, voice a touch huskier. “Please let me.”

You got him. Hook, line a sinker.

Your last tattoo appointment was 4 weeks ago. Rafayel gave you his cell phone number and requested that you send him your pinterest board so that he could study the art you were interested in. At first, the texts were only about the potential work for your sleeve.

Rafayel asked clarifying questions. What about each artist signature style did you like so much? What did you want incorporated into your tattoo? What did you dislike about the tattoos you pinned?

You took a moment to gush about what you liked about Rafayel’s work and what you would really like to combine from everything you pinned and that’s when the conversation really started to change.

“That’s sweet… but really, these artists are inspired. This Pikkaman account? The patterns in their color blocks? This is the kinda linework that will take hours and hours. Multiple sessions. I’ve never even thought to do something like this. I’m excited to incorporate this into your tattoo somewhere.” You read his text over and over. It was the first thing he sent you with extra enthusiasm.

Texts went from every couple of days to discuss the piece to every day. He'd send updates on possible design ideas and when you’d gush, short conversations drew out to longer ones and before you knew it, joking around with each other just became a regular part of your conversations.

“There is so much detail going into this piece, we are probably look at a minimum of 14 hours. Maybe even as much as 16,” he warns, but somehow that makes you feel good.

Then about a week before your appointment, he finalized your design. You thought maybe that was the end of the daily back and forth and the following day, you got nothing. It was genuinely a bit disappointing and you hadn’t realized that you’d become accustomed to his humor.

One day of silence became two, and your fingers itched to send him something. Anything to get the conversation going again.

‘He is just your tattoo artist… not your friend,’ you remind yourself, gritting your teeth as you try to force yourself to focus on something else.

Day 3 of silence. You remind yourself this relationship is strictly transactional when your phone dings.

“How is your tattoo? Healing well? Colors still vivid?”

You read and reread the text preview, carefully avoiding sending the read receipt. You don’t want to seem too eager.

‘He is only asking out of professional interest. He isn’t just trying to talk to you,’ you tell yourself even as that itch in your brain reminds you that you’ve been under the needle 5 other times and none of those artists ever texted or called for a follow up to check on your healing process.

“Tattoo is healing very nicely!” you text back 15 minutes later, hoping you waited long enough to not seem obsessed.

Rafayel is beautiful. You don’t want to fangirl like the rest of the people in his life probably do.

The day of your appointment come and Rafayel looks different. Eager and with a smile on his face. He greets you at the door, walking you over to his cubby.

His work station is already ready, and you open your bag and put it on the the little side table meant for you.

“I see you are getting prepped too?” There is obvious amusement in his voice as you line up battery packs for your devices, snacks, and pull out a giant water bottle to keep yourself hydrate. “We kinda have a rule. Person getting the longest tattoo has the right to pick the soundtrack. You can connect your Bluetooth to the speakers. Everyone can jam with you.”

“In that case, I apologize ahead of time for all the kpop and complete unconnected themes and genres.” You smile sheepishly as you connect to Bluetooth and TROT music immediately starts playing.

“Seriously? Trot?” Rafayel pauses and chuckles a bit. “I’ll try not to judge.”

“Sorry, this is what I was playing for my mom last night.”

“Ah, that makes more sense.” Rafayel happily hums as he applied the stencil to your skin.

“You seem different today,” you blurt out without thinking. “I mean, last time I saw you, you were reserved and more focused.”

You study him more. Today his arms are exposed in a tank top, and you can see more of his tattoos. Only one arm has a half sleeve of flaming sharks in brilliant pinks and purples and you can tell he hits the gym, despite his slender frame.

“You’re right. It’s the medication.” Your eyes shift from the stencil back to him. “I have mad ADHD. On days where I am doing smaller, simpler tattoos, I need help locking in for the day so I take my Adderall. On days like today, these big projects are enough dopamine to fuel me.”

He whistles cheerfully after being given the green light, the tattoo gun buzzing against your arm. And when you finally switch to a better playlist, he smiles.

“God, that’s better. Gangsta’s Paradise. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Strong start, I admit. But expect disappointment from here.” You honestly are quite self-conscious about your playlist, but Harry Styles starts to play a few minutes later and someone on the other side of the studio starts crooning along with “A Sign of the Times” and you start to feel more at ease.

The needle continues to stamp your skin in vivid colors and you want so badly to watch the beautiful man next to you do his job, but you also don’t want to stare, so your eyes close. He changed shampoos, and he smells clean with a hint of citrus.

“So I have something to confess.” Rafayel dips the tattoo needle back into the ink. “I snooped the rest of your pinterest so I could learn a bit about you. Hope that doesn’t across as creepy.”

Huh?

“Oh… well I guess I did give you the link for it. What did you learn?” You stomp down the small part of you that is pleased he had a desire to learn more about you.

“I won’t reveal all my cards at once. Just figured you are going to be in the chair for a long time today. Maybe a few discussion points might help the time go by for both of us.”

You open one eye just a bit and peek over at him. “You still haven’t told me any of what you learned.”

He smiles at you mischievously. “I learned you are a giant nerd.”

“Gee… Thanks?” You deadpan, raising a brow.

Rafayel barely looks up from his work, but you don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth twitch. “Oh god, don’t pout at me like that.”

Your breath stalls. Pouting?

Heat prickles at the back of your neck as you scramble to smooth your expression, but it’s too late. His smirk is already there, teasing.

“Don’t take it the wrong way. I like it. I’m not going to feed that you that cheesy, ‘you are not like other girls’ line. But I will say, I was happy to learn we’d have something to talk about.”

Is he trying to hit on you?

“Alright then. Topic number one?”

“Hold still for me.” Rafayel carefully focuses on his linework. “Doctor Who?”

“Oh god. You did a deep dive?”

Rafayel smirks. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, I guess not. But I kinda tapped out mid-Peter Capaldi. His arc was a bit too intense for me.”

You look over, but Raf’s eyes are hidden by purple hair as he concentrates on his line work.

“I gotta admit, I watched a little bit. But that’s because a couple people came in asking for Galifreyan tattoos and when I looked them up, they looked really cool.”

What did you think?” The tattoo needle is now going over a sensitive and it doesn’t feel great, so you try to lose yourself in the conversation.

“Intense… but David Tennant is really hot.”

It makes you laugh hard enough that Rafayel has to stop and pull the needle back.

“Yes… he is indeed.”

Unmedicated Rafayel was shockingly easy to talk to. You were already 2 hours into your 10-hour session when Rafayel forces you to take your first break. A snack, some juice and a potty break later, and you were back in the chair for round.

“Alright. Time for conversation starter number 2.” He was already calming your nerves, eyes once again focused on your tattoo and you watch his beautiful rosy and blue eyes dart around your skin to check his work. “You are into local travel…”

“Oh yeah! I love taking road trips. I’m practically out of town every time I get 2 or more days off in a row.”

“Yeah, I noticed you pinned a whole bunch of places that were 4-hour drive or less. Which destination was your favorite?”

You take a second to ponder. “Honestly, that really depends on the mood I’m in. But I just went to Dripping Pool. You go spelunking through a cave until you find an opening that drips beautiful blue water into a freshwater pool.”

Rafayel’s eye flash briefly with interest before he looks back down at his work. “I’ve always wanted to go, but I can’t seem to stop working… But I think I will go to hill country and try out one of those wineries you pinned first. Which one was your favorite?”

“Oh… those are really more… romantic weekends. I guess I was saving that for when romance actually happens for me.”

You see Rafayel freeze and look up at you. “Oh. I thought you were engaged or married.”

Huh?

“You’ve got a wedding board. Cute shit, I’m not gonna lie,” he explains, and attempts to casually switch back to his work.

Ah. The wedding that never happened. The engagement ring that ended up in the trash.

“Yeah. Long story. Short version? We weren’t right for each other.”

You can see him nod from your peripherals. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Don’t be,” you answer quickly. “If it went through, I’d be miserable.”

“Eyyy! Positive spin. I like that. How long ago was that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You groan internally. “It’s been 5 years.”

“5 years?” You can feel his breath on your skin and you don’t like what it makes you feel even as the conversation gets awkward. “Any movement in the past 5 years?”

“Nothing worth talking about.”

“Tch. A cutie like you with interesting hobbies? That’s a shame. I’m sorry men universally suck.” He earns a rich chuckle from you, but internally you panic.

“I mean, I guess I could take that as a compliment.”

His eyes flick up to yours, glinting with mischief. “You should.”

You gulp quietly, breath hitching and you pray he doesn’t notice. God, you are in trouble and you know it.

Rafayel continues focusing on his work. Despite him making it very clear that he found you interesting, the rest of the conversation lulls you into a sense of familiarity and comfort.

The hours stretch on, filled with a mix of banter, musical debate, and comfortable silence. At some point, you lose track of time, lulled by the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun and the occasional brush of his fingers against your skin as he works. The shop assistant, Pepper, adorable butterfly that she is, keeps popping in to take pictures and videos and gush over the progress made.

Perhaps the lack of warmth through clinical gloves brought you back down to earth, but you’ve convinced yourself that this isn’t going anywhere.

“Almost done,” Rafayel murmurs, his voice lower, rougher from hours of focus. He swipes one final stroke, then leans back, appraising his work.

You let out a slow breath, relief and exhaustion settling into your bones. “That was—”

“Brutal?” he guesses, smirking as he grabs a clean cloth.

“Something like that,” you admit, stretching your limbs to shake off the stiffness.

He wipes your arm down, a satisfied smile on his face and he looks at with a hint of excitement. “I know we’ve got another 6-hour session to go before its complete, but it looks pretty fantastic already.”

He pulls away, stripping off the gloves with a snap. “Alright, moment of truth,” he says, nodding toward the mirror.

Really, it is the moment you’ve been dying for. And when you stand in front of the mirror, you audibly gasp.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause.

An Elephant lined in neons with long, hot pink eyelashes, its legs covered in geometrical patterns stares at you. The blank spaces will be filled later, but you already know you will love it.

“I…”

“Love it?” Rafayel sits behind you with a tired, yet satisfied smile. “Hate it? Don’t know how to feel about it?”

You look at yourself in the mirror again. The smile on your face makes you feel stupid but you can’t help it. You can’t school your features and make it go away.

“I respect you. You are incredibly talented.”

Rosy and blue eyes go blank for a second before Rafayel covers his face.

“Fuuuuuck. I wasn’t- Why does it feel like I’m blushing?”

You wish you were the girl that could smile tauntingly as you reduce a man to whatever state Rafayel was in now. But instead, you blush with him, covering your mouth as Rafayel hangs his head. You were alone now. The studio had emptied a while ago and this was becoming dangerously intimate.

“Alright, cutie. Let me get the saniderm and get you out of here.”

Cutie. God, the way it rolls off his tongue so naturally and makes your heart flutter is not good for your health.

He takes his time applying the saniderm with care and when he is done, he admires his handiwork.

“I seriously can’t wait until your tat is done. I’m going to post it on all my platforms the moment we get you cleaned up next session.”

And there he goes making you blush again as he traces the lining of the tattoo over the saniderm gently with his thumb.

He mutters something about walking you to your car because it’s dark as you pack your things, but when you stand, your body betrays you.

A wave of lightheadedness washes over you, and your vision tilts at the edges. You barely manage to step back before the floor shifts under your feet.

“Whoa—hey.” Rafayel’s hands are on you before you can even blink, steadying you by the waist. His grip is firm but careful.

He guides you back to a seated position and looks you in the eyes. “Your eyes are glazed over. You need some sugar.”

He jogs off to the refrigerator and comes back with an orange juice that you sip through your embarrassment before you start to feel better.

“I think it goes without saying that I can’t let you drive home without worrying.” Those pretty rosy and blue eyes hold genuine concern and the strong, independent woman you are forced to be melts under his gaze. “I’ll drive you home.”

Your stomach flips. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to,” he counters easily, reaching for his keys. “I want to.”

Something about the way he says it—no hesitation, no teasing—leaves you momentarily speechless. So… you let him.

For once, letting someone take care of you doesn’t feel like a mistake.

It’s all the little things that add up to more. His arm remains around you for support as he walks you to the car and helps you sit down carefully in the passenger seat before handing you the car key and telling you to keep the door locked as he locks the studio. It’s the fact that he kept the lights on as he walked you to safety and ran back to turn them off before locking up. It’s the fact that he shone a light into your car windows and made sure nothing valuable was visible before he hopped in the car to drive you home.

It’s the smile on his face as he looks in to check on you before turning the ignition and asking if you are feeling better. He is doing a lot of things right and you resolve to go for it when you have the chance.

He hands you his phone to plug in your address.

“Wow. A whole 3-minute drive. How inconvenient.”

You huff in amusement. “Just say you want to spend more time with me and take the scenic way home.”

He playfully checks the gps. “The scenic way is 5 minutes long.”

The play feels so easy and you push his arm.

“No, but really, I was hoping I could make an excuse to get something in your stomach. Lunch was 7 hours ago.”

Oh?

“Planning to feed me? Do you do that for all your clients?”

Rafayel looks at you seriously. “No. But I think you and I are both leaning towards this becoming bigger than artist and client.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone. That fluttery, dangerous warmth in your chest spreads, and it won’t go away.

You are in trouble.

But something about Rafayel is different than all the other men in your life. The guarded back and forth and coy banter doesn’t feel necessary when he communicates directly and makes you feel safe.

So, you reach out, fingers threading into his. He stills, eyes flicking to where your hand rests before meeting your gaze again.

“Take me to get food,” you say, voice softer now, steady. “Then take me home.”

Rafayel watches you for a beat longer, as if committing this moment to memory, before he shifts into drive.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth twitching into something almost boyish. “I can do that.”

At 10 PM there aren’t a lot of options, but there is a Columbian food truck that definitely caters to the drunks and munchies. Rafayel has never been. So, when your hot dogs come out covered in 3 different types of sauce, coleslaw, bacon and potato chips, he makes you laugh as he playfully shouts, “Oh, shit! There are potato chips on my hot dog?!”

One bite and his eyes widen, the sheer reverence in his expression, has you dissolving into laughter before he even swallows.

“Ohhh, okay,” he says, pointing at the hot dog like it just changed his life. “I get it now. This is genius.”

For someone who looks so elegantly put together, he rips into his late-night snack with enthusiasm. “Potato Chips! On my hot dog?!”

It makes him seem less perfect and more real. And for a moment, you are floating on a cloud, unable to shake the feeling that maybe this could be the beginning of something special.

Even better, the extra still in the details continues as he loops an arm around you and guides you back to his car, just in case you stumble.

Rafayel jokes once more that the commute is unbearably long, but the food truck is only 4 minutes from your front door and he grins as he helps you out of the car and walks you to your door.

“I guess this is goodnight, cutie. Is it okay if I call you tomorrow morning?” He takes a couple steps back as you punch your door code in.

A gentleman.

He doesn’t have to be one tonight.

Before he can retreat too far, you reach out and grab his wrist, pulling him back to you, erasing the distance he created to make you feel safe. His eyes darken, intensity flickering in those rose and blue hues as realization dawns.

“Rafayel… it’d be weird calling me from the same bed.”

He throws his head back in disbelief, cursing under his breath before biting his lip.

“You are bolder than I thought.” He exhales slowly, voice deeper with a hint of something almost dangerous. Strong hands grip your waist tightly and he pulls you flush against him.

“Maybe I should be bold, too?”

Yes!

His lips descend, crashing into yours, the cold press of his lip ring making you want wild things and you bite around it. He exhales sharply, groaning, tilting your chin so that he can kiss you deeper before his hands roam your body.

Hands everywhere. Lips wherever they find skin. He presses you into your door and the door swings open behind you.

You pull him through your threshold, lips still attached to his when he stops you.

You won’t let him stop you.

“Cutie…” He gasps, breath ragged as you kiss a trail down his neck. You hum in acknowledgement as your fingers grip his hairs and just slightly pull his head back to expose more of him under your lips.

He groans as he grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“God I don’t want to stop you, but…” You nibble firmly at the base of his throat.

“Fuck…” he curses and his hands abandon the door frame to clutch you against him once more.

“I’m listening,” you murmur as your lips travel to the other side of his neck, your hand firmly cupping him through, pants causing him to buck.

“Protection,” he rasps through his excitement. “My condoms are in the car.

You groan heatedly against his skin. “Hurry.”

You don’t have to say it twice. He bolts, grabbing an unopened 12 pack from his glove compartment and in seconds he slams and locks the door shut behind him, and kicks off his shoes before carrying you to the couch.

His lips are all over you, urgently kissing every expanse of bare skin he can find, his lip ring adding contrast and making you quiver.

“Glad it’s a 12 pack,” you groan as he covers your body with his. “We will be going through most of them tonight.”

“God, cutie. The things you say.” He tears the box, grabbing a condom and unzipping his pants. “I hope you make good on your promises, because I can, and I will.”

“Need… need to take my pants off,” you huff.

Rafayel leans back, settling onto the couch, watching as you stand and strip—quick, unceremonious, kicking your clothes aside.

“God, you are hot…” He whispers reverently, a blush burning across his skin as his gaze darkens intensely, kicking his own pants off. You stare as he rolls the condom on, eye contact intense and exuding confidence.

He knows he is packing.

He leans back with a smirk before finally pulling his tank top off and now you understand why it’s the last thing he kept on.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause.

His chest is covered in a sea scape of corals and clown fish. Vibrant cobalts, radiant beams of light. Your eyes dart around, drinking the details of his skin. His muscled physique you must touch.

Nipple piercings that you have to taste.

He tries to pull you back under him, but you push him back down into his seated position, tongue tracing each piercing as he moans, encouraging you to be bolder. Licking turns into sucking, sucking turns into biting. And the more it escalates, the more wanton Rafayel’s moans become as his hips buck into air, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

He looks so pretty and fuckable underneath you as he gasps, somehow even pinker than he was a minute ago.

“Cutie, please,” he begs underneath you. You never knew you’d love hearing a man beg, but Rafayel looks so pretty when he is desperate. You straddle him, guiding him to your entrance with one hand and grasping the long hair at the base of his neck with the other.

“Say please again,” you order, and he bucks, cock slipping in just barely as you pull your hips up to deny him.

His hands grip your hips tightly and he whimpers.

“Please.”

Good Boy.He gasps, throwing his head back into the couch cushions as your hips sink down and you stretch wide open to accommodate him.

He is so expressive.

So pretty.

You can’t. God, you wanted to power-fuck yourself on his cock, but FUCK! He’s big. A whimper escapes you as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing through the intensity.

“Fuck. Oh fuck, cutie. You feel so good.” His hands caress the small of your back as you adjust to his size and whimper pathetically.

“Raf… oh… ohh!” Even the slightest hint of movement is enough to make you tremble. He fills you so perfectly its almost too much, and you take several deep breaths to calm as he kisses your temple.

You weren’t going to last.

But you sure as hell were going to try.

Your hips begin to move and instantly his hands tighten clamping your waist and you hear him whimper.

Good. He won’t last either.

“I have no fucking clue how you were single when you walked through my door,” He whispers reverently. “But I will thank every God created by man that you are on my cock right now.”

And reverence is how he earns the power ride of his life. You plant your feet beneath his thighs, gripping the couch frame behind his head for leverage.

Your hips fly.

“Holy shit!” His voice cracks as your pussy slams down onto him, the impact pulling an obscene moan from his throat. For a moment, he forgets what to do with his hands, palms abandoning your waist to cup your breasts, then sliding up to tangle in your hair as he crushes your lips against his.

Then one hand wraps around your throat. You gasp, and it only makes him groan, the other hand back on your waist as he matches your pace, thrusting up into you, reckless, desperate.

You aren’t faring much better, his size making the stroke against your clit feel red hot. And when he starts to match your pace, thrusting upwards, a continous, high pitched, pathetic whimper escaping you.

Your ceaseless whimpering nearly drowns him out, but you hear it, sexy and desperate in a lower register.

This man will break you.

This man will ruin you.

“So close,” he cries when his thumb finds and circles your clit, pressing down firmly to draw sure, relentless circles.

You can’t control the visceral shriek that erupts from you as he forces your climax to a head, pussy throbbing and legs weak. You feel the rapid fire pulsing between your legs, blood pounding in your veins, pleasure making you twitch.

“FUCK! RAFAYEL! OH, FUCK!”

He sits up, face buried in your chest as he holds you as tight as possible and a handful of powerful thrusts upwards leads to his demise. He shudders, moaning your name as he comes.

A moment ago, your home was so loud, but now, he holds you quietly, kissing across your chest in an act of thankfulness as you pant. Sweat soaking your forehead makes your hair cling to your face and your mind whirls in disbelief.

“Is this real life?”

Rafayel chuckles against your skin between kisses and nibbles on your collar bone that make you shiver.

“I hope so.”

He arms circle to hold you tightly, the same way he did when he came and he begins to thrust upwards slowly, cock stirring back to life.

"You have got to be kidding," you gasp as he flips you onto your back.

“When I said I can and I will, I meant it, cutie.” His eyes go dark as he stares down at you. “I can go all night.”

His smile is devilish, giving you chills as he hooks your legs over his arms folding you into a mating press.

“One day, I’m going to breed you.”

Oh, fuck.

“But for now, I’m going to practice.”

He wants to wreck you the same way you destroyed him. It makes you whimper in anticipation before his hips begin to piston into you like a well-oiled machine. He rips scream after scream from your throat and you are certain you’ve never been louder.

“Yeah, cutie,” he grunts with a look of satisfaction. “Make those noises for me.”

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

His hips are relentless, punching the air right out of your lungs, the smirk on his face ever-present as he gives you twice what you gave him.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

The further back he pushes you into the couch, the deeper he drives into you and he won’t yield.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

He grunts through direct eye contact.

"Take it. Take my cock."

You don’t want him to yield.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

He fucks you like a fevered dream, dominating your pussy with no end in sight.

“Raf-!” There’s no air left in your lungs to announce your orgasm. Your vision whites out, your pussy clenches, and somehow… somehow you are screaming even louder.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

“I’m going to make you come again.”

God you need him to stop. Your nails bite desperately into his shoulders, but in a mating press there is no escape.

"Raf- fuck! Raf, I can't- FUUUCK!"

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

God you don’t want him to stop. The relentless pounding has stretched your orgasm into something dangerous and another more powerful wave curls your toes.

“AH! RAF!” And still, the air in your lungs does not exist, but you see that smirk disappear as your pussy squeezes tightly. You watch his mouth fall open, a string of curses flying from his lips before your vision goes white hot, coming in rounds of bursting fire.

Hot breath close to your ear huffs as you hear him grunt his release, chanting your name before struggling to safely remove himself from the tangle of limbs he created. You can finally breathe.

He collapses next to you, sounds of disbelief escape him as you desperately draw air. Pulling you closer he whispers, “I… cannot believe you let me fuck you like that.”

“Do it again,” you joke when you can finally speak and he barks out a laugh.

“Oh, I intend to.” He kisses you reverently once more. “Our chemistry is insane.”

“Off the charts,” You agree, offering a fist bump and he laughs as he reciprocates and pulls you close.

“We made a huge mess.”

He is right of course. The couch cushion is soaked from the deluge of your arousal and he gets up on shaky legs to dig around your kitchen for a clean towel. He turns the hot water on, tossing the condom and cleaning himself up.

“God I should have changed condoms. What a mess.” You are too tired to even be worried about it but he reappears, bowl and warm, wet towel in hand to clean up the mess he helped make between your legs. The kisses he gently presses against your thighs make you wonder what you did to get this lucky.

And when he was done, he reached for the box of condoms to pull out another.

“Tell me you are kidding, Raf…” You gasp, wanting to say yes and no at the same time.

He smiles mischievously at you. “I wasn’t lying, cutie. I can go all night.”

The sun is offensive as it invades you room through your curtains. Your body is sore all over and your bed is still warm but empty.

Once the confusion settles, you smile as you hear shuffling in your kitchen and smell the aroma of fresh coffee.

“Hey, cutie.” Your hero arrives moments later with caffeine you so desperately need. “I like your espresso machine.”

Your eyes aren’t ready to do their job yet, but you imagine him with tousled bed head and the love bites you left on his body. You sip your coffee and he sits on the bed, fingers combing through your hair.

“So I was thinking…” his voice is raspy from the noises you drew from him last night.

“Those wineries you pinned over in hill country?”

You crack one eye open and take a peek at him.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause.

“Mm? What about them, sweetheart?” The pet name makes him smile like a goofball.

“Which one do you want to go to first? I'm free next weekend.”

[daeniradraconis]

Banter Between the Lines - Hughes Brothers

Note: Hey, so here’s another quick chat-style piece! I haven’t had much time to sit down and write properly lately, so short and sweet it is for now. 😊 Feel free to send me some requests if you’d like! (You can check out the "rules" here: link). I can’t promise when I’ll get to them, but I’ll definitely find time soon.

Summary: A little fluff with a touch of smut (nothing too crazy, just some extra flirting). Quinn’s girlfriend roasts the boys while calling them out in their group chat.

Warnings: Nothing major, just some mention of 🍆.

It was one of those quiet Sunday nights where everything felt slow. You'd spent the evening catching up on your favorite shows, but it was hard to concentrate when all you could think about was Quinn. The constant distance between you two had become harder to ignore with each passing day, and as much as you loved how happy he was with his team, you missed him. And, truthfully, you missed the whole family.

You’d gotten close to Jack and Luke over the years, and now, with Quinn playing for the Vancouver Canucks and Jack and Luke together on the New Jersey Devils, the family dynamic felt a little more spread out than you liked. Sure, they’d all make time for you when they could, but it wasn’t the same as those days when you’d all hang out together.

Tonight, instead of a call or a quick text, you decided to turn to something a little more familiar. You opened up youtube and searched for their latest highlights.

All three of them were struggling on the ice, and it showed. It hurt to see them like this, especially when you couldn’t do much to help. So you did what you always did in times like these—opened the group chat and prepared to roast them into oblivion. If nothing else, it might make them laugh.

you: just finished your highlights. Quinn, congrats on being the saddest guy on the ice again 🥇. Jack, loved the mini tantrum energy 👏. Luke, did you forget which team you play for? because those turnovers were next-level.

Jack: wow, you really woke up and chose violence.

you: always. someone has to keep you humble.

Luke: humble? this feels more like a personal attack.

Quinn: what would you call it, then?

Luke: bullying.

you: oh, Lukey, don’t take it so hard. I tease because I care 💕

Jack: you literally plotted my ex’s demise last month. is that “caring” too?

you: first of all, it wasn’t a plot. it was more of a… fantasy.

Quinn: putting her in the ground “while she’s still breathing” doesn’t sound like a fantasy…

you: listen, if she hadn’t been such a manipulative little snake, I wouldn’t have had to consider it 🐍

Luke: terrifying. but honestly? fair.

Jack: I could’ve handled her myself, you know.

you: oh, really? because from where I was sitting, she had you wrapped around her finger like a puppet.

Quinn: she’s not wrong!

Jack: whose side are you on?

Quinn: hers. always.

you: damn right honey. and don’t worry, I’m not plotting her demise anymore… unless she tries to come back. then all bets are off.

Jack: remind me to never date again. you’re scarier than Quinn’s slap shot.

You grinned as the banter flew back and forth, but your focus shifted to Luke. His disastrous date still didn’t sit right with you.

you: okay, but seriously, Lukey. I've heard some gossip. how does a girl ditch you mid-dinner? you’re literally the sweetest human alive.

Luke: THANK YOU! finally, someone gets it.

Jack: don’t encourage him. he needs to toughen up.

you: excuse me? let him be sweet! not every guy needs to have your level of 'I’m too cool for feelings,' Jack.

Quinn: valid point.

Luke: thank you, Quinn.

you: honestly, Luke, I’ll never understand how she left. did you say something weird?

Luke: no!!! I was perfectly normal.

Quinn: “normal” is a stretch…

Jack: is this really the same guy who told a girl on a first date he’d make six different accounts just to sort himself into Hufflepuff six different times because he didn’t 'trust the algorithm'?

Luke: OKAY, THAT’S DIFFERENT. I was being honest!

you: oh, Lukey. you’re lucky you’re adorable because that is painful 😂

Luke: this is why I didn’t want to tell you guys.

Quinn: bro, it’s fine. just embrace the awkward puppy vibe. it’s clearly your brand.

Luke: I hate you.

Jack: ugh, why does he get the sympathy? roast him more guys!!! I can’t be the only one taking L’s here.

you: because Luke doesn’t put ketchup on his eggs like a serial killer, Jack.

Luke: yeah, what is WRONG with you? ketchup on eggs? really?

Jack: you people are so dramatic. it’s normal.

Quinn: nothing about that is normal.

you: thank you, Quinn. once again, the only rational person in this chat.

Jack: stop flirting with my brother. it’s disgusting.

Luke: seriously. I can feel the weird vibes through my phone.

You smirked, knowing exactly how to push their buttons.

you: you’re just mad because Quinn’s risotto is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Quinn: best risotto AND lasagna. don’t forget!

you: how could I? it’s the only reason I keep you around. And of course your magic 🍆

Quinn: oh, not my sparkling personality? btw you're objectifying my body...

you: hmm… maybe that too. but i have my priorities straight!

Jack: 🤢 STOP. this is disgusting.

Luke: seriously. this is TMI guys!!

you: just jealous, you two can’t even scramble eggs properly.

Quinn: cooking skills = key to a woman’s heart.

Luke: ugh. golden child strikes again.

Jack: some of us don’t need to cook because we have charisma, thank you very much.

Quinn: does your charisma excuse ketchup on eggs? because it shouldn’t.

Luke: still the biggest red flag in this chat.

Jack: Y’ALL ARE SO DRAMATIC.

You smiled at their bickering, your heart full, untouched by their chaos.

you: okay, but for real… I miss you guys 💔.

Luke: aww, finally some love.

Jack: are you feeling okay?!

you: don’t get used to it. but yeah, I miss you. Quinn, risotto night when you’re home! Jack and Luke, you can come eat it too.

Quinn: deal. but I’m ignoring them for the first hour I’m back. i need my time with you!

Luke: RUDE!

Jack: gross. is this the flirting portion of the chat? can we not?

you: love you too, boys. even if you’re disasters.

Jack: love you too. now stop flirting with Quinn before I puke.

Luke: seriously. save it for your own chat.

Quinn: jealousy doesn’t look good on you two.

Luke: jealous of what? your cooking? maybe. your 🍆? absolutely not.

you: you should be Lukey! your brother got some great 🍆

Jack: I’m OUT.

Luke: same.

Quinn: good job hon. guess it’s just us now. you: just how I like it 😘

[sugardollcurse]

Hello sugar — your posts showed up on my recommended and it struck such a nostalgic chord. I haven’t read Beatles x reader since I was 12 or 13 so it was a blast from the past in the best way! I love what ur doing and hope u continue to do what u do cuz it’s awesome and great fun. This is an atypical request but I’m a trans guy so I don’t fit the usual femme archetype, but if u could write any prompt with a gender neutral/masc reader that would tickle me pink. Thanks and much love ☃️🩵

𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑 | paul mccartney x reader

𐙚 summary ; paul finds himself writing songs again. you're why.

𐙚 note ; hello darling !! first of all, what a message. you’ve just smacked me in the chest with joy. bless the algorithm for bringing us together after all these years. i adore you for saying something, and i’m thrilled to oblige. i hope you enjoy!!

Paul notices your hands before he notices your face.

It���s not that he hasn’t looked before... he has, often, to an embarrassing degree. But tonight it’s different. You're tucked in the corner of some half-dressed backstage room in Manchester, tie loose around your neck, sleeves rolled up. The lads are loud, chaos blooming around every corner: George tuning something with teeth, John trying to fix a kettle with a biro, Ringo muttering to his tea like it insulted him.

And then there's you. Leaned back in a fold-out chair, one foot propped on a case of cables, hands loose in your lap. Not doing anything special, not trying to be looked at. But Paul’s eyes catch there anyway. On the way your fingers tap a silent beat on your thigh. On the way they curl when you laugh.

He thinks, wildly: I want them on me.

He also thinks: don’t be a tit.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you ask, smirking.

Paul startles, eyes jumping to yours. You’re watching him, head tilted, that curious half-grin on your face. The one that always makes him feel like a bug under glass, but one you like looking at.

He clears his throat. “Was just-” He gestures vaguely toward the amp in the corner. “Wondering if that’s gonna short out again.”

You glance at it. “If it does, I’m not saving anyone.”

“Even me?” he asks, trying to play it off light.

You raise an eyebrow. “Especially you.”

Paul snorts, covers it with a cough. His fingers twitch like they want to write that down somewhere.

The night rolls on. Soundcheck. Rehearsal. People filtering in and out, stagehands and label folks and the usual whirlwind of cigarette smoke and misplaced instruments. Paul moves through it all in a daze, like his body’s performing from memory but his mind’s stuck on a loop.

Because here’s the thing:

You’re not in the band. Not exactly. You joined for the tour, assistant to the tour manager.

You’d walked in wearing a suit that didn’t care about your shape, boots that made your walk heavier, and a grin that gave absolutely nothing away. Paul had stared.

He’s still staring.

It starts on the bus, somewhere between Liverpool and Leeds.

You’re sitting across the aisle, bent over a notepad. Paul doesn’t mean to watch you. He’s got his own notebook open, lyrics half-scribbled and useless. But you keep licking your thumb when you turn a page. He watches the motion, the softness of it. He wonders what kind of paper it is. What you’re writing.

Then you look up. Meet his eyes. Paul panics, jerks his gaze away.

Later, at the next rest stop, you sidle up beside him while he’s sipping coffee from a cup too hot.

“What rhymes with ‘hesitate’?” you ask.

He chokes a little. “Er-meditate? Underrate?”

You nod like that helps, then nudge your shoulder against his. “Cheers, poet.”

And walk off.

Paul spends the next hour trying to rhyme something with your name.

⸻

You don’t flirt with him. Not exactly.

You do things that feel like flirting, though. You sit close when there’s space elsewhere. You compliment his handwriting. You touch his arm when you laugh.

But you don’t treat him special.

You talk to John like he’s your favourite sibling. You sit on the floor with George during long waits, arguing over chords. You let Ringo fix your tie once and didn’t even flinch.

Paul’s used to being the centre. The gravity. But around you, he feels like a satellite. Pulled, blinking, spinning.

And it’s bloody annoying.

⸻

Paul sits beside you on the stairwell. It had been maybe three years since you started working for them.

It’s a service exit, concrete steps, a rusted door behind you, some muffled bit of a night wind that smells like cigarettes and fry grease and road salt. Show’s been over an hour, but neither of you’ve moved. There’s something about the quiet after noise, the ringing in your ears, the thrum still stuck in your chest. Neither of you wants to break it.

You’re both bent at the waist, arms resting on knees, not touching. You pass him your cigarette. He takes it.

Then, a beat later, you say, “Been a long run, hasn’t it?”

Paul huffs out a laugh. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

You smile faintly, eyes still forward.

Another pause. Then you ask, “You ever think about what you’d do if it all ended tomorrow?”

He looks at you. You don’t look back.

“Y’mean the band?”

You shrug. “All of it."

Paul thinks on that. Takes another drag.

“Sometimes, aye. Not really."

Your eyes slide toward him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “And?”

“And,” he says, breathing smoke, “I reckon I’d miss the bloody racket.”

You chuckle. “Even the parts you complain about?”

“Especially those.”

He offers you the cigarette again. You shake your head.

“I think I’d miss the noise too,” you say. “But sometimes quiet’s all I want.”

Paul hums, low and thoughtful. “Y’always did like the edges of things.”

You glance over. “Edges?”

He shrugs one shoulder, lazy. “Y’like where the light stops. Where it gets quiet.”

You nod once. “Maybe.”

And that’s all. You sit in that. Two people caught somewhere between movement and stillness, the space where something almost happens.

When he gets up first, he doesn’t say anything. Just taps your knee lightly. You follow.

Paul became your closest orbit. The person you always sat next to on the bus. The one you traded books with, notes in the margins. The one who started writing a song every time you left the room.

None of it got spoken. Not directly. But he handed you his lighter when you needed it. Called you love once when he didn’t mean to. Slid his foot next to yours during soundchecks and left it there.

You existed in the ellipses of each other’s days.

⸻

The grass is cold beneath you.

It’s after a gig in Wales, summer near the end of its breath. Everyone’s inside but you and Paul, both stretched out under the open sky, backs against the hillside behind the venue. You’re half-dozing, picking at a fraying shoelace. He’s chewing a stem of grass like he’s got nothing better to do.

You’re quiet for a long time.

Then, still looking at the stars, you murmur, “I’ve been thinkin’ about packin’ it in.”

Paul turns his head. “Eh?”

You shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. “After this run. Maybe. Just feels like I’ve been running a long time and... maybe I’ve seen enough.”

There’s a beat of silence. He swallows hard.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

Paul’s heart stutters. His chest goes tight like it’s shrunk inside his ribs.

“Nah,” he says, but it comes out thin. “Y’wouldn’t.”

You don’t respond right away.

Instead, you turn and look at him, really look at him, eyes steady, like you’re trying to see the version of him behind the face. Trying to get past the cameras and vinyl pressings and headlines. Just him, in this field, with that fucking grass in his teeth and his curls haloed in moonlight.

“If I did,” you ask quietly, “you’d come with me, yeah?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

He stares at you like you’ve just offered him a way out of something he didn’t even know he was trapped in.

“…fuckin’ hell.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That a yes?”

Paul drops the grass stem from his mouth. His tongue darts across his lip, quick. He sits up a little, not straighter exactly, just more alert, like the ground’s shifted under him.

He doesn’t answer right away.

You wait.

Then, finally, in a voice so low it barely rises above the crickets: “I dunno.”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t look away.

“I mean,” he goes on, tugging at the grass near his knee, “if it were just me… maybe. But it’s not. It’s never just me, is it? There’s the band, and the tour, fuck, it’s not like I can just vanish, is it?”

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

Paul exhales hard, like he’s mad at himself.

“I want to,” he says. “You’ve gotta know that. Half the time I see you lookin’ out windows like you’ve already gone and I think, God, take me with you, but then I get in the room with the lads and I’m… I dunno."

He rubs a hand over his face.

“Feels like if I stop now, it all comes undone.”

You’re quiet for a moment, picking at a thread on your sleeve.

“I wouldn’t ask you to leave it all behind,” you say.

Paul looks at you, eyes tired.

“But if I did ask,” you say, slower now, looking at him like you’re trying to read him backward, inside out, “you’d want to. Yeah?”

He swallows.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’d want to.”

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

You just sit there, dusk creeping soft around the edges, the heat of the day finally dipping beneath your clothes. A wind comes over the hill and carries the scent of something blooming too late, honeysuckle, maybe, or something just like it. Paul’s fingers twitch in the grass like they’re reaching for something and not sure if they’re allowed.

So you reach first.

Your pinky finds his. Hooks it gently. His head turns toward you like it’s on a thread.

“Alright,” you say.

He blinks. “Alright what?”

“If you’d want to,” you murmur, “that’s enough.”

Paul looks at you for a long time. Really looks. His hair is messy, the collar of his shirt skewed, eyes soft with something he's never managed to write down. But you know it. You’ve felt it in the spaces where he looks away. In the places he lingers just a second too long.

“I’d want all of it,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Y’know that?”

“Yeah,” you say, and your voice almost breaks on it. “I know.”

The quiet stretches again, but it’s warmer now. Like it’s wrapped around you both instead of pulling you apart.

Paul leans in, so slow you could stop him if you wanted to. But you don’t. You never have.

His forehead rests against yours. Not kissing. Not yet. Just that.

Just breathing the same air.

The hill behind you is steep and the grass wet against your back. But here, like this, Paul’s lips barely brushing yours, it’s the most grounded you’ve felt in months.

“I don’t wanna lose you, y’know.” he says, like it’s the first time the words have ever touched daylight.

“You’re not going to,” you whisper. “Not if you keep meeting me here.”

“On this hill?”

You nod, forehead still resting against his.

And then he kisses you.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just a slow, certain thing, like he’s not proving anything anymore, just giving it. His mouth is warm, steady, a little unsure.

When he pulls back, you’re both blinking hard, dazed from something quieter than fireworks but bigger somehow. Like you cracked a seam in the universe and stepped through.

You tilt your head, rest it on his shoulder.

Paul lets out a slow, breathy sound, not quite a sigh.

“Think you’ll go?” he asks.

You trace a slow pattern on the back of his hand with your thumb.

“Don’t know,” you say. “But if I do… I won’t leave without saying it proper.”

He nods.

And then, quieter:

“If you do go,” he says, “I’ll write a song about it.”

You smirk. “Better make it a good one.”

He grins down at you. “Wouldn’t dare make it anything less.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels

[sluttywonwoo]

oct 3rd

bang chan x f!reader

smut mdni; unprotected sex, lil bit of degradation/dumbification

“ready for bed, rockstar?”

chris laughs, shaking his wet curls out with the same towel he’d used to dry his body after showering.

“not quite,” he calls from the bathroom as he hangs the the towel up.

you wrack your brain, going through the steps of his nighttime routine in your head. “what’s left to do?”

he smirks. “you.”

you roll your eyes but giggle as he leaps onto the bed and smothers you with his body weight, not even putting up a fight when he starts yanking at the covers to get the blankets off you.

“i don’t even know why i bother with pajamas,” you complain, again not stopping your boyfriend from unbuttoning the top of your matching set. “i always end up naked anyway.”

“i know,” chris hums. “you should be more like me.”

“yeah? showing myself off shirtless to the whole world all the time?”

he pouts. “that’s not what i meant.”

“i know, i know. but you’re lucky i’m good at sharing, by the way. the amount of pictures of your tits that pop up on my social media feeds would make a lot of girlfriends upset.”

“you know the algorithm curates said feeds based on what you’re interested in, so you’re really just telling on yourself,” chris mumbles, slipping your shorts off along with your underwear.

“who wouldn’t be into your tits? i’m not ashamed!”

“well, they’re all yours, baby.”

“tell that to stays,” you mutter.

he chuckles and strokes your face fondly before pushing his thumb into your mouth to get you to suck on it. “they can look but only you can touch.”

you release his thumb from between your lips with a smug grin.

“lucky me.”

the aforementioned smug grin falters when your boyfriend brings his hand down and starts using that same thumb to rub your clit.

“fuck, chris,” you moan, fingers curling around his wrist.

“god, you’re soaked already… what’s this about?”

“seeing you on stage tonight,” you choke out, “you know what you did.”

“ah, did you like my solo stage, baby?” he taunts.

“fuck you.”

“yeah, i thought you would. didn’t know you’d like it this much though.”

he speeds up and you arch your back, pushing your hips into his touch. he kisses you as he works you to the edge, trying to swallow your moans so you don’t get another noise complaint. chris tries to think about who you’re sharing a wall with tonight. he knows it’s one of the boys because he was the one given all of the room keys to hand out to the members when they checked in but he couldn’t remember which one was supposed to be right next door. was it seungmin? lino? whoever it is, he hopes they're already asleep.

“what is it, baby? are you close?”

you start to nod but then shake your head. “want you,” you whine.

“you have me,” he whispers.

"want you to fuck me," you clarify.

"oh really?"

you tug at his arm, motioning for him to get on top of you. he obliges and you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him even closer. it works but he doesn't slide inside of you just yet. instead, he teases you with it, moving his hips like he would if he were fucking you.

“need me to stretch you out first?” he asks.

“nah, you have to get up early in the morning we should make this quick.”

“how romantic,” he scoffs.

“you felt how wet i was! i don’t need anything else. just your cock.”

he sighs, hanging his head. "fine."

"don't be so dramatic," you murmur. "if you're that torn up about it you can wake me up with your fingers. or use them to push your cum back inside of me after you fuck me."

chris buries his head in your shoulder, whimpering out a quiet "fuck" against your neck as his cock twitches between your legs.

"i love you," he moans.

"i know," you reply. "i love you too."

chan finally pushes into you, just the head at first, but it's enough to get you to moan.

"shh, baby. don't want the neighbors to hear."

you nod in understanding, biting your bottom lip. "sorry."

"s'okay. i know it feels good."

"feels so good, channie," you agree.

he lifts an eyebrow. "channie already? wow, baby, you're even further gone than i thought."

"c-can't help it."

"i know. only takes an inch of cock to turn you into my soft girl, huh?"

"mhm."

"what'll happen if i give you more? are you sure you'll be able to take it?"

you tighten your thighs around chan's hips, trying to force him deeper inside of you. he's much stronger than you, though, and easily resists your efforts.

"i can take it!"

"you sure?"

"yes, i'll be good! i'll be so good!"

"i know you'll be good," chris chuckles. "you're always- almost always good for me. i'm just worried any more of my cock will make you completely brainless."

"so? when has that ever stopped you before?"

"good point."

"please, chris," you beg, tears gathering on your lash line.

"it's back to chris? what happened to channie?"

"i'll call you whatever you want if you fuck me," you promise, moving on from begging to bargaining.

"i don't care what you call me-"

"oh, hyun-"

"except my friends' names," he mutters, scoffing in disbelief. "that desperate you're resorting to brattiness now? i should just pull out and-"

"no, please! i'm sorry!"

"i'm sure you are."

you want to point out that you know he loves it when you're a little bratty, that he gets off on it, but you also know that it won't help your case.

"i'll make it up to you," you say instead.

"yeah? how?"

"you'll find out."

"is it by making me cum?"

you purse your lips. "maybe?"

he rolls his eyes. "fine, but i bet i'll make you cum first."

you offer him your hand and shake on it despite not discussing any terms or stakes.

"you're on."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Trump loves Big Tech

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in SAN DIEGO at MYSTERIOUS GALAXY TONIGHT (Mar 24), and in CHICAGO with PETER SAGAL on Apr 2. More tour dates here.

The sight of the CEOs of Apple, Google, Facebook, Amazon, and Tiktok arranged in a decorative semicircle behind Trump on the dais on inauguration day was the final repudiation of the Obama-era notion that tech was somehow committed to democracy (or the Democrats).

These billionaires transferred millions from their personal accounts to Trump's "inauguration fund," a kind of presidential tip jar that Trump rattled under the noses of any convenient industry leaders hoping for preferential treatment from his regime. It paid off handsomely.

Just days before the inauguration, Trump flew to Davos where he told the world's leaders – especially in the EU – that he would not tolerate attempts to regulate US Big Tech companies, such as the EU's groundbreaking Digital Markets Act and Digital Services Act:

https://gizmodo.com/trump-returns-big-techs-ass-kissing-at-davos-2000554158

There's been a lot of talk about how disillusioned liberals – especially those in Silicon Valley – are with Big Tech's heel turn, but what about the Trumpist factions that hate Big Tech? Plenty of people in the Trump base profess a hatred of Big Tech, and then there are the "Khanservatives" – JD Vance, Josh Hawley, Matt Goetz, Marsha Blackburn, Ted Cruz, etc – who aligned themselves with Biden's FTC Chair Lina Khan and professed a principled objection to Big Tech monopolies and even co-sponsored bills with the likes of Elizabeth Warren that were designed to strike at the root of tech monopolists power.

Trumpism – like every successful political movement – is a coalition. It's made up of factions who virulently disagree on key issues, and Trump himself is the arbiter of which faction emerges triumphant and which one will have to eat shit and like it:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/06/how-the-sausage-gets-made/#governing-is-harder

It's pretty clear at this point that the anti-Big Tech wing of the Trump Party has lost. Trump's saber-rattling is funneling billions into Big Tech's pockets and consolidating their power. Nowhere is this more visible than in the UK, where PM Keir Starmer fired the country's top anti-monopoly enforcer and replaced him with the former head of Amazon UK:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/22/autocrats-of-trade/#dingo-babysitter

But the British giveaways to US tech monopolists don't end there. Now, Starmer's announced plans to give a £800m/year tax giveaway to US Big Tech:

https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c8j0dgym8w1o

If the Trumpist techbusters were truly sincere in their professed belief that Big Tech had too much power and must be broken up, then this should all be provoking howls of outrage from the Khanservatives – but they're all conspicuously silent.

Riley Quinn, showrunner of the amazing Trashfuture podcast, once proposed that the conservative animus towards Big Tech was driven entirely by grievances over content moderation algorithms that downranked conspiracy theories, racial slurs, and fundraising messages from grifting far-right politicians. Quinn joked that these conservative techbusters could be satisfied if every Big Tech board meeting was henceforth solemnized with a "Stolen Likes Acknowledgement," in which the execs publicly repudiated the fortunes their forerunners amassed through the suffering of shadowbanned culture warriors. Think of it as a Twitter Files mirror world doppelganger of the "stolen land" acknowledgments often heard before progressive meetings and presentations:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

For its part, the EU is holding its ground in the face of Trumpism. Indeed, Trump's obnoxious belligerence has trashed the popularity of many of the EU's far right parties, especially in Scandinavia, where the burgeoning neofascist movement has lost nearly all momentum in the face of Trump's threats to annex Greenland away from Denmark:

https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c4g0718g3jwo

(The same thing has happened in Canada, where the Trumpist Conservative Party leader Pierre Poilievre has seen his massive polling leads collapse on the eve of a snap election):

https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/livestory/canada-election-party-leaders-make-their-pitches-as-snap-campaign-kicks-off-9.6695126

But if the EU really wants to assert its sovereignty against American Big Tech, it should roll back Article 6 of the Copyright Directive, which copies the 1998 American Digital Millennium Copyright Act by banning reverse-engineering and modification of tech products and services:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/08/turnabout/#is-fair-play

By rolling back this legislation – which the US trade rep lobbied hard for, threatening tariffs on EU exports if it wasn't passed – the EU would open space for European companies to compete with American tech giants, striking at their most profitable lines of business. This would let EU companies make app stores for mobile devices and games consoles (so EU software authors wouldn't have to send 30% of all revenues to a US tech monopolist). It would also let EU companies jailbreak US cars, like Teslas, unlocking all their software upgrades and also seling made-in-the-EU apps to European drivers. This move would let EU mechanics fix any car without paying an American car company for an expensive diagnostic tool, and it would let EU small businesses refill printer ink cartridges, crashing the 10,000,000% margins enjoyed by US giants like HP.

Trump is in the tank for American Big Tech. He may have courted the anti-Big Tech wing of his movement by trash-talking US tech giants, but all it took was a few million in bribes and he changed his tune. US Big Tech is now an ascendant faction in the Trump Party coalition, which makes them fair game for the trade war.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/24/whats-good-for-big-tech/#is-good-for-america