#no but this was fun to do thanks for the push ^^

[rainrot4me]

A Little R & R (Rest and Relaxation, Raw and Rough)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

───────────────────────────────────── leave - whirr

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: From breaking and entering, to scaring you half to death, the proxies have never been conventional lovers. So why would relaxing with you after a hard day at work be any different?

✦ . Characters: {Separate} Jeff the Killer x Female Reader, Ticci Toby x Female Reader, Masky x Female Reader, Hoodie x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Teasing, vaginal fingering, choking, dirty talk, overstimulation

✦ . Words: 16.2k (~4k per section)

✦ . Note: Is this a little self indulgent? Absolutely. But work has been kicking my ass and a good fingering down from the proxies would set me straight, so I come bearing gifts. Thank you again to my lovely lovely friend @z0l0fft for her beautiful art!!!! Words cannot describe my love.

────────────────────────────────────────────

You’re tired. 

Not just tired—drained. The kind of tired that settles into the marrow of your bones and makes you feel like even blinking is too much effort.

You stand on the front steps of your house for a second longer than necessary, keys in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, and try to summon the energy to go inside. Your muscles ache. Your neck hurts. Every part of your body begs for the sweet mercy of a hot shower and soft clothes. It’s cold out here, the nighttime air unforgiving. It’s all you can do not to collapse on the stairs outside.

The keys rattle in your hand as you finally slide one into the lock, twisting it until the door unlatches with a muted click. You shove the door open with your shoulder, stepping into the dark. The familiar scent of home greets you—laundry detergent, the faint trace of that candle you lit last night, something faintly musky that’s just… you.

You sigh, shoulders slumping with relief as you kick your shoes off one at a time. Your bag hits the floor with a muted thud, but you could care less to remember if there was anything valuable inside. You shrug your jacket off, tossing it haphazardly onto the hook. It’s your sanctuary, your space to finally breathe, not having to perform for your dumbass coworkers any longer. 

Work sucks. Everyone knows that, especially you.

There’s just something about a 2pm to 12am job that makes you want to rip everyone’s throat out, including your own. The money is nice, but some days you wonder if it’s worth your sanity and the constant back pain.

You start walking toward the kitchen, already reaching to loosen the tension from your neck, mentally checking off what leftovers might be in the fridge. Are you even hungry? You round the corner,

And stop cold.

The back door is wide open.

The long glass pane stares back at you like an eye, wind pushing it gently so it sways on its hinges, creaking faintly. The night air curls around your ankles, carrying the sharp, damp scent of wet leaves and earth. It raises goosebumps on your arms.

You blink, stunned for a moment, almost unsure you’re really seeing what you’re seeing. You never forget to lock that door. Ever. It's a habit, muscle memory, you could lock that thing in your sleep. There’s one too many home invasion cases on the news for you to just be comfortable with an easily accessible back door.

“…No,” you whisper under your breath. “No, I didn’t leave that open.”

Your heart gives a small jolt in your chest.

Immediately your mind reaches for something rational, something safe. Him. Maybe he came by. Maybe he used his key. Maybe he forgot to shut the door all the way. But even as you grasp for the thought, it doesn’t settle. He doesn’t forget things like that. He’s careful—always has been, he has to be. 

“Hello?” you call out, voice already tense. “Anyone here?”

No answer. You mentally punch yourself, you’re no better than the stupid girls who you make fun of in horror movies. 

Your house is still. The silence feels unnatural, forced, like it’s trying to hide something from you.

A pinprick of unease worms its way into your spine. You move quickly to the opposite side of the kitchen, flipping on every light switch available and illuminating the entire dining/living area. It doesn’t ease the pit in your stomach, but at least nothing can sneak up on you. You rummage through your broom closet in the laundry room, grabbing the wooden broom leaning against the doorframe. It’s not much, but at least there’s something for you to protect yourself with. You will not be as dumb as those horror movie chicks.

Your voice rises, more firm this time. “Seriously, if this is a joke, it’s not funny.”

Still no reply.

Your breath catches in your throat. You start moving from room to room, switching on lights as you go. The living room? Empty. Bathroom? Empty. Guest room? Nothing. You scan every corner, every shadow, peek behind every door with broom gripped tightly in hand.

The tension grows with every room you clear. The open doors groan behind you, the breeze from outside trailing in like fingers sliding across your back. The feeling of being watched is as strong as ever, and now you feel like you could throw up.

Your bedroom is the last place left.

You step in and flick the light on. The room is empty. Neat. Undisturbed.

And yet… your heart won’t stop racing. The hairs on your arms are standing straight up, and there’s a pit forming in your gut again, deep and cold.

You take a step back into the hall, gripping the flashlight tighter, half-waiting for something, anything, to jump out.

“Okay,” you whisper, trying to convince yourself. “Okay, it’s fine. I’m just tired. I’m overthinking this. He probably—he probably just stopped by, right? Left in a hurry. Right?”

You want to believe it. God, you want to believe it.

But then, just as your breathing starts to slow, just as you start to think maybe it really is nothing—

Arms wrap around you from behind.

A strong grip, smooth and steady, sliding across your waist, locking tight before you can even scream. You freeze. Your body goes stiff, lungs seizing as hot breath ghosts over your neck, close, too close.

You can’t move. You can’t even think. The broomstick is rendered useless in your hands. 

Until you hear that all-too-familiar chuckle humming into your ear…

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ JEFF THE KILLER

“Miss me, baby?”

You shoved the blunt end of the broomstick back with everything you had. It didn’t land hard, but it startled him enough that he stepped back with a laugh.

You whipped around, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum, and there he was.

Jeffrey.

His grin was still spread wide across that pale face, lips too stretched, eyes too sharp, the darkness under them as deep as ever. His hoodie hung off his frame like always, smudged with god-knows-what, hair falling wild around his face. He looked like something from a nightmare.

But he was your nightmare. And right now, he was standing in your hallway with his hands up in mock surrender and a cocky smirk like he hadn’t just scared the absolute hell out of you.

“God—Jeff!” you snapped, pressing a hand to your chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Too much to list, babe,” he said smoothly, taking a step toward you. “You looked so serious. I had to mess with you a little.”

“You left the door wide open.”

“I left it ajar.”

“Wide. Open.” You glared at him, storming past him toward the back door to slam it shut. “I thought someone broke in. I was about to call the cops.”

Jeff snorted, following you lazily. “Yeah? That would’ve gone well.”

You stopped and looked at him. “What if it wasn’t you?”

“It was,” he shrugged. “I got here first.”

“That’s not the point!”

Your voice cracked under the weight of the day. Between exhaustion, stress, and now this emotional whiplash, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You turned away, biting down on the frustration. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, not now, not ever.

“…Hey,” Jeff said softly after a moment, voice losing that teasing edge. “C’mon. Don’t be mad.”

You didn’t respond, just walked toward the kitchen to start your evening routine, collecting your abandoned bag from the ground and dumping your keys and phone on the counter. You opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again.

Jeff padded in behind you, quieter now. The change in mood was subtle, but real. He watched you for a second, then leaned his weight against the counter beside you.

“Rough day?” he asked, voice quieter this time.

You shrugged. “Same shit. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he smirked. “My day involved a guy’s trachea and a folding knife.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course it did.”

“I brought you something,” he offered.

You looked over at him warily. “Is it a severed finger again?”

“…No.”

“Because last time you said you brought me something, it was in a ziplock bag and I still have nightmares.”

Jeff chuckled. “Okay, this time, it’s better.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a single gas station chocolate bar, a little squished. He offered it to you like a peace treaty.

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You stole this, didn’t you?”

“Obviously.”

You took it from him with a sigh and opened it. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m too tired to stay mad.”

He grinned and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You always say that.” His lips were cold and he smelled like outside, meaning he had definitely walked here from the mansion. Also meaning he probably intended on staying the night. You didn’t mind, him being here made you feel safe.

You munched on the chocolate and walked toward the couch, flipping off all the lights you had turned on in your panic, and shedding your outer layer again as you sat with a deep exhale. “You’re not even supposed to be here tonight. You’re still on call, aren’t you?”

“I ditched early,” he said, dropping beside you like a cat, legs sprawled, arms resting behind his head. “Told Masky I had important business. And I do.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, kicking your feet up. “What business is that?”

He tilted his head toward you, eyes hooded. “You.”

You shook your head with a soft, helpless laugh. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“And you love it.”

His hand found your thigh, fingers tracing patterns there while you chewed the last bite of chocolate. The warmth of his palm soothed more than it should have.

“…Missed you,” you admitted finally, softer now. “Even if you’re the worst.”

Jeff turned his face toward you, smile a little smaller now, but more real.

“Missed you too.”

You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, feeling the weight of the day finally start to lift. He didn’t leave your side. Just stayed there, content, his presence strange and comforting all at once.

Jeff’s hands were warm and steady, his touch deliberate as he pulled you closer onto his lap. The weight of your body against his felt grounding, like an anchor to the calm you hadn’t realized you’d been craving all day. His fingers curled lightly around your waist, easing the tension that had curled tight inside you since morning.

His breath brushed softly against your ear, low and rough in a way that sent a comforting shiver down your spine. 

“Hey,” he murmured, voice thick with something softer than you expected. “You don’t gotta be so tense.”

His lips traced a lazy path down your neck, featherlight kisses that felt like a balm on skin that had been cold and raw for hours. You could feel the slow unwinding beginning deep inside your chest, the tight coil of exhaustion loosening with each gentle touch.

One hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingertips ghosting along your ribs, memorizing the curves and the way your breath hitched when he found the tender spots. You closed your eyes, letting his touch carry you away from the harsh buzz of the day—the deadlines, the weight of responsibilities, the pressure that never seemed to ease.

Jeff’s other hand traveled lower, trailing along your thigh, fingertips tracing delicate circles that sent warmth blooming through your skin. 

“My girl is so stressed,” he whispered against your skin, voice a soft promise. “We gotta fix that, right?”

You leaned into him, back to chest, letting yourself breathe him in—the faint scent of smoke and earth and something darker, something utterly Jeff. His hands moved with slow certainty, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, skin pressing against skin, grounding you in a way no words could. His fingertips were cold, but it wasn’t a terrible sensation.

His lips pressed firmly against yours, coaxing, teasing. The kiss was patient, undemanding, the kind that made your whole body still except for the slow burn growing inside your chest. His hands explored without hurry, mapping every line, every shiver, every breath you let slip.

They roamed down, fingers pushing past the waistband of your pants and slipping them down slowly, as if you wouldn’t be able to notice if he did it easy enough.

“Jeff,” you sighed, lying your head back onto his shoulder. 

The tightness in your jaw eased as he pressed his chin atop your shoulder, his eyes half-lidded with something raw and hungry. “Just relax,” Jeff breathed, his thumb tracing small, lazy patterns along your skin. “I’ve gotcha.”

You could feel tears prickling at the edges of your eyes—not from sadness, but relief. Relief that someone saw you, that someone wanted to take this burden away from you, even if only for a little while—even if that person used these same hands to end lives.

“You don’t have to fight it,” Jeff whispered, voice low and steady, coaxing you into surrender. “Let me help my baby out.”

He pushed the fabric of your pants down past your knees, the garment pooling onto your ankles as your thighs fell apart, kicking them off onto the carpet beneath.

The fabric of your panties was already damp, Jeff’s arm reaching around your hips to press his palm atop the fabric. He hummed in your ear, planting one wet kiss after another against the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe that he knew made chills run up your back.

You sighed, hands falling down beside you to grip the fabric of his jeans underneath, his arms wrapping around you tightly as you let your body relax into him.

“What so ever could they be doin’ to you at work to make you this tightly wound?”

“Jeffrey, do not talk to me about my job right now,” you huffed, gripping the side of his leg when he began to rub his thumb in tiny circles against your clothed clit. “You’re so mean.”

He chuckled, pressing his thumb down firmly. “That so?”

Jeff’s fingers were now rubbing against your folds through your panties, causing you to moan at the friction. He playfully nipped at your neck before looking at you with eyes that look like he wanted to eat you alive.

You were close to nagging at him for teasing so bad, until he’s moving both hands away from your cunt and up under the fabric of your shirt, sliding it up your stomach and over your bra, letting it bunch up on your chest under your chin.

“Jesus, I love you,” he groaned, palming your tits through your bra, squeezing them enough to make you whine, then letting them go. You could feel his bulge hardening against your back, the length pressing against your tailbone as Jeff slid his hands back down your stomach to the hem of your panties.

You reached your hands behind you, blindly searching for Jeff’s belt, before his hand snatched your arms forward.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, moving both of your hands back to your front and readjusting the two of you so you weren’t sitting directly on his bulge. “I’m takin’ care of you, baby.”

“You’re telling me the Jeffrey Woods doesn’t want to get off? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

“Enough,” he groans, slipping his fingers under the hem of your panties and dragging them down your thighs. You lift your hips, helping him get them down your knees and off your ankles. He cups his left hand under your knee, pulling your thighs apart as you place your right foot on the couch next to his leg. You gasp when the cold air hits your damp folds, but Jeff’s hand quickly comes to remedy that.

“Now shut up,” he grumbles, licking lewd little circles on your neck, thumbing open your puffy folds to watch in amazement at the way you glisten and clamp around nothing.

You sigh, letting your head fall limp against his shoulder as you watch his face, his brows knotted and concentrated as he runs his fingers through your slick, easing you more.

He pressed the pads of his fingers against your clit, swiping slowly back and forth, sending the nerves in your legs and stomach jerking, legs nearly closing if it weren’t for his hand tugging them back apart.

You tilted your hips up, trying to get his fingers to push down further to where your cunt was weeping and clamping around, sadly, nothing. You’re soaked, pussy lips practically glistening in the glow of your table-side lamp. Your whines were enough to make Jeff chuckle, the vibration of it against your back. “So impatient.”

“I don’t like to be teased, you kno—oh…”

You can’t even finish your sentence before his two middle fingers are pushing against your entrance, the first inches of them slotting in and out, loosening you up. You huff a gasp, stomach clenching as your walls immediately clamp tight around the thick digits, sucking them in greedily. Jeff watches over your shoulder with hungry amusement.

“This all for me? Shit, baby, I’m gonna have to ruin you.”

Jeff never has and never will be a patient man, no matter how breathy your moans are when his two middle fingers begin to pump deeper and deeper into your cunt with each jerk of his wrist. He doesn’t stop until he gets knuckle-deep, letting your filthy hole clamp and flutter around him, before massaging his fingertips against your walls.

“Ah, yeah—right there-” you groan, letting your knees fall limp apart as you reach behind your head to grip into the back of Jeff’s hair. The veins running up his forearm are bulging, muscles tensing as he begins to pump his fingers in and out, dragging the hilt of his palm against your clit with every jerk.

There’s no room to catch your breath, no time to readjust your body as it slips down his chest and further into his lap, only relying on Jeff’s hold on you to keep yourself upright. You grab and tug at his hair, searching for anything grounding as his knuckles bulge in and out of the first tight ring of muscle, cunt stretching across his fingers when he begins to scissor into you slowly.

You didn’t get to dwell in the feeling for too long before his fingers were slipping out of you, fingers soaked all the way to the knuckles as he dragged them back up to your clit and began massaging, faster this time. Harder.

“Oh shit—okay-” you whine, thighs instinctively trying to close back together, but Jeff’s grip holding tight as always. You tried to sit back up, to give your body some relief, but Jeff just pressed his fingers down harder.

“You’ve got it, babe. Don’t go runnin’ from it.” He growled, plunging them back into your cunt and starting to fuck them inside of you quickly. He gave you no time to adjust, curling and crooking his fingers to snag against every sensitive spot he knew all-too-well, his thumb rubbing circles into your clit.

“Jeff—hah—hold on-”

“No can do. Gotta finish what we started, right?”

Pulling back to tease your folds with your own slick, he plunges into your swollen pussy once more, easily hitting that spot over and over. 

“Hngh- Jeff, more!” You grind your hips to meet his merciless rhythm, clenching around his fingers. 

You feel as if you’re losing your sanity when he adds in another finger, walls burning as your cunt stretches around his thick digits, rhythmically curling upward. The noises are so lewd, wet squelching and skin slapping filling up the quiet noises of your house.

It’s halted when he’s dragging his fingers out again, moving to swipe against your twitching clit as he had before, but this time with a faster pace. More focused on making your lips fall open and whines of sensitivity slip from you. “Ah—hah, Jeff, c’mon-”

“Now now…not yet,” he tuts mockingly.

“Please, Jeff. Please let me cum.”

“Begging? Really?” He chides, pushing three fingers back into your sloppy with no resistance anymore, your cunt open and weeping around the stretch. “You really must be tired, huh?”

You feel his cock twitch against your back, jeans stretching over the bulge that reminds you he’s enjoying this just as much as you are. Well, you’d be enjoying this a lot more if you could fucking cum. Every time you get that familiar feeling, his fingers are slipping back and forth between hole and clit, ruining any build-up you had.

It took you jerking his hair and turning your face into the side of his neck with pitiful whines before he finally nestled his fingers deep inside again, sheathing them to the knuckle. Increasing his pace, abusing your g-spot relentlessly, Jeff knew by your breathy moans of his name that you were getting close. 

His left hand moves from under your knee, letting it drop atop his leg and dangle with all the exhaustion you held. His now-free hand wanders the expanse of your body—groping your breasts, gripping your hips back, forcing your ass to grind back into his clothed length. All the while your soft mewls making him grin.

Jeff’s hand, blister riddled and fingers calloused from years of weaponry, finally rest on your face. He pushes your cheeks together, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth and forcing you to look at him. Your dazed eyes meet his darkened ones, a smug grin as he rubs his thumb hard against your clit.

“Look at me when you cum,” he murmurs raspily into your neck, teeth ghosting over your rapid pulse. You couldn’t look away if you tried, his lips ghosting up your jaw and across your cheek until they planted firm on your puffed ones.

He tugs his fingers out, before slamming them just right inside of you. All you know is you’re cumming all over Jeff’s fingers, hands clutching into his hair and eyes rolling just enough to make your head feel light. Jeff watches the entire time, wide eyes trained on the way your lips fall open.

“Fuck! Jeff- Jeffrey!” You whimper.

“Yeah, there you go. There you go.”

He keeps his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers clamped together by your constricting walls, letting you ride out every rippling wave of your orgasm. His hand is soaked, your juices dripping from your cunt and down the roundness of your ass, down onto his jeans. You’ve made a mess.

As your climax bates, he buries his face in your neck, kissing softly over your slowing pulse. “Did so good, baby. You did perfectly,” he breathes out, hugging you closer as if to hide this vulnerable moment. But you feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin. You also still feel his cock pressing into your ass.

Lifting your head, you admire Jeff’s hardened features. Face flushed, lips swollen, dark eyes half-lidded as he stares down at you in admiration.

“You’re merciless. Ruthless, even.” You huff out a low laugh.

“No doubt about it.” He finally slips his fingers from inside you, your teeth gritting as your walls try their best to hold him in place.

His fingers are soaked, tips nearly pruning from the wetness. More juices pool from your cunt, sending a shudder down your skin, goosebumps rising on your legs from the cold. But even with all the uncomfortableness of it, you can’t help but notice your head has quit hurting, body isn’t as sore, overall attitude less fogged from the day you’ve had.

“I need a shower. And food. And to sleep for the rest of my life.”

“I’m pretty good at making people sleep for the rest of their lives.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, Jeff’s arms wrapping under your back and twisting you sideways, his one arm scooping up your legs and lifting you up as he stands off the couch. He carries you towards your bedroom, holding you close to his chest.

“You take a shower, I’ll make you food.”

“Your cooking sucks.”

“You’ll get over it.”

He set you down on the bathroom counter, the cold tile making you hiss as he sauntered over to start the water in the shower.

You couldn’t help but notice the obvious stain on his thighs, dark wetness soaking into the thick fabric. You smiled, glancing up just enough to see that he was still very-much sporting a boner.

“Are you still hard?” You smile, teasing him as the water begins to warm, steam rolling over the glass. Jeff doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and walks over to help you off the counter, pushing you towards the shower.

You think for a moment before stepping in, turning to run a hand down his chest, heart thudding against his ribs.

“If you make me a grilled cheese, I’ll suck your dick before we go to bed.”

Jeff doesn’t need to be convinced any further. With a kiss against your cheek and a helping hand to get the rest of your clothes off, he’s disappearing back toward the kitchen with a jittery laugh.

“Deal. But don’t get mad if it’s burnt, alright?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ MASKY

You froze.

A rush of cold spilled down your spine as two arms wrapped around your waist from behind, tight. But before panic could reach your throat or your hands could react with the broomstick, you heard a familiar breath—low, steady, a little tired.

“Hey,” came the voice, muffled against your shoulder. “It’s just me.”

Masky.

You let your tensed shoulders sag, releasing a sharp breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, and nearly dropping the broom on the ground.

He pulled you back a step, chest against your back, hands smoothing over your sides like he was trying to melt the stress out of your skin. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quietly. “The door, I didn’t have time to close it before you were unlocking the front. My bad.”

You twisted in his arms enough to look up at him. Even with the mask still on, his body said everything—guilt in the way he ducked his head slightly, gentleness in the way he held you like something he didn’t want to break. Still, you glared with all the anger and fear burning in your body.

“You think?” you grit, voice shaky but slowly recovering. “I thought I was about to get murdered.”

“Evidently.” He eyed the broomstick squeezed in-between the two of you. You nudged him, and he gave a slow exhale, cupping your face like he was handling porcelain. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Really.”

And you believed him.

“I should have grabbed a knife. Maybe getting stabbed will teach you to not to sneak up on people.”

“I promise you, it wouldn’t.”

You leaned into his touch just a little. “You always sneak around like a damn ghost. You ever think of just knocking?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Wouldn’t be me if I did.”

You rolled your eyes, but the tension was already ebbing. You wanted to be upset with him, but the constant hardened look in Masky’s eyes always rolled unease off your shoulders. He kissed your forehead through the mask, then nodded toward the kitchen.

“Sit. You’re gonna tell me about your day, and I’m gonna make you something before you start melting into the floor. You look beat.”

You didn’t argue. You dragged your feet to the living room, switching off all the lights you had flipped in your panic, throwing the broom back into the closet, dropped into the couch, and watched him bustle around like someone who had done this a dozen times before. He made sure to shut the back door, too. Coffee brewed, a pastry from your cupboard was plated, and all the while, his eyes flicked back to you with that quiet protectiveness he wore like a second skin.

When he returned, he gently nudged your legs to drape over his lap as he sat next to you. You crossed your legs, calves lying atop his thighs, back pressed into the arm of the couch, as he handed over his gifts.

“Eat first,” he muttered. “Talk later.”

You sighed at the first touch of his hands kneading into your calves, thumbs pressing into the tight spots just right. It was maddening how good he was at this. The kind of man who knew the exact angle to dig into the muscle, the exact pressure to make it all unravel.

You ate what he had made you, sipping on the steaming coffee that Masky just always seemed to know how to brew just right no matter what brand you bought. When finished, you laid it on the table next to your couch.

“Long day?” he asked, his voice quieter now, slower. He ran a hand up to your knee, not asking for more than you were willing to give.

“The worst,” you murmured, letting your head fall back. “You ever feel like no matter how much you do, it’s never enough?”

“All the time,” he said simply.

He worked his way up your legs, then, shifting until your knees bent and he could pull you into his lap without resistance. You settled into him with a quiet sigh, your cheek against his shoulder, cradling you. He smelled like cold air and pine needles, something earthy that grounded you instantly.

He tilted your chin gently, mask still on, but his mouth pressed atop your head, chin resting there. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But I’ll listen if you do.”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

And for a while, you just… talked. About the manager who wouldn’t leave you alone. About the customer who screamed over nothing. About how tired you were of pretending to be okay when really you just wanted the world to stop spinning for five minutes.

Masky didn’t say much—but his hands did. One arm around your waist, the other slowly brushing up and down your spine. Reassuring. Real. His mask shifted up his face while you spoke. First, above his mouth so you could see the dark facial hair across his jaw, then above his nose, then completely off, left on the table next to your dirty dishes. You tried not to make a show of seeing his face, but it always made you a little giddy when he removed his mask on his own.

And then—quietly, like he was asking permission—he lifted you just enough to shift you deeper into his lap. His other hand skimmed up your side, drawing idle circles as he began to press kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

“Forget the rest of it,” he murmured. “Right now, it’s just me and you.”

The heat of him, the slow way his fingers ghosted over your ribs, the softness in his voice—it was everything you needed and nothing you deserved.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he whispered. “Not with me.”

“Sam can be said about you, tough guy.”

He chuckled, but didn’t respond, so you continued.

“How was your day?”

He waited, thinking over his answer. “Had worse. But still not good. Left after everyone went to sleep ‘cause I decided I wanted to see you.” He paused for a second, glancing between you and the window outside. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Don’t. Stay as long as you want. Anything to get you out of that mansion for a bit, yeah?”

“If you insist,” he chuckled.

You melted then, entirely, your fingers curling in the front of his shirt. Letting him kiss your worries away, one soft press at a time. Every nerve in your body quieted. Every fear, every sharp edge the day left behind, dulled under the warmth of his touch.

You didn’t need anything else.

Until his hand dipped in-between your thighs. 

It wasn’t rushing or assuming, but just a flat palm slid between the warmth of your legs and resting against the apex of your body. The touch was lightening, tired body shifting to life when the hilt of his hand pressed firm against your center.

”Masky…” you breathed between kisses, half a question and half a sigh of want. He didn’t make any movement, but he didn’t pull away either, just continued kissing.

“Tell me to stop if you wish. Just want to help you relax a lil’.” He hummed against your temple, his facial hair tickling against your cheek.

“No— Uh, no.” You hesitated, evaluating your own body and tiredness, then accepting the fact that now you would be too stirred to relax anymore after the move he had just made. “Want you. Need you.”

“Easy now, don’t get worked up.”

“Hypocrite,” you shoved his shoulder, twisting off of his lap and planting your feet on the ground. You stood in front of him, facing away, and began to unbutton your pants. Your cheeks burned, no doubt Masky being able to see the deep red on the tips of your ears as you shimmied your pants down your thighs and off your legs.

You heard the unstrapping of laces behind you, boots being kicked off of feet and jacket being thrown to the other side of the couch before hands were planting on your hips and turning you around.

You placed your hands on Masky’s shoulders, his fingertips tracing the stitching of your panties as he leaned forward to place slow, breathy kisses against your stomach through your shirt. He hooked your panties around his thumbs, then slowly slid them down your thighs and off with your pants behind you. 

Masky lifted the hem of your shirt, placing another kiss just below your belly button before he was sitting back to look up at you, eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks a dark shade of red. You ran your fingers through the short hairs at the back of his head, but before you could make a move to remove any more clothes—his or yours—Masky was grabbing your arms, turning you, and pulling you down onto his lap.

He shuffled you both back, laying long-ways on the couch with his back sitting up against the armrest. He laid your back against his chest, planting his feet into the cushion so your legs hard to spread around them, cold air hitting your center with a chill.

“Wha- You’re not even taking your shirt off?” You question, readjusting and making yourself comfortable on top of him, entire body laying against his. Masky just chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and planting kiss after kiss against your neck.

“No need,” he hummed, running his hands down your waist and over the tops of your thighs, dipping under them to tug your legs back, pulling them apart. You planted your feet against each of his knees, socked feet slipping against the material of his jeans. “I scared you, so I have to make up for it somehow.”

“Ah, don’t say that,” you mumbled, hands tugging up the hem of your shirt as Masky’s rubbed further and further down. “I already forgave you.”

“Mhm. But I don’t see you stopping me.” You could feel his smirk against your jaw as he spoke, the deep baritone of his voice vibrating against your back. You would have given a retort back, but Masky was suddenly sitting up and hissing in pain.

“Wha-”

He reaches behind him, a click of something being unsnapped, and the rustling of metal. You’re jarred, until Masky pulls out his pistol that usually stays strapped to the holster on the back of his belt. He grimaced, setting the gun back on the nightstand next to the dishes.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“Whoops,” he chuckled, lying back down and dragging you back with him.

It was a blur of hands and lips next—Masky’s arm came to wrap around your middle, while his free hand grabbed your jaw and turned your head to kiss him fully. You smiled into the kiss, but found yourself being cut of when two fingers pressed between you, fingertips pressing against your lips.

You happily obliged, parting your lips as Masky sunk his thick middle fingers into your mouth, your hand wrapping around his wrist when he tried to push back further, slightly coughing on the digits.

“Nice and wet. There we go…” he hummed, feeling your tongue slip around his fingers and groan at the salty taste of them. Only when your drool began to coat your own lips and shine on his knuckles did he draw them out, leaving you breathless and flushed.

One arm still gripped around your middle, he let his spit-glistened fingers trail down between your legs. He found your clit immediately, wasting no time in pushing his fingers through your folds and spreading you open, fingertips pressed firm against your sensitive nub and drawing small circles.

“Ah, hah- Masky-” you huffed, planting your hands on his forearms and digging your nails into his sun-kissed skin. Thick veins ran up his arms, strong muscles from countless missions toning his body in all the right ways. It was mouthwatering, really. The only downfall? Every part of him was thick, fingers especially.

“Let it out, there you go.”

If there was one thing about Masky you knew for certain, he knew what he wanted and he always knew how to get it. Whether that be your noises, a specific body reaction, or just your pleasure all over his fingers—he was going to have it, and it was going to be now.

Another circle on your clit before Masky was pressing downwards, scissoring his fingers to spread your pussy lips apart and hum at the glisten that shone in the lamp light. You were dripping, and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

Your nails dug into the skin of his forearm when he began to prod his middle finger against your entrance, swiping up and down the slit but never fully pressing in. You whined, shifting your hips with each movement and praying that he would just finger-fuck you already.

“C’mon-”

“Shhh, don’t be whining,” he smiled, planting an open-mouth kiss against your neck, sucking the skin lightly and sending shock after shock through your body. “Need’a just let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

He tightens his grip on your waist, and you release a spell of air, giving Masky the chance to slip the first knuckle of his middle finger into the warmth of your cunt. You mewl, head lying back on his shoulder, eyes blinking slowly as he works the digit slowly in and out. It’s thick, and Masky can’t help but groan to himself at the way your folds stretch around it.

His bulge pressed against your back, the subtle shift and grind of his hips against you making you reel.

“More…” You huff, pushing his arm down and angling your hips up, whining for the entirety of his finger, not just the first knuckle.

“Greedy, greedy girl…” He purrs, popping off of your neck and moving up to your jaw, continuing his abuse there. Your neck is shining with his spit, little flowering bruises slowly fading in with each minute.

Masky obliges, curling his middle finger and pressing it deeper, warming his finger in your wetness and feeling the fluttering of your walls just begging for more, more.

You grovel, tilting your hips back and forth in time with his wrist, his one finger pumping in and out of you quickly, stirring your stomach with shocks of pleasure. It’s still not enough, you decide, turning your face into the side of Masky’s neck and whining there.

“Oh, what? C’mon, tell me what you want,” he slows his finger, teasing it in and out, the digit soaked with your arousal. “Don’t get all shy.”

“Another…”

“Another what, sweet girl?”

You huff, digging your nails into his arm just to prove a point, “Your fucking finger, Masky. Please.”

“Atta girl.”

Masky free arm unwraps from your waist, hand snaking down to press finger pads against your clit, hard—enough to make you flinch. You feel a second finger begin to stretch against your entrance, the tight ring of muscle sucking in the thick digits like they belonged there.

“Yeah—yeah—yeah-” You chant against his neck, tilting your gaze down to watch as one knuckle after another dips inside of you, just to tug back out again. He begins to slowly pump his two middle fingers in, your hips jerking to meet every pass.

His other hand does wonders, swiping lewdly across your clit, sounds of wet skin and arousal overtaking the silence of your home. You brace your hands on his forearms still, fingers clenching in time with his.

“Tell me what you’re feelin’, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your ear, biting at the carriage and sending goosebumps shooting across your skin. It’s accompanied with the repetitive massaging of that sweet spot deep inside that only he can reach, fingers pumping and knocking against every sensitive nerve on their way out. Masky knows your body like the back of his hand, and it’s proven here and now. “Let me hear that sweet voice.”

“Good—hah-” You gasp, gritting your teeth when he curls his fingers upwards, scissoring your cunt wider. “Jus-hngh-Just keep going.”

He gives a heavy circle onto your clit, fingers tugging at the nub, before his hand is retreating. You nearly whine, exasperated that he did exactly what you told him not to do, until his hand is wrapping around your wrist.

He maneuvers your hand down, pressing his fingers atop yours directly onto your clit, showing you how to rub yourself. When you slowly start doing the motion on your own, he lets your hand go.

You want to question, but he’s wrapping his hand around your jaw and tilting your face up, pressing a firm but wet kiss against your swollen lips. Then his fingers are slipping down, until his fist is wrapping around your throat and—

Oh.

The lightheaded sensation is instant, brain growing fuzzy with the little oxygen that you’re not getting to your head. He places the pressure on either side of your neck, right under your jaw, and squeezes until your lips are parting and you’re gasping.

Your fingers stall their movements on your clit, his two still pumping mercilessly into your sopping cunt, and a low rumble erupts from his chest.

Then his fingers inside of you come to a dead stop.

You whine, sucking in a rattled breath against the pressure constricting you, and try rocking your hips. Masky stays still.

“Move them fingers, sweetheart.”

You immediately light up, your hand getting to work at rubbing your cunt until tears prick the corners of your eyes, thighs jerking to close with every circle. Masky catches up immediately, the palm of his hand hitting against your fingertips every time he fucks his fingers into your wilting hole, his digits glistening.

His grip on your throat tightens, your eyes rolling back as your mouth creates an ‘oh’ shape, gasping for air. The air swimming in your brain makes your vision hazy, but it also heightens the sensations of every nerve lighting up in your cunt, every curl and jerk of fingers against yourself.

“You’re gettin’ close, pretty girl,” Masky hums, pressing his lips directly against your ear, gritting his teeth when your free hand comes up to wrap around his wrist. “Let it all out. Come all over me, sweetheart.”

His fist tightens one final time, your airway completely shuts out, and that’s what does you in. Your orgasm hits you like a train, hard and fast, and with barely any warning. Your nails are tearing into his arm, fingers rubbing your clit so hard you see stars, and his fingers—they’re slamming into your g-spot, legs shaking so hard they slip off his knees and fall wide. 

You cum into his palm, your arousal soaking his fingers and dripping down his wrist, absolutely covering your inner thighs and plush lips. Masky growls, deep and low, nipping at the corner of your ear while your cunt convulses and grips his fingers impossibly tighter.

He lets his grip off your throat, a crying gasp for air that has your stomach tightening and eyes shooting wide. He shushes you, rubbing methodical circles against your cheek as your head falls back limp against his shoulder. You’re shaking all over, body absolutely wrecked.

It took more effort than you care to admit for Masky to slowly tug his fingers out of you, muscles clamping down against the digits like they were begging him to stay.

The couch creaked softly beneath you both as you lay draped over him, cheek pressed against the side of his neck, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat in his pulse.

Masky’s arms slung lazily around you, one hand tracing slow circles onto your chest, the wiping against his pant-leg. His chest rose and fell beneath you, and you felt his lips brush your temple.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-warm, like it had melted under the weight of contentment. “So damn good for me.”

Your tired body softened further at the praise, sinking against him with a faint sigh. He could feel your heartbeat syncing with his, slower now, soothed. There was no residual work-related emotion left in your body, no room when now all you could think about was how good you felt, how full.

His fingers ghosted along your jaw again, dragging a quiet shiver from you despite the warmth still lingering between your bodies. “You’re so pretty,” he added, quieter this time, like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud—but he said it anyway. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You nuzzled against him, and he chuckled — low and affectionate. Then, gently, he shifted beneath you.

“C’mon,” he whispered, sitting up with you still loosely wrapped in his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You wanted to protest, say you were fine, but your legs felt like jelly and your brain wasn’t quite caught up to your body yet. He carried you effortlessly, strong arms cradling you to his chest, his jacket and your pants abandoned on the floor behind him.

He carried you to your bedroom, sitting you on the bed while he disappeared to the bathroom. You could’ve fallen asleep right there, if the chilly air was lighting your body with goosebumps.

The bathroom lights were low and the tub was already half-full, steam curling upward like fog in the amber light when he gathered you back up and guided you to the bathroom, helping you remove the rest of your clothes.

Masky sat on the edge of the tub with you still in his lap, his skin warm where it met yours, holding you like you were something fragile and precious. The water lapped gently at the porcelain.

He ran his hand along your arm, soothing, grounding. “I got you,” he said. “Always.”

Once he eased you into the water, you sank with a small moan, the heat cradling you like a second set of arms. You leaned back against the edge of the tub, head falling to the side where Masky sat on a folded towel beside it, one arm slung along the rim, fingers trailing in the water next to yours.

You blinked up at him through the haze. There was this softness in his eyes he never showed anyone else. Not even the others. Just you.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“Yeah…” you breathed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Just… floaty.”

He smiled, barely there. “That’s the idea.”

Silence stretched comfortably between you, the kind that doesn’t need filling. Just the sound of the water sloshing quietly as he washed your legs, gentle and unhurried.

“I’ll be gone in the morning,” he said suddenly, not looking at you. “Long mission coming up, some out of town stuff.”

You opened your eyes at that, meeting his gaze.

He reached forward to brush wet strands of hair from your face, thumb trailing down your cheek. “I promise not to sneak up on you when I get back. Keep yourself safe until then.”

Your hand found his, fingers curling around his wrist, and you smiled—soft, tired, but real.

“Will you wake me up?” you whispered. “Just so I can kiss you bye.”

His lips quirked, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

“Of course.”

You knew he wouldn’t, knew that he would get too sentimental about letting you sleep, but that was for tomorrow.

Tonight, you just couldn’t wait to kiss his face and tell him your every thought before slipping off to sleep.

And maybe repaying the favor, too.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ TICCI TOBY

You heard the fast cadence of feet moving behind you before you ever saw who it was, so obviously, you swung around broom-handle first. 

You felt the CRACK of wood against something hard, then turned the rest of your body around to see—

Toby?

His shoulder slumped against the wall, hands up in defense, and a sheepish grin on his now-red face. You knew he didn’t feel the pain of the hit, but he definitely felt the way it shook his brain for a second.

“Toby—!” you snapped, whirling towards him and swatting at his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He was already grinning—goggles askew in his messy brown hair, hoodie half unzipped like he’d just walked in from a tornado. He ducked your halfhearted hits with an exaggerated lean, still giggling.

“You should’ve se-seen your face,” he said, wheezing through his grin. “I was gonna jump out from the closet but figured you might act-actually kill me.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t just now,” you muttered, heart still racing.

Toby tilted his head. “Yeah, but then you’d be stuck all alone again. Didn’t y-you miss me?” He stepped closer, hands slipping around your waist.

Your lips pressed into a line, still too wound-up from the fear to melt into his teasing right away. “Maybe. A little. But not enough to forgive you sneaking in through the back door like a horror movie villain.”

He leaned in, rubbing his nose gently against the side of your face. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Just… couldn’t help it. You’re so fun to surp-surprise.”

You sighed, the weight of the day still pressing down on your shoulders. He felt it too—because his smile dimmed, his hand reaching up to trace the curve of your spine over your shirt, slowly and carefully.

“Tough day?”

You nodded. “Always is.”

“Then let me fix that.”

Before you could argue, Toby grabbed your hand and gently tugged you toward the couch, taking the broom from your hands and throwing it back into the hall closet. “C’mon. Si-Sit down. You can yell at me later—right now you need to unwind.”

Toby’s hand was warm, his grip light as he tugged you toward the living room. You didn’t resist, not this time. After the day you’d had—and the scare he gave you—you didn’t have the energy to argue. Not when your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts were foggy from pushing too hard for too long.

The two of you flipped off every light you had anxiously flipped on on the way back, and made sure to shut the back door tight.

He plopped onto the couch first, legs spreading carelessly as he sank into the cushions with a groan that sounded far too satisfied, kicking his boots off. Then, without waiting, he grabbed your arm and pulled you down with him—until your body was tucked into his side, your head resting against his hoodie-covered chest, the rhythm of his breathing loud in your ear.

“That’s better,” he mumbled, shifting slightly so he could wrap both arms around you, folding you into his warmth like a blanket he’d been missing for days. “You always smell like… I dunno. Like so-soap. And work.”

You chuckled weakly, your body already starting to sink against him. “That’s probably accurate.”

He made a content little noise in the back of his throat, the sound vibrating in his chest under your cheek. Then one hand came up—calloused fingers brushing your hair back, again and again in soft, soothing strokes. He played with the strands absently, combing them through with care, sometimes curling a few around his finger and letting them slide loose.

You didn’t realize how much you needed this until you felt yourself beginning to melt.

No pressure. No noise. Just the low hum of his breathing, the sound of the wind against the house, and his fingertips skimming over your scalp like he was drawing patterns only he could see.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to.

Toby was always better at this than you expected. For someone who buzzed with chaos and laughter and unpredictable energy, he could be surprisingly… still. When it counted. And right now, he knew better than to fill the space with words.

You closed your eyes.

“Want me to get you anything?” he murmured after a while, quieter now. “Water? Snacks? I saw a bag of chi-chips in the pantry that looked lonely.”

You shook your head. “Just this.”

“That’s easy,” he whispered, a soft smile curling against your temple. “I can do this all night.”

He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch with one arm, dragging it around both of you with a lazy flourish, then curled tighter around you. His chin rested gently on top of your head, and his thumb traced a lazy, slow circle on your side. Over and over. Repeating the motion like it meant something. Like maybe he was grounding himself too.

You didn’t have to talk. You didn’t have to think. He made sure of that—kissing your forehead now and then, humming softly under his breath, keeping his arms steady and his presence warm and close and real.

“You’re good now,” he said, so quiet you barely heard him. “I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

And for the first time that day—hell, maybe the first time that week—you believed it.

And in the lull of your stress fading and his fingers gently massaging behind your ear, it finally clicked: no matter how weird or chaotic or infuriating Toby could be, he always came back to you like this—like home.

But every home has its cracks, and every crack is a breach at the foundation. And sure as hell, you both had your cracks.

You tried and tried to get comfortable, but after a little bit, your body was just too sore, mind too hazy with work. But, like the adult you were, gritted your teeth and scrunched your brow. Toby, however, wasn’t going to let you get off so easy.

“‘Just this’ my ass,” he laughed, pulling your hips back against his when you turn off of his body and onto your side, back flush against his front. “You’re still sw-swimmin’ in stress.”

Even though he can’t see you, you roll your eyes at his dramatics. It’s hardly the first time you’ve forced yourself to sleep through a muddy brain, and usually by yourself. If anything, Toby’s pestering is making it more of an impossible task.

And yet, here he is wrapping his arms around your middle and pressing his face into your hair. His body shifts closer, the two of you laid out against the other, trying your best to play sleepy, knowing full well the other was wide awake.

You can’t help it.

You peel yourself from his body, sitting up and planting your feet off the ground. Toby groans, hands trying to grip at your shirt, but you’re already moving to the kitchen by the time he’s up.

“Whe-Where’re you going?

The kettle’s old, a little too loud when it clicks onto the burner. You reach for the tea tin, fingers trembling slightly from the built-up static in your bones. You didn’t even realize how deep the tension ran until you peeled yourself away from the couch. Every joint ached like your body was still clocked in.

Toby isn’t far behind, of course.

You hear the soft pad pad pad of his mismatched gait, socks barely making a sound on the floor. He doesn’t say anything right away—just leans his shoulder against the doorway, watching. You feel his stare like a heat across your back.

“…You didn’t answer me,” he says after a beat, voice thick and scratchy, like it’s caught somewhere between sleep and screaming.

“I needed something warm,” you mumble. “Can’t settle.”

“Couldn’t se-settle with me,” he teases, pushing off the doorframe. “Ouch.”

“It’s not you,” you say with a soft huff, grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet. “It’s just work. Manager’s still refusing to hire more help.”

He hums, unconvinced, and steps closer. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his hands find your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just enough to touch skin. The contact makes you shiver. Not cold—never with him around.

“I said you were st-still swimmin’ in stress.” His voice is closer now, the warmth of his breath skimming the curve of your shoulder. “Bet your head’s still full’a ema-email chains and shit.”

“It is,” you admit, biting back a sigh, scooping loose tea leaves into the strainer with slow, practiced fingers. “And tomorrow’s gonna be worse. I should be in bed.”

“So let me help,” he murmurs, all faux-innocent as his hands start to travel. “Didn’t I alrea-already do such a good job loosening you up earlier?”

“Toby,” you say warningly, but there’s no bite in it.

He grins into your shoulder.

The kettle isn’t even halfway to boiling when you feel him really close the distance — chest to your back, hips pinning you lightly to the counter, the twitchy energy in him turning molten. His lips brush your neck, first a feather-light graze, then a drag, then a kiss, slow and open-mouthed, right at the base of your throat.

Your breath catches in your lungs.

“Tobes…”

“You smell like me now,” he says into your skin, nose nuzzling behind your ear. “You got no idea how hard it is not to wanna crawl here after every day, just to see you, touch you, feel you.”

His hands spread wide across your stomach, palms flattening to keep you close. The gentle motion of his thumbs stroking absent patterns is a stark contrast to the heat coiling behind his kisses.

You let your head tip slightly, involuntarily—the smallest invitation.

“Still stressed?” He murmurs, one hand skimming undernesth your shirt and up to your ribs, not quite groping—just holding, grounding. “Or do I fi-finally feel you easin’ up?”

Your body is softening against him despite yourself. “You’re cheating.”

“You’re too uptight,” he counters, tone half-mockery, half-concern. “I’m just multitasking. Bein’ g-good for you and selfish at the same time.”

The kettle starts to whisper with pressure.

You could push him off. You should, maybe—wait for the tea, try to rest like an adult. But he feels safe against your back, fingers warm, breath warmer. Your thoughts slow a little under his touch, each kiss tugging you further from the work-stained haze you’d been drowning in.

“You’re not gonna let me drink that tea in peace, are you?”

Toby chuckles, the sound dark and fond and unmistakably turned on. His lips graze lower, teeth barely grazing where your shoulder meets your neck.

“…Nope.”

And then he bites, hard—enough to make you groan.

You grip the counter harder, bracing yourself as he presses fully into you from behind. You can feel him—hard, twitching, needy, through the thin fabric of both your clothes, and it makes your breath hitch again.

“I thought this was about helping me relax,” you say shakily, lips tugging into a grin despite the heat pooling between your legs.

He laughs, husky and low. “Oh, I am helpin’,” he mutters, biting gently at your earlobe. “You’ll be too tire-tired to think by the time I’m done.”

Toby watches over your shoulder as he unbuttons your pants, tugging them open as he dips his hand in and under the front of your panties, barely giving you time to gasp before his fingers are pushing through the growing wetness at your center.

Your hips buck against the counter as he drags two fingers over your folds, slow, testing. You’re already out of breath.

“Well fuck, sweetheart,” he growls, voice suddenly wrecked with want. “I haven’t even gotten st-started yet.”

“Your fault,” you whisper back, trembling, eyes fluttering shut as he teases his fingers through your folds, swiping slick against your puffy lips. “You started it.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he promises darkly, licking up your neck again. “Right here.”

Your eyes almost roll into the back of your head as he crooks one evil finger through your folds, gathering your slick to aid the taunting circles he begins to draw over your clit. He doesn’t care to drag your pants down any further, perfectly content with shoving your front against the counter and pressing his bulge against the roundness of your ass.

“Aha—Toby-” You whine, his fingertips rubbing merciless circles against your clit, your knees resisting the urge to buckle and crash you into the floor. Toby, all the while, is littering your neck with bites and kisses, disregarding exactly how much whiplash this is giving you. “Slow, agh—slow down.”

He lets off your neck, his free hand coming up to grip your jaw with wincing force, twitchy fingers dragging your deeply flushed face to turn and look at him.

He bores wide eyes at you down the length of his nose. He looks gloriously smug as he eases his middle finger inside you, but his mouth curling upwards at the wanton moan that spills from your lips as you clench around him.

“Naughty girl,” he murmurs, as he curls it just so. You nod fervidly and capture his lips in a desperate kiss, as though eager to prove his point. You whimper against his mouth when he repeats the movement, and he swallows the sound of your pleasure; opening up to you and delving in with his tongue.

His finger is quick, edgy jerks of his wrist lighting your cunt up with shock after sensitive shock as your thighs shake under you. His tongue explores your mouth, spit coating each other’s lips with each hungry kiss Toby plants upon you.

Pressure builds against the kettle's spout, air growing louder. 

“Think I can make my sweet girl cum before your pre-precious tea is ready?” He grits, popping off of your mouth with a satisfied grin and spit-glistened lips. You go to shake your head, go to tell him to take it easy, but he’s already bullying another finger into your sopping cunt, panties soaked nearly through your work pants.

“Jesus, Toby—yeah, yeah okay-” you spread your legs a little wider, leaning just a little further against the counter as Toby’s palm nudges ruthlessly against your sensitive clit.

He smiles wide, pressing his hips harder against your ass, grinding himself in time with his curling fingers as his free hand snakes up the front of your shirt, groping your tits. He’s becoming frantic, and you can only hope to keep up.

You bite down on your tongue to cut short your whiny moan as Toby presses the pad of his fingers into your g-spot. The depths of his eyes glitter dark with malevolent glee as you writhe between him and the counter—your body caught in a battle between wanting to chase what his fingers are doing and needing him to stop for two damn seconds so you can focus on not buckling under both his and your weight.

“Let it all out, c’mon sw-sweet girl, let me hear you,” he growls against your jaw, nipping against the skin there. Your hips jerk in time with his hand, body following the rub of his palm on your clit, feeling the ever-closer tightness in your gut.

He pulls out of you and begins to circle your clit once more.

Your frustration materialises in a noise that’s partway between a whine and a growl, and you throw your head back against his shoulder—dishevelled breathing nearly overshadowing the faint whistle building on the kettle.

There’s no controlling the way your hips roll to compliment his movements, even though you’re trapped against the counter thoroughly enough that your own movements are limited by Toby’s arm.

“Please,” you beg.

“Please what?”

Your hips buck when he catches on a particularly sensitive spot, a desperate attempt to have his fingers press into your entrance again. But he moves with you, continuing only to draw stuttering patterns.

“Let me hear you, sweet girl,” he repeats.

Your breaths have increased to a heavy pant, broken only by the small gasps and mewls at each movement he makes—all at once too much and not nearly enough. 

Maybe it’s the stance, or the overstimulation, or the fact that you’re about the cry if Toby doesn’t put his fucking fingers in your fucking pussy. But you’re slipping one hand off the counter and reaching back to tangle into his hair, dragging his gaze to meet yours.

“Please, Toby,” you pant. “I don’t care how fast you go, I do—hah—don’t care what you do. I just need to cum, right now. I need you to make me cum, Toby.”

Each word from your rambling mouth makes Toby’s eyes widen, grin growing wider and wider. He doesn’t need to be convinced any longer.

You mewl as he curls his fingers inside you, dragging against your walls as he begins a rapid, tear-jerking rhythm. He kisses and sucks at your ear, tugging on the lobe with a sharpness that has your eyes clamping shut and moans shrieking from your lips.

His free hand slithers from under your shirt to snag a bruising grip on your hips, encouraging you to grind your hips down onto his hand, his own hips rutting against you like a dog.

“Yeah, Toby—Yeah.”

You moan as he scissors his fingers inside you. You’ve been so overwhelmed by sensations until now that you’re only just realising the kettle is nearly ready, faint whistle growing louder—as Toby’s fingers grew faster.

“C’mon, baby, almost there—al-almost there.”

He adds a third finger, and begins to pump into you with much more intention than before, the hilt of his palm purposefully rutting against your clit, cunt absolutely sloppy with your arousal in your panties.

“I’m close—Toby, ‘m so close, c’mon-”

“Let me feel it, sweetheart.”

His fingers hit a particularly sweet spot, and you gasp in approval as he begins to pick up speed, hitting that spot again and again, coaxing and curling and grinding his palm relentlessly against your clit.

Toby pays rapt attention to your face as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes dart between yours, and his lips curl upwards with every desperate sound that spills from you. He supports your weight while your legs tremble beneath you, and you cling to him for dear life as your stomach muscles shake, and coil ever tighter until everything inside you is pulled taut and—

The tension snaps. Your spine arches against him, his hips plowing against yours, and you cry out as the first relentless waves of your orgasm crash over you. Toby guides you through each pitiful swell with deep strokes that have you seeing stars. He doesn’t dare to let a single ripple of pleasure pass you by.

You’re still gasping for breath, knuckles white against the counter, thighs twitching where they press together, trying to regain some sense of control—but your body is spent, trembling, soaked through.

Toby’s palm is warm and steady where it rests between your legs, the heel of his hand applying just enough pressure to keep the mess contained while you come down from the high. His fingers slowly slip from you, careful not to overstimulate, though the ghost of them lingers, making you shudder in place.

Then—

The kettle screeches, high whistle filling the air.

Toby snorts through his nose, resting his forehead against your shoulder with a groan.

“Well, looks like I win,” he mutters, sounding slightly dazed himself.

You’re still catching your breath, legs barely cooperating. “I can’t move.”

He doesn’t hesitate—just guides you easily by the waist and back towards your bathroom, minding your still-sensitive body. He keeps one hand on your hip while grabbing a rag with the other, wetting it with warm tap water.

“Stay put,” he murmurs. “Lemme clean you up.”

You hum softly, dazed and grateful as he shimmies your pants and panties off of your hips and down your legs, this time not with lust, but with care. He eyes your soaked panties.

“Ruined ’em,” he comments, not unkindly. He gives you a cocky little smirk. “Might fra-frame ’em.”

“Gross,” you whisper, but there’s a sleepy smile on your face now.

His hands are gentle now—soft wipes between your thighs, slow dabs where the fabric is soaked. The wet heat of your panties clings uncomfortably, and without asking, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and peels them down.

Once he’s done wiping you clean, he presses a lingering kiss to your cheek—reverent this time—and tugs your shirt down to cover you back up before standing. He moves with less twitch now, more grounded, like something has calmed the buzzing in his own nerves.

He wipes you gently, but when he shifts to toss the rag into the sink behind him, the movement presses his hoodie up just enough for you to see.

A dark, unmistakable patch soaks through the front of his jeans.

Your brows lift slowly, a smile creeping across your face. “Toby.”

He freezes, mid-reach. “…Yeah?”

You lean forward, tapping a finger against the wet spot on his pants. “Did you seriously come in your pants?”

He jerks slightly at the touch, groaning as if you’d just caught him doing something far worse. “Fu-Fuck, don’t say it like that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears flush red through his messy hair. “You were… God, you were makin’ noises, s-squeezin’ my fingers, it felt so good grinding against you… I wasn’t exact-exactly in control.”

You snort, amused and charmed all at once. “Didn’t even get your dick touched, and you still—”

“Don’t,” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh again, light and warm, and slide to stand in front of him. His hands instinctively land on your hips to steady you, but he avoids your eyes, embarrassed even though he’s the one who just made you come undone with his fingers alone.

“Hey,” you say gently, hands smoothing up under his hoodie, resting at his waist. “Let me take care of you now.”

His eyes open at that—cautious, a little wide. “You d-don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in, smiling softly. “But I want to.”

He swallows hard as you pull him toward the sink where the rag lies, damp and forgotten. You grab a clean one instead and dampen it with warm water, testing the temperature before turning back to him. “Pants down, killer.”

He stares at you like you just said the most blasphemous thing imaginable. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you counter.

Toby groans in defeat, tugging open his jeans and boxers with minimal ceremony, wincing at the sticky mess inside them. You don’t laugh—not this time. Instead, you step between his legs, towel in hand, and meet his gaze with soft, adoring mischief.

“You really did make a mess,” you murmur, crouching slightly as you press the towel gently against him. You wipe him down with care, the same way he did for you—slow, soothing, careful not to tease too much, though it’s hard when you hear the little breathy sounds he makes.

He grips the edge of the counter behind him, watching you like you’re some kind of religious experience. “Fuckin’ hell, watch your hands.”

“I just like seeing you flustered,” you tease, brushing the inside of his thigh lightly.

He hisses softly. “You’re mean.”

“I’m sweet,” you correct, finally finishing your gentle cleanup and tossing the towel into the sink behind you. “You’re just really easy to get riled.”

He grabs your waist again and pulls you up against him, nose brushing yours. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna make us both miss tea and bedtime.”

You press a kiss to his jaw, light as a feather. “Tempting. But I think I’ve earned my tea.”

You both fix your clothes, you slipping on a fresh pair of bottoms, and shuffling back to the kitchen.

The kettle is still whistling softly, having clicked off on its own. He moves to pour the water, and you slide to grab the mugs, still a little wobbly in the knees.

He steadies you with ease, eyes flicking down to check on you.

“You okay?”

You nod, curling into his side. “Yeah. Sleepy, now.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “My duty has been fulfi-fulfilled.”

He hands you your mug first—your favorite one, the one he always pretends not to use but definitely steals when you’re not home. He hands you a steaming cup of tea steeped to perfection, then takes his own and nudges you toward the couch.

You settle in against him, tucked under his arm, legs draped across his lap. He presses a palm to your thigh, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you sip.

There’s still tension in your muscles, yes—but it’s softer now. Quiet. Manageable.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say quietly.

He hums, resting his head against yours. “Yeah, I did. You weren’t gon-gonna stop. You never do.”

“Hypocrite,” you snide, but he looks down at you with that rare, unfiltered softness.

“I want you tak-taken care of,” he says simply. “I beat too many randos up everyday. Sometimes I just wanna take care of somebody.”

Your heart swells. The tea in your hand warms your palms, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that fills your chest.

You lean into him, nose tucked into his hoodie, your body finally able to melt against something solid. He holds you there in silence, kissing the top of your head every so often.

The night is quiet now—no stress, no thoughts of work.

Just tea, Toby, and the steady, rhythmic beat of a heart that’s completely and totally in sync with yours.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ HOODIE

Arms wrap around you from behind. Firm. Familiar. Gloved hands press against your stomach, steadying you as you flinch and try to spin around, broom handle gripped tight.

“No need to scream,” his voice is low, calm, muffled slightly by the fabric of his mask. “It’s just me.”

You tense. “Jesus, Hoodie!”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You turn in his arms to face him—not able to see his expression beneath the worn fabric of his hood, but it doesn’t matter. The tension bleeding from his shoulders says enough. He’s tired, like you. But he’s here.

“You left the door wide open,” you mutter, pushing against his chest with a huff, his hand leaving your waist to remove the broom from your hands. “You know I’ve had the worst week. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I thought something happened.”

He nods, quiet, and doesn’t let you pull away too far. “I got the weekend off. I was going to surprise you. Thought I’d beat you home.”

You raise a brow. “So you decided to break in?”

“Technically, I have a key,” he mumbles under his breath.

You cross your arms, unimpressed.

“Okay,” he concedes with a sigh. “I messed up.”

Despite your irritation, a little huff of laughter escapes. He always does this—makes you want to stay mad just a little longer than you can actually hold it. Still, the adrenaline is slowly leaving your system now, and your body remembers how exhausted you are.

He watches you for a moment. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He doesn’t press you. Instead, he steps out of your space and heads to the kitchen like he owns the place—and honestly, after all this time, maybe he kind of does. You hear the sounds of a mug being pulled down, the soft trickle of water filling the kettle. Cabinets opening. The scrape of a plate. It’s methodical. Gentle. Like he’s trying to undo the jolt he gave you.

You follow him, arms still crossed, trying not to let your annoyance outweigh your relief. On your way back, you flip off every light you had turned on in your frenzy, and make sure to shut the back door firmly.

Hoodie sets a steaming cup of tea in front of you a few minutes later and tugs the kitchen island chair back. “Sit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I’m the one who scared you half to death. Let me make it up to you.”

You blink at him. That’s as close to a romantic apology as you’re probably going to get. So… you sigh, scoop up the tea, and scoot into the stool. 

The mug’s warmth sinks into your palms. You lift it to your lips, take a slow sip—earthy, floral, a little sweet—and let out a sigh. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t disappear, but it dulls a bit, enough to make you realize how tightly you’ve been holding everything inside.

Across the island, Hoodie leans against the counter, his own mug cradled loosely in one gloved hand. His head is tilted slightly, watching you in that quiet, patient way of his — like he’s giving you time to unwind, wordlessly encouraging you to talk without pushing. 

You glance up at him through tired lashes. “Long week,” you murmur.

He nods. “Figured.”

“You?”

A grunt of acknowledgement. “We were out on rotation. Recon, mostly.” He shifts a bit, pulling his hood down with one hand and sliding the mask up above his nose just enough to drink. “Nothing exciting, but… exhausting.”

You frown a little. “You’re back early. That usually means something went wrong.”

He shrugs. “Not wrong. Just… tense.” A pause. “Tim’s been on edge.”

“More than usual?”

“Mhm.”

You blow softly on your tea, letting the heat curl against your lips. “Work’s been hell. My boss is a micromanaging narcissist and I’ve had two people quit in the last ten days. One of them cried in the break room before they left.”

Hoodie hums, like he’s picturing that too vividly. “You quit yet?”

You let out a dry little laugh. “I fantasize about it. Daily.”

“Do it,” he says simply. “I’ll hide the body.”

You roll your eyes, but the grin sneaks in anyway. “Not every problem can be solved by murder.”

“That’s where we differ.”

Another beat of silence passes, but it’s not awkward. Just shared weariness between two people who trust each other to hold the quiet without needing to fill it.

Then Hoodie lifts the front of his sweatshirt to his nose, sniffs himself, and grimaces.

You raise an eyebrow. “Charming.”

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “We really are disgusting.”

You smirk into your cup. “I didn’t want to say anything, but you do smell like old sweat and outside.”

He glares at you over the rim of his mug. “You smell like stress and three-day-old coffee.”

“Fair.”

He finishes the last of his drink, sets it down with a soft clink, then pushes away from the counter. “Come on. Shower.”

You blink, surprised. “Together?”

He pauses. His body language doesn’t change, but you can feel the way his attention snaps to you—heavy and focused like a shift in air pressure.

You weren’t trying to sound suggestive, not really. But the way his eyes darken just slightly beneath the mask, the subtle way he squares his shoulders—it hits you low in your stomach.

“…That an invitation?” he asks, voice lower now. Rougher.

You stare at him for a long moment. Then nod. “Yeah. It is.”

The tension that follows is thick—not awkward, but heavy with something slow-burning, simmering beneath the exhaustion. Craving contact and comfort in the most stripped-down way.

He doesn’t move quickly. Just steps around the island and stops in front of you, gloved fingers brushing yours where they rest against the mug. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to.

Because when his hand slides into yours and you let him lead you down the hallway, it’s not about rushing or undoing the tension with heat—it’s about scrubbing off the week, the weight, the grime, together.

The bathroom is quiet, lit only by the small bulb over the mirror and the faint orange glow bleeding in from the hallway. You pad in behind him, feet soft against the tile, while Hoodie reaches for the knobs on the shower.

The pipes groan as hot water spills from the head, steam rising slowly. His gloves come off first, dropped beside the sink in a damp little thud. You reach out without a word, your hands brushing his as you move to help—first with his sweatshirt, tugging the hem up, his arms lifting in silent permission.

He watches you the entire time. You can’t see his eyes fully behind the fabric, but you feel them. Heavy. Focused. You pull the hoodie up over his head and it catches briefly on his mask—the cloth tight over his jaw—and you freeze. One hand lifts gently, thumb brushing the edge of the mask just above his cheekbone.

His body tenses.

“I don’t have to,” you whisper.

But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak. He just watches.

So slowly, carefully, you slide the mask up and off—exposing his mouth, his knotted brows, the quiet twitch of nerves along his throat as he swallows. His blond hair is messy, but you don’t care to fix it. You don’t stare. You just fold the fabric and set it aside, stepping close enough to press a kiss just beneath his chin. He exhales—long and low—and his hands settle on your hips, grounding himself.

Then it’s your turn.

You tug your own shirt over your head, his hands slipping around your back as soon as it’s gone. You feel him press a kiss to your collarbone, soft and unhurried, while you make quick work of the rest—pants, socks, underwear. He follows suit, until the only thing between you is warmth and anticipation.

The shower is fogged by the time you step in.

The hot spray hits your shoulders first, drawing a sigh from you both. You lean back against him as he closes the curtain behind you, his body flush against yours, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist. The water beads down your skin, over your back, between your bodies.

Neither of you speak.

His hands start slow—washing, soothing, mapping the lines of your body like he’s grounding himself in the shape of you. You do the same, fingers sliding across the plane of his chest, up to his shoulders. You trace the curve of his neck, the muscles tense beneath your fingertips, and he lets out a low hum that vibrates against your back.

His hands wander lower, over your stomach, hips, the inside of your thighs. Not demanding—just feeling. Exploring without pressure.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder. “Still feel gross?” you murmur.

His lips brush your ear. “Not even a little.”

You laugh, breathless, and twist in his arms so you’re facing him. The spray catches you both in the face, so he shifts slightly, shielding you with his body. One hand cups your jaw, the other smoothing over your lower back, pulling you closer.

Your chest presses to his, slick and warm under the water.

He doesn’t kiss you yet—just watches, eyes roaming your features like he’s trying to memorize every expression. One of your hands comes up to brush his damp hair back from his forehead. He’s so much more real like this. Human. Not the shadow you’ve grown used to meeting in alleyways or at your back door.

You lean in. Your lips touch his.

It’s slow. Not rushed or hungry—just hot, steady, present. He kisses you like he means it, like it matters. Like being here, with you, is the only thing that’s made his week feel real.

His hand slides down again, fingers brushing the swell of your ass, pulling you in. Your thighs meet his hips. Your body melts against him.

And it’s not just comfort anymore. It’s hunger in disguise.

The spray from the shower rolls heat around you, hot and soothing—but the real heat is pressed against you. He turns you, Hoodie’s chest flush to your back, his hands skimming up your sides, palms calloused but purposeful. Every touch is unhurried, deliberate, like he’s tracing your nerves from memory.

One hand finds your jaw, turning your face slightly so he can kiss you again—slow, deep, his lips dragging across yours like he’s trying to sink into you. The other dips lower, brushing your stomach, your hip, until he’s between your thighs.

You gasp, fingers gripping his wrist.

His palm flattens across your mound, his fingertips dipping between your thighs with featherlight pressure—teasing, exploring. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches your face tilt slightly toward his, breath quickening when his fingers stroke along your slit.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “Just relax for me.”

Your body leans into his, already giving in.

You’re already wet. Not just from the water—him.

A low, satisfied hum escapes his throat. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper as he drags his middle finger up slowly, parting you, brushing right over your clit. His fingers are big, his entire palm covering your cunt and making you squirm.

“Sensitive?” he murmurs against your temple.

“God—yes…”

You feel his smirk more than you see it. His lips graze your ear, breath hot, teasing.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

His hand moves with a firmer purpose now. His middle finger dips between your folds, gliding down to your entrance, and slowly—so fucking slowly—he pushes the first knuckle in. Your back arches against him as his finger sinks deep, curling slightly, testing the way your walls squeeze around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, the sound husky, almost reverent. “So tight…”

You whine, eyes fluttering shut. His other hand comes up to brace your chest, sliding across your ribs, then down again—holding you still as he starts to move his finger, curling it gently with each pump. The water pours down over both of you, but all you feel is him—every slow press, every filthy grind of his palm against your clit.

You’ve barely had time to adjust when he’s pushing another finger.

Your legs nearly give out.

“Easy,” he murmurs, shifting his body behind yours to support your weight. “I’ve got you.”

The stretch of his fingers—thick, deep, perfect—has your mouth falling open in a gasp. He keeps them pumping in a steady rhythm, thumb circling your clit now with increasing pressure, drawing tight little spirals that make your stomach flutter.

“You feel that?” His voice is in your ear again, ragged and dark. “How wet you are for me? How fucking hard you’re squeezing?”

You nod helplessly, body tensing with every thrust of his fingers.

“Say it,” he demands softly.

“I—fuck—I’m so wet for you,” you breathe, barely able to form the words. “Feels so good, Brian—”

“That’s it,” he growls, voice cracked with restraint. “Let me make you cum. Let me feel you lose it.”

His fingers drive deeper, faster now—fingers still curled, stroking that sweet spot inside you over and over, his thumb unrelenting on your clit. Your knees start to shake. One of your hands flies up to brace the slick tile while the other scrambles to grip his wrist, holding on for dear life.

Your body is falling apart under him.

Every drag of Hoodie’s fingers has you writhing—hips rocking, thighs twitching, your hands scrambling to grip the slick wall for leverage as your orgasm builds fast and hard. The water from the shower pelts your chest and stomach, but all you can feel is him—his broad chest flush to your back, his breath hot and steady in your ear, and those thick, relentless fingers stroking deeper inside you with every second.

But your body’s fighting it.

Too much pleasure. Too intense. Your hips twitch forward, your spine arches, your whole body bucks instinctively to escape the overwhelming stimulation—

He doesn’t let you go.

Suddenly his chest is pressing harder into your back, and both your wrists are yanked behind you, caught in his grip. His free hand locks around them tight, pulling your arms behind you in a rough, controlled hold that drags a breathless cry from your lips.

“Stay still,” he growls into your ear, voice low, commanding, not up for argument.

Your gasp is punched out of you as the new position throws your balance off—spine arched, chest pushed forward, legs shaking as you try not to collapse under the weight of your own pleasure. You’re pinned now. Arms locked behind your back, completely open to him, vulnerable, dripping wet, and aching.

The fingers inside you don’t slow down. If anything—they get rougher.

“Don’t stop—don’t stop—” you gasp, hips grinding into his hand, chasing the release that’s almost too much too fast.

“Not gonna,” he grits. “Wanna feel you break for me. Right here. Right now.”

He plunges deep with every stroke, knuckle-deep, curling his fingers in a punishing rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. His palm grinds against your clit now, adding even more pressure—building you to a fever pitch, pushing you over that edge harder than you were ready for.

“F-Fuck, Brian—!” you cry out, voice shaking.

“You wanted to cum so bad,” he hisses into your hair. “Then cum for me. Right here. Let me feel it.”

Your whole body goes tense—knees buckling, thighs squeezing shut around his hand as your orgasm hits like a lightning strike. Your scream tears from your throat, raw and high and completely involuntary. 

“That’s it… good girl… fuck, that’s so hot. You’re so good for me.”

Your walls clench around his fingers like a vice, pulsing so violently it almost hurts. He groans low against your ear, gripping your wrists tighter behind you, holding you steady while you thrash against him, shaking and twitching through it.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice reverent. “Look at you…”

You’re panting, trembling, your body sagging against him as your orgasm crests and crashes. Your knees start to give, and Hoodie finally releases your wrists, catching you before you can drop. His arms wrap around you, one hand slipping to your front again to gently cup between your thighs, rubbing softly as the aftershocks leave you whimpering.

“Shhh… easy now,” he whispers. “I got you. It’s over. You did so good.”

His nose nuzzles against your temple. His other hand lifts to brush the hair back from your face as you catch your breath.

You melt back into him, boneless and flushed and soaking wet—in more ways than one.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You nod weakly, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Jesus.”

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Let’s get you clean. Then I’ll carry you to bed.”

His fingers leave you slowly, the tight ring of muscle clamping as you gush around him, and you can feel your body flutter around the absence, still sensitive, still twitching. But now it’s gentle again—his touches soft, calming. And the steady weight of him holding you upright, even when you can’t stand.

The water runs warm over your skin, steam curling lazily around your shoulders as you lean your back into Hoodie’s chest, heart still hammering beneath your ribs. Your thighs twitch now and then with the aftershocks, but his arms are steady around you—one curled low around your waist, the other reaching for the washcloth.

You don’t even flinch when he starts cleaning you up.

He does it slowly, gently—as if he’s smoothing away every trembling breath you let out. Between your thighs, the soft cloth catches the slick remnants of your release, and he’s careful. Tender. Like it’s important to him you know you’re not just some frayed thing he unraveled for fun.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers and kisses you once, slow and warm, then returns to washing you, rinsing off the sweat and tension like he can scrub away everything that made your week hard.

“You good?” he asks quietly after a while.

You nod, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “Yeah. I think I just melted a little.”

He chuckles low. “That was the goal.”

You roll your eyes, smile soft. “You’re smug.”

“Only when I earn it.”

You hum in response, watching the water swirl around your feet. It’s quiet for a few seconds. The kind of silence that feels like the weight has been lifted from your chest. You take a long breath in—and for the first time in days, your muscles don’t resist.

Your voice comes softer now. “I don’t feel as tense anymore.”

“Because I fucked the stress out of you?” he deadpans against your ear, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.

You reach behind you and swat his hip.

“No,” you say, turning your head slightly. “Because you’re here.”

That gets him.

You can see his face, but Hoodie has always been more of a body language guy—the way his arms tighten around you, the way his chin dips slightly to rest on your shoulder—yeah, you got him.

“I missed you,” you add. “Even your dumb sarcasm.”

“I missed you more,” he says without hesitation. “And I hate everything, so that’s saying a lot.”

You huff out a laugh and press a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “Come on. Let’s rinse off so we don’t turn into raisins.”

He grumbles but helps you finish washing the rest of your body, then lets you return the favor—dragging the cloth over his chest, down his arms, across the curve of his hipbone. You take your time, watching the way his muscles twitch beneath your touch, the way he bites back little groans when your fingers wander too low for too long.

“Careful,” he warns under his breath as you rake your nails over his abdomen. “You’re gonna restart something you just recovered from.”

You give him a slow smirk. “I’m just learning the terrain, soldier.”

He stares at you for a long second, then turns off the water without a word—stepping out first, grabbing two towels and handing you one. You both dry off, sharing lazy touches and lingering glances in the soft bathroom light. 

You glance at him in the reflection.

Still bare, hair damp, mask long gone—Hoodie looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your spine, the way your expression softens when you catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, toweling off your arms.

He just shrugs, eyes warm. “You look like you again.”

Your hands slow. “Was I looking like someone else?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Just… you look lighter.”

You smile, small and sincere.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to pad into the bedroom, bodies warm and lazy from the shower. You throw on one of his old black shirts, oversized and soft, and he tosses on some sweatpants he left here last time, towel-drying his hair half-heartedly before flopping onto the mattress.

You climb in beside him, crawling over his chest until you’re straddling his hips.

He raises a brow. “Starting round two?”

You grin and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Not yet. Just getting in position for when I do.”

He groans, palm dragging over his face. “Jesus. You were just screaming five minutes ago.”

“And now I’m thriving.” You dip down and murmur against his ear, “Next time, I’m gonna make you squirm.”

His hands find your thighs, squeezing once. “Promises, promises.”

You settle in beside him, curling against his side, the both of you tangled under the covers, body to body and nothing between. It’s the kind of peace that only comes after wreckage—the kind that settles in your bones and refuses to let go.

And as you close your eyes, cheek pressed to his chest, you realize something.

You’re not thinking about work. You’re not thinking about deadlines. You’re not thinking about anything but the weight of his hand on your hip and the sound of his breathing. You’re not just less stressed.

You’re home, and falling asleep easily for the first time in days.

This was an anonymous request!

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[asiatic-apple]

you already know i love your sylus works (a big fan) and forgive me if you’ve done it but can i pretty please have smut prompt #17 with female reader for sylus ✨

I was so honored to write this for youuu, my #1 sylus fan!! I hope it's to your liking ❤️ Thank you so much for being here, and I hope the long wait for this was worth it

Proof of ownership

Sylus x female reader

Words: 1.1k

Prompt: seeing the love marks they left on their partner later and getting turned on all over again remembering how it got there in the first place

Content: use of “sweetie” and “kitten” as pet names, maybe too much dirty talking lol, very slightly implied exhibitionism, fingering, possessive sylus

Luke's low snicker is the first thing you hear when you enter the living room of Onychinus's base. You try to ignore it, only sparing him a confused look before returning to whatever you were planning to do before the distracting sound.

Ah, that's right—you came here to grab the hair tie you left on the coffee table yesterday. But your satisfied smile at finding it is quickly wiped away the second Kieran fails to stifle a giggle.

You freeze mid-motion, arms still halfway up after gathering your hair into a messy bun, and glance over your shoulder.

Sure enough, the twins are staring at you—clearly the object of their amusement.

“What?” you ask, already bristling at the way they nudge each other in between chuckles.

Luke shrugs, bringing a hand to the absurd-looking beak of his mask, as if he's hiding a grin. “Nothing,” he sputters, not so convincingly.

Kieran doesn’t even bother trying to lie. “Looks like someone had a fun night,” he drawls.

It takes you a second to register what he means. Then you remember how sore the skin along the junction of your neck and shoulders felt this morning. It was a bit too far in the back to see in a mirror, so you didn't know the extent of what Sylus left there last night.

But now you're putting two and two together.

Heat rushes to your face, your hands flying up to cover the back of your neck, even though it’s far too late for that. Luke and Kieran's snickering fades as you leave in a huff.

With each stomp you take toward Sylus’s bedroom, your embarrassment turns to annoyance before you barge in and shut the door a little harder than intended.

Sylus barely looks up from the book he's reading by the fireplace, but you swear there's a slight tug at his lips as soon as you growl his name. It's like he knew this would happen.

You cross your arms when you stop in front of him. “Would you care to explain why Luke and Kieran were laughing, quite literally behind my back?”

He leaves you in a few seconds of suspense before his deep scarlet eyes lock onto your pouting face. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, sweetie,” he replies, an infuriatingly smug lilt to his voice.

The sudden, gentle push of his Evol at your lower back teeters you off balance—just enough for you to fall forward. Right as you land in Sylus’s lap, he chucks his book to the small table beside him. Now his attention is fully on you.

“Sylus,” you warn, cheeks still warm from a heady combination of mortification and the fact that you’re pressed against him now. “Just how much of a mark did you leave on me last night?”

He hums, nuzzling into your neck with a chuckle. “What’s wrong?” He plants a heated kiss to your skin, presumably atop one of the hickeys he left there. “You don’t like the gift I left for you?”

You should push him away. Really, you should. But then his teeth scrape the spot right where the faintest sting still lingers, and your pussy clenches beneath rapidly dampening cotton.

“Even after I was so meticulous with my…art.” He tuts in faux disappointment. “I assume you still haven’t taken a proper look at it.”

You gasp as he brushes his fingers over the collection of bruises he left, his finger hooking in your shirt collar to tug it a bit further down your shoulder.

At some point between his distracting touches and kisses, his phone ends up in his hand. The ‘click’ of the camera’s shutter makes you groan softly in frustration. But then he turns the screen toward you, letting your eyes land on the picture of your marked up flesh.

The bruises form a rough, messy shape, but it’s deliberate in its composition: a small line, twisting like a snake to form a bold ‘S’.

You give him a pointed look of annoyance. But arousal stirs at the sight of his initial bitten into your skin. He doesn’t miss the flash of lust in your eyes. His canines peek out between curved lips—a wicked smile that only heightens the feeling swirling in the pit of your stomach.

“I’m quite proud of it,” Sylus murmurs before locking his phone and tossing it aside. “It took a lot of restraint not to…stray from the path. You were moaning so sweetly.” His lips return to your neck, tongue flicking out to glide along the marks. “But that just meant you liked it.”

You don’t respond, but the way your hips jerk against his lap betrays you. He chuckles knowingly, dragging his hands down to your waist.

Leaning closer, he whispers in your ear, “And I think you liked getting caught.”

His fingers slowly dip beneath the stretchy waistband of your lounge shorts and then your underwear. You gasp when the rough digits graze your aching clit. But he doesn’t stop the descent until his large hand is cupping your pussy and applying gentle pressure.

“You walked around all day like this,” he whispers, pressing a kiss just below the base of your neck. “With my initial on your skin and this pretty cunt aching for me.”

You barely get out a sound before he slides two fingers inside you, curling expertly until you’re gasping into his chest.

“Are you going to let me do it again, sweetie?” he asks with all the innocence of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “Maybe lower, this time. Somewhere they’ll never see. But you’ll feel the sting every time you sit down.”

His thumb rubs against your clit with mind-numbing pressure. Just the right amount to make you moan a bit too loudly. You whimper, rocking against his hand to take his fingers deeper, faster.

He laughs that low, breathy, too-sexy laugh that makes you grit your teeth. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he whispers. “Hm, such a desperate little thing. Something tells me you’ve been wet all day, haven’t you?”

He circles your clit a bit faster now, and your whole body shudders. His thick fingers feel like heaven when they curl and press just right. And Sylus knows exactly how you like it.

Still, he’s holding back—deliberately denying you the right push to make you fall apart.

“You need to say it properly if you want me to give it to you,” he growls, lips brushing against your ear. “Come on. Say you want more evidence of my affection for you, kitten.”

“Yes,” you whine too quickly, “yes—fuck—I want more, please.”

His lips curl into a sly grin as they trail more tender kisses against your neck. He’s gentle for now, aware of how sore this part of your body might be. But you know he’s not making empty threats. After you gush around his fingers, he’ll surely take you to bed and spend more time marking you up elsewhere.

“When I’m done,” he promises softly, “you’ll be dripping with reminders of me.”

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[pucksandpower]

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

[dixonsdarkelf]

This was such a fucking hot read 🥵

"Looks like we're in here for the time," Daryl said, walking over to a window and looking out through a gap. "They ain't goin' anywhere anytime soon."

-with sarcasm- Oh no...whatever will I do...stuck with Daryl somewhere overnight...oh no...🤭

He glanced over at you, his eyes not giving away anything. "Just stay outta the damn way."

Awfully rude to someone who's gonna be doing you a favor here soon 🙄

You didn't reply; instead, you watched him, noticing the way his muscles moved under his shirt and the way his eyes darted around, constantly on alert. It was almost hypnotic—this man who lived on the edge of survival, so strong yet so guarded.

Oh baby, they’re hypnotic indeed…

As the minutes ticked by, you couldn’t help but glance at Daryl’s stomach, where his shirt had risen slightly when he sat down. Your eyes were drawn to the trail of hair that led from his belly button downwards, something you couldn’t ignore, and the more you tried to focus on something else, the more your gaze kept drifting back to him. Daryl shifted again, his eyes catching yours. "Got a problem or somethin'?"

-clears throat- Umm, no. Definitely no problems here, sir 😳

You didn't respond. You went down to your knees in front of him, your eyes locked on his and your fingers brushing against the skin of his stomach. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn't push you away. Instead, he watched you with curiosity.

Oooh Reader is so bold I love that.

"Ya keep makin' me harder," he said, his voice breaking. 

That would be the goal, babe 🤭

Daryl groaned loudly, his body arching due to the ruined orgasm. "Fuck, don't stop," he pleaded, his hands gripping your hair tighter. "I'm so fuckin' close."

Fuck that's hot 🥵

His moans grew louder as you finally gave in to him, your tongue swirling around his cock like a snake, leaving nothing untouched. Daryl gripped your hair tighter, and his thrusts grew more insistent, pushing you further on his cock as you gagged on him, and you took him deeper still while you could feel his balls tightening and the base of his shaft tensing.

Ho-ly Je-sus fucki-ing Ch-rist 🤯🤯🤯

Brushing the dust off your clothes when you got up as well, you turned to Daryl with a little bit of a spark in your eyes. "By the way, Daryl, I hope this check-up was thorough enough for you." He looked back at you with a confused expression on his face. "This check-up? What are ya talkin' about?" He asked, taking a step back from the window. You smirked as you got closer again, both your hands running over his belly one more time. "Well, considering how things went down, I think we both should consider this our routine maintenance from now on, don't you think?"

I, too, am looking forward to the next one 😉

Incredible, amazing, hot, and such a fun read. Thank you for writing this 🖤

𝐂𝐥𝛐𝐬𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Trapped overnight by a horde of walkers during a supply run, you and Daryl Dixon find yourselves in close quarters with nothing but time on your hands. And the problem that you can't keep your hands to yourself.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Smut ⋮ Language ⋮ Oral Sex ⋮ Belly Kink

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 2.664 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Fem!Reader

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋮ 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔

"Keep ya eyes open," Daryl grunted and kept walking. His crossbow hung over his shoulder as his eyes looked left and right in search of any danger. He wasn't much for words, more action than unnecessary chit-chat, but you didn't complain. 

Today's task had been simple: Scavenge for as many supplies as you could until night began to fall, and then get back to the safety of the group. And that's exactly what you did, with your supply run partner being once again: Daryl Dixon.

You only nodded, holding your own weapon tightly. For all his rough exterior, you trusted him with your life. Over the last months, you've seen Daryl in action a lot of times already; to your eyes, he seemed to be one of the best survivors among the group. But tonight felt a bit off. It didn't feel like any other supply run; you were uncomfortable, and you just couldn't shake the feeling that something was likely to go wrong.

As the last rays of daylight finally vanished, sudden growls came from out of nowhere. You and Daryl immediately stopped dead in your tracks, your hearts racing in your chest as you realized that a small horde of walkers approached. Still, there were too many to take on, and running was definitely out of line. You had to find shelter, and fast.

"This way," Daryl whispered, tugging at your arm to lead you toward a building. He pushed open the door, and both of you slipped inside, shutting it as quietly as you could behind you. The room was dark and full of dust and the familiar smell of decay.

"Looks like we're in here for the time," Daryl said, walking over to a window and looking out through a gap. "They ain't goin' anywhere anytime soon."

You sighed, trying to steady your breathing. The reality of the situation was hitting you. Being stuck in this tiny, dark room with Daryl Dixon—with a horde of the undead outside—was just what you needed. 

Daryl, meanwhile, turned away from the window and explored the room further, but then he suddenly stopped and faced you. "Gonna need to check for scratches," he said, leaving very little room in his tone for argument. "Help me with my shirt."

"Okay, I guess..." You stepped closer, your hands shaking slightly as you reached for the hem of his shirt before you lifted it slowly to reveal his stomach. His skin was rough and scarred from the years of survival, but to you, it was mesmerizing.

"See anythin' on my back?" He asked, his eyes boring into yours.

You shook your head, trying to focus. "No, you're... definitely clear."

"Thanks," he said gruffly, pulling his shirt back down. His fingers brushed against your hand as he did, and for a brief moment, you both froze, but the sudden sound of a distant groan made Daryl’s eyes snap back to the window. "Damn it," he mumbled, annoyed. "We should make sure this place is safe."

You followed him as he began to inspect the room, moving from one corner to another. "You need any help?" You asked, trying to keep the stutter out of your voice.

He glanced over at you, his eyes not giving away anything. "Just stay outta the damn way."

You took a step back, feeling a bit disappointed. There was something almost painful about the way he kept you at arm’s length, like a barrier you could never cross. Yet, it only intensified your need to break through his walls.

He still hadn't found anything, so you turned your attention to an old armchair in the corner of the room. You walk over to it, brushing off some of the dust, thinking it might be a good place to take a seat and wait out the night. But in your approach, you had knocked over a few empty glass bottles, which shattered on the floor.

"Be careful, woman," he snapped at you. "Ya wanna attract more of 'em and get us killed?"

You immediately apologized and bent over to pick up the pieces, your face blushing with embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't mean to."

Soon enough, he was done checking out the room, and he sat down in the armchair that you cleaned off. "Looks like we're stuck here for the night," he said, though not to you in particular.

Meanwhile, you sat down on the floor across from him, trying to get comfortable. Daryl's eyes looked at you, though he didn't really manage to hide behind his usual stoic expression. "Ya cold or somethin'?"

You shook your head. "No, I'm okay. Don't worry."

He nodded, and for a moment, you thought the conversation might end there. But then he shifted around in the chair, as if uncomfortable with the silence. "Ya’ve been quiet," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Usually ya've got somethin' to say."

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "Just… thinking, I guess."

"Thinkin' 'bout what?" He asked, still looking at you.

You shrugged, trying to seem casual. "Everything. How things have changed since all of this started."

Daryl grunted, his eyes returning to the window. "Yeah, things've changed alright. Ain't much left in the world."

You didn't reply; instead, you watched him, noticing the way his muscles moved under his shirt and the way his eyes darted around, constantly on alert. It was almost hypnotic—this man who lived on the edge of survival, so strong yet so guarded.

As the minutes ticked by, you couldn’t help but glance at Daryl’s stomach, where his shirt had risen slightly when he sat down. Your eyes were drawn to the trail of hair that led from his belly button downwards, something you couldn’t ignore, and the more you tried to focus on something else, the more your gaze kept drifting back to him.

Daryl shifted again, his eyes catching yours. "Got a problem or somethin'?"

You looked away quickly, feeling your heart race. "Nope."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, ya can't just sit there starin' at me like that."

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

He sighed, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Alright. What is it ya wanna say?"

You fidgeted around, trying to find the right words. "I just… I guess I'm curious about you. About who you are when you’re not out fighting walkers or scavenging for supplies."

Daryl stared at you, his eyes darkening slightly. "And maybe I don't see the point in talkin' 'bout that."

You shifted on the floor, your movements restless. "Maybe we could make this night less pointless."

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. "What're ya talkin' 'bout?"

You hesitated, then took a deep breath. "I mean, we could talk about something else. Anything, really."

He studied you for a long moment, his expression guarded. Then, unexpectedly, he broke the silence. "Alright, fine. What do ya wanna know?"

You nodded. "What about before all this? What did you do?"

He seemed to ponder the question before answering. "Didn’t do much beyond huntin'."

You smiled faintly, lost in thought. "Sounds like a simpler life."

"Simple don't mean easy," he answered back quickly, looking away again.

Without even thinking, you closed the distance between the two of you, your heart racing in your chest and your hands shaking just a little bit as you held them out to him. Why? You didn't really know it yourself. You just did.

"What're ya playin' at?" He growled and narrowed his eyes.

You didn't respond. You went down to your knees in front of him, your eyes locked on his and your fingers brushing against the skin of his stomach. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn't push you away. Instead, he watched you with curiosity.

"You like this?" You asked, your whisper barely audible over the far-off moans of the walkers outside.

Daryl's jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. "What're ya tryin' to prove?"

You ignored his question, pressing your lips to his stomach in a matter of seconds. His skin was warm and slightly wet with salty sweat.

"Stop," he growled, but without conviction.

But you couldn't. You did not stop and continued to kiss and lick his stomach while your hands searched for every inch of his body. It was in the way his muscles twitched at your touch, the way his breath hitched—that really turned you on.

"You want this," you whispered, more a statement than a question.

Daryl's eyes blinked fast—part need, part hesitation. He was already at the edge, his breathing ragged, his eyes on you as if he willed himself to fight but failed.

"Yeah," he mumbled, his voice shaking. "Goddamn it… I want it."

That was all the motivation you needed. You reached out and placed your hand on Daryl's thigh, feeling him tense up slightly, but he still didn't pull away.

"I want to suck your cock," you whispered, your hand sliding up his thigh, closer to the bulge in his pants. As you reached for his belt, your fingers fumbling with the buckle, he helped you with shaking hands.

You smiled up at him, your fingers soon enough wrapped around the base of his cock, and slowly you leaned forward and pressed your lips to slide over the tip.

You teased him with soft, slow kisses, using just the very tip of your tongue to outline his head. His moans were very low and almost barely audible, but they fueled your lust all the same when you licked off the pre-cum.

"Fuck!" Daryl gasped, his hands gripping the sides of the chair. "Just get on with it."

Your mouth opened wide, and you took him in almost immediately, starting with just the head and letting it slide slowly past your lips. It was almost too much, that feeling of his cock in your mouth, and so you pulled back a bit, swirling your tongue around the head before trying to take him in further.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Daryl mumbled, his eyes closed, as he fought to hold on to some sort of control.

Your hand didn't stop stroking the part of his shaft that wasn't in your mouth, moving in rhythm with your lips and your tongue's movements.

Daryl's hips bucked involuntarily with short thrusts, and every time he pushed forward, you took him deeper, feeling your throat expand around him.

"Ya keep makin' me harder," he said, his voice breaking. 

"Good. I want you to be," you grinned around him, and without hesitation, you dove back down on him, taking him in as deep as you could.

"Fuck, keep goin'," he urged. "Ya gonna make me lose it."

You were more than happy to obey, and you quickened the pace of your movements, your mouth sliding up and down his cock. His hands were gripping your hair now, guiding you and pushing you to take him even deeper. His groans were getting louder, sounding more desperate, and you could tell he was close already.

"Jesus, I'm gonna cum," he moaned, his voice trembling. "Gonna blow my load."

You smirked around his cock, but you certainly didn't mean to let him come just yet. Drawing back a bit, you let your tongue slide along the underside of his cock before swirling around the sensitive skin just below its head.

Daryl groaned loudly, his body arching due to the ruined orgasm. "Fuck, don't stop," he pleaded, his hands gripping your hair tighter. "I'm so fuckin' close."

At those words, your lips parted slightly, teasingly, allowing a strand of spit to connect you to his cock before you leaned forward again, but not taking him fully into your mouth.

"Goddamn it," Daryl groaned, his hips bucking reflexively. "Don't play 'round."

But you continued teasing him, your tongue playing with the pre-cum, letting it gather in your mouth before you let it drip back onto his cock.

"Tease me like this," he gasped, "and I'm gonna go fuckin' crazy."

"You want more?" you asked. "You want me to make you come?"

Daryl nodded desperately, his eyes half-closed. "Yes, fuck yes."

Instead of giving him what he wanted, you pulled away once again and began to kiss and lick his cock from the base up, sliding your tongue around his shaft and softly nibbling on it as you moved slowly back up, paying careful attention to every inch of his throbbing cock.

"Shit," Daryl moaned, his hands gripping your hair harder. "Fuck, stop teasin' me."

His moans grew louder as you finally gave in to him, your tongue swirling around his cock like a snake, leaving nothing untouched. Daryl gripped your hair tighter, and his thrusts grew more insistent, pushing you further on his cock as you gagged on him, and you took him deeper still while you could feel his balls tightening and the base of his shaft tensing.

"I'm gonna come," he warns, but you don't stop. You want to taste him and feel him explode in your mouth. "Oh, fuck," he cried out again, his grip on your hair tightening as he cursed. "I'm gonna fuckin' come!"

You sucked hard and long, your tongue twisting around the ridge of his cock, teasing the sensitive spot beneath. With every suck, you could feel the pulsating veins in his shaft, and finally, Daryl came. His cock throbbed and pulsed in your mouth as he shot thick ropes of cum, filling your mouth with the salty, bitter taste of it.

You pulled off of him with a smirk, having swallowed the last of Daryl's cum, your lips glistening with the remaining drops before you wiped it off with the back of your hand.

"You okay?" You asked as you leaned in to press a soft kiss to his stomach.

Daryl looked at you, a half-smile on his face as he met your gaze. "Yeah, I'm good."

You leaned in closer, letting your fingers explore the warm, sweaty skin of his belly. "So," you said, your voice playful, "since we're still trapped here, do you want to know what got us into this mess?"

Daryl's eyebrow arched upward in confusion. "What do ya mean?"

You pressed your lips lightly against his belly. "I was just thinking about how all this started. It was your belly that got me going in the first place."

Daryl's eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh, so that's why ya were starin', huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Your belly's kind of a big deal to me, but I can't really explain," you grinned up at him.

He smirked back in amusement. "Fine, if ya don't wanna."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "No need to explain. Only appreciating the view."

"Well, don't get too distracted. We've still got loads of shit to do," he answered, getting up from the chair to prepare to take a quick look outside the window to see how many walkers are still outside and roaming around.

Brushing the dust off your clothes when you got up as well, you turned to Daryl with a little bit of a spark in your eyes. "By the way, Daryl, I hope this check-up was thorough enough for you."

He looked back at you with a confused expression on his face. "This check-up? What are ya talkin' about?" He asked, taking a step back from the window.

You smirked as you got closer again, both your hands running over his belly one more time. "Well, considering how things went down, I think we both should consider this our routine maintenance from now on, don't you think?"

Daryl's eyes widened for a second before he suddenly let out a small laugh. "A routine maintenance, huh? Alright. But next time, maybe we'll save the check-ups for a safer time. Now, get ya ass up and follow me."

"Deal. But I gotta say, I'm looking forward to the next routine check-up already," you laughed, following him to the door and closing it slowly behind you.

[thetrasha]

Hi! I'm the one who asked for the Straw Hats' ideal types. I'm here to ask the same for other characters: Law, Ace, Sabo, Shanks, and anyone else you want; honestly, I'd read about anyone. Thanks for feeding me <3

Hello anon, thank you so much for your continous interest (●ˇ∀ˇ●) 💕 Glad you like my writing so much and shower me with compliments LOL And I'm so sorry for not replying sooner. I've been sick since Monday morning 🤡I'm still kind of feverish, but I'm recovering

Anyway, this was a lot of fun!!

Ideal Types

feat. LAW, ACE, SABO, SHANKS, BUGGY

Straw Hat crew's version here

LAW

Law needs someone who…

is honest, intelligent and kind

puts more weight behind their actions rather than their words

has a nerdy or geeky quirk

is willing to let him have his space and demands some independence of their own

Law can help you cope with these character flaws:

self-doubt

feelings of inadequacy

seeming cold-hearted (to others)

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

clinginess and being too emotional

Law sees you and knows, because you resemble him so much, that you’re misunderstood. You aren’t cold or arrogant, you’re just a little too… reserved. You naturally distrust people who haven’t proven themselves and he finds comfort in that, eager to do just that. And just like that, the image you’ve wrongfully earned yourself just melts away. Like him, you’re a deep thinker, introspective and self-critical without even trying but nonetheless very much skilled and a valuable addition to any crew. Law feels lucky to have you because it’s validating to have someone around who gets him, who understands every precarious situation and who’s able to see the bigger picture. You trust in his ability to make the right call, assisting him in every step of the way. You watch over him without expecting anything in return, you’re just loyal to a fault and want to show your gratitude. Your actions make him do a double take and he starts talking to you more often. And once your walls crumble, he realises that you’re actually… incredibly cute and kind of… what he’s been waiting for.

ACE

Ace needs someone who…

values family a lot; they need to love the Whitebeard Pirates and Luffy (and Sabo) unconditionally

lives in the moment, but regularly thinks about the past and the “what ifs” of life

wants to prove themselves or others wrong/ wants to achieve great things

is self-aware, caring and compassionate

Ace can help you cope with these character flaws:

self-loathing

impulsivity

people pleasing

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

arrogance and dismissiveness

Ace sees you and, at first, views you as a threat. Deep down, he still cannot come to terms with who he is, and thus believes that you’re the upgrade. You don’t carry the same baggage he does, which means being around you is actually pretty great – and Whitebeard thinks so, too, that’s why you’re on the Moby Dick and not just some random member aboard the grand fleet. Yet… once Ace digs deep and tries getting to know you, he feels terrible for treating you so horribly; you’re unlike anything he’s ever seen. Your hardships are a part of you, but you don’t let the past define who you are, you use it as a tool to improve the present. On top of everything, you don’t push him away after he’s opened up. If anything, you pull him even closer. He’s so, so grateful to have found you. Maybe – just maybe – he’ll learn to like himself… after all, if someone like you can love him so dearly, he cannot be so bad, right?

SABO

Sabo needs someone who…

lives freely without constraints, doesn’t care what other people think about them

pursues a deeply humanitarian dream

is just, hard-working and unique

thinks rather than feels

Sabo can help you cope with these character flaws:

being too idealistic

sorrow

perfectionist tendencies

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

different political ideology and laziness

Sabo sees you and knows you have what it takes. You’re unafraid of tension and you’re quite abrasive when it comes to the intolerable… and your track record is just as impressive. You’re a rare gem who doesn’t sell their principles to get ahead in life – you chose this path out of conviction, not due to a lack of options. Maybe that’s why he recommends you for a position much higher up the ladder where your potential would be seen, where your voice would be heard and matter… Eventually, Sabo would notice a dangerous flutter in his chest every time you worked together. He would linger around you longer than necessary and try to get you to talk about your personal life just to get closer to you. Your story is fascinating, he cannot help but be angry at the world for throwing you away. Well, kind of – you’ve landed right in his arms, so it’s not that bad now, is it?

SHANKS

Shanks needs someone who…

wants to go about life at their own pace

is outgoing, emotionally intelligent and warm

has the street-smarts and strength to defend themselves if it came down to it

hopes for peace and believes in equality

Shanks can help you cope with these character flaws:

procrastination

bottling up negative feelings

stubbornness

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

being too fragile and selfishness

Shanks sees you and doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so eager to be taken care of – you just sniff him out like a hound dog and nag at him about his terrible habits constantly. He thinks it’s sweet that there’s someone amongst his loyal crew members who still believes he would change his ways. They all let go of it at some point.

…Until you don’t let go of it at all. You shadow him and relentlessly pursue his heath and happiness. At first, Shanks wrongfully assumes that you’re trying to be the captain’s favourite, but he could only watch in astonishment as you pull the same stunt on all the others. “Benn, you smoke too much. Roux, why in the world are you lifting that crate by yourself, let me help. Yasopp, you will cook these beans before eating them or so God help us all.” – he hears your voice in his head echoing his own sentiments towards his friends. It suddenly feels too real. You’re just… like this. It’s in your nature to be warm. And you offer the same warmth to… Shanks. Larger-than-life, mythical, legendary Shanks. He’s just another man in your eyes… It makes him nervous.

BUGGY

Buggy needs someone who…

feels rather than thinks

engages in creative activities and has something that fulfils them

is loving, direct/ straightforward and clingy

reassures him and would be his anchor in life, an unshakeable constant

Buggycan help you cope with these character flaws:

deep insecurity/ self-pity

abandonment issues

competitiveness

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

being distant and indifference

Buggy sees you and knows that you’re different from the rest. Not unlike him, to be honest, but that might be wishful thinking. He just feels inexplicably drawn to you; he revels in your proud smile whenever he praises you for a job well done. Sometimes he thinks that you crave his approval just as much as he craves yours… once you tore down his walls, you’re all up in Buggy’s business. Worst thing is that he doesn’t mind at all. He likes having you around, you’re not half as much of an idiot as all the other troglodytes he keeps around. The thing that he doesn’t get is, though… you actually don’t think quite as highly of yourself. It’s not humility, you’re plenty humble, but it reeks of insecurity… and believe him when he says that he knows that stench all too well. Well, you might just need a proper hype man to tell you that you’re the most amazing person to ever walk this wretched Earth, darling! One day you’ll wear that title with pride.

[marauroon]

hellooooo! hope ur doing well :)

could i request a james fic where they are kind of the golden couple in school and everybody either envies them or wants to be like them because they just seem so affectionate when they are with each other and entertaining to be around and not so much of an annoying couple despite the fact they'd probably seem like they would be but when they are alone they are really quiet with their affection and they have quiet love for each other, showing their love with helping each other make pastries or one of them lying their head in the others lap while they read and it's all kind of shocking when the marauders find them quietly reading or something because they seem so hyper and fun but in reality are soo quiet-cuddly. thank you!

── . ☀︎ 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝘁. (𝗷.𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿)

you and james love each other loudly. even when there’s nobody else around to see it.

james potter x fem!reader 1.7k fluff masterlist.

AN | the lover boy of all lover boys

You’re used to the stares by now. They start the second you and James step into the corridor, your fingers laced with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world—which, for the two of you, it is.

The stares don’t faze you. They’re always there, the curious glances, wistful smiles, outright envy. You’re the golden couple. The couple. The one that first years whisper about and teachers look at with a kind of nostalgic longing, like maybe they once had what you do and let it slip away.

James Potter at your side, head thrown back in a loud laugh at something daft you just said, is an image burned into half the school’s mind.

You’re not trying to be enviable, honest. It’s just that loving James feels like a loud, bright thing sometimes. Like a firework. He talks too much when he’s around you, makes ridiculous jokes, and doesn't stop grinning. And you’re no better. You talk about him like he hung the stars in the sky—and to be fair, he may as well have.

“You want to know the secret?” you said once to Marlene, when she caught you smiling like an idiot after James kissed your cheek before Transfiguration. “He actually did hang the stars. Or at least, he’d try if I asked him to,”

Marlene rolled her eyes and muttered something like “disgusting”, but she was smiling when she said it.

James carries your books. Always has. Sometimes in his arms, most of the time levitating them just behind you with a casual flick of his wand like it’s second nature. You used to insist on carrying your own things until he said, “But why would you? I want to,” And you melted. That’s how he gets you—he always means it.

It’s always you and him in the Great Hall. James sits so close your knees knock under the table and he steals food from your plate like it’s a basic human right. You’re the kind of couple that never runs out of things to say. Half the time your friends have to tell you both to shut it during dinner. But they don’t really mind. You’re entertaining.

Together, you’re a show—but not a performance. That’s the difference. There’s no artifice. The handholding and the giggling, the way James lifts you into his arms to carry you across the muddy courtyard when it’s raining—none of it’s for anyone else. He just doesn’t want your shoes getting ruined, and he’s strong enough to do something about it.

When you laughed as he twirled you like it was a ballroom and not the entrance steps to the castle, people didn’t roll their eyes. They sighed. Because Merlin, wouldn’t it be nice to be loved like that?

But the thing that really makes you both the “blueprint”, as Sirius once so dramatically called it, is what nobody sees.

Or at least, what they’re not supposed to see.

—

You’re in the Gryffindor common room, curled in your usual corner, and the fire is soft and crackling, casting gold across James’s face. His head is in your lap, his glasses pushed up into his hair. You’re reading. He’s reading. Well, trying to. His eyes flutter closed every few minutes but he insists he’s not tired.

“You’re blinking like a cat,” you whisper, brushing a curl off his forehead.

“M’not,” he mutters, though the slur in his voice betrays him.

You smile, soft and fond, and go back to your book. His breathing evens out moments later.

You know you should wake him, but he looks so peaceful. So quiet. Nobody at school really knows this version of James—the boy who presses kisses to your temple in silence when you’re working on essays, who reads over your shoulder and murmurs corrections without teasing. Who rubs his thumb against the back of your hand absentmindedly, like he needs the contact just to think straight.

When you help him draft his Potions theory or he stays up with you past midnight working on Arithmancy, that’s love too. Not the flashy kind. Not the kind that gets you looks in the corridor or earns you snide comments from Sirius (“For Merlin’s sake, take a breath between sentences, you two,”).

No, this kind is deeper.

It’s in the gentle way James whispers, “You’re brilliant, you know,” when you manage to explain something he’s been struggling with for days.

It’s in the way you always keep a spare quill for him because he never remembers, and the way he always keeps your favourite chocolate in his satchel, just in case you’ve had a rough morning.

There’s something sacred about that kind of love. Quiet. Undemanding. Steady.

—

One afternoon, you and James are in the library, an unlikely occurrence if someone doesn’t know you properly. You’re sitting next to each other, your foot pressed against his shin under the table. There’s an open Charms text in front of you and a notebook filled with both your scrawls. He’s trying to come up with a mnemonic to remember a particularly finicky spell.

“Alright,” he says, tapping his wand against his chin. “Swinemuzzle Ensnare… Memory Eraser… Wormwood. That’s SEW. Sew what?”

“Sew a—” you pause, blinking. “I don’t know, a hat? A memory-hiding hat?”

James grins. “Ridiculous. I love it,”

You both laugh quietly, shoulders shaking, your laughter muffled by the thick library air.

And that’s exactly when the Marauders walk in.

They were probably looking for something—Remus’s notes, a textbook Peter lost, or maybe they just wanted to cause mischief in a new location. But what they find is the two of you hunched over a notebook, James’s hand lightly covering yours where it rests on the page, your eyes scanning lines of text, completely silent.

Sirius rolls his eyes fondly. “Gross, they’re revising together,”

Remus shushes him before Madam Pince can.

You look up, startled by their entrance. James blinks at them like he’s just woken from a nap.

“Oh. Hey, lads,”

Sirius stares at you like he’s seen a hippogriff do ballet.

“Why are you revising?”

James smirks, stretching. “What, you thought I was illiterate?”

“Honestly, sometimes, yeah,”

You snort and close the book. James sits back in his chair, the image of a smug, secretly cuddly boyfriend caught in the act.

Remus, ever the perceptive one, tilts his head. “So… She promised to shag you later if you actually focused?”

“Something like that,” you say, letting your fingers trail down James’s arm, not an ounce of embarrassment in your tone.

It’s not even true, but there’s no use in denying it.

Later, Sirius calls it “your secret language”.

“You two talk loud enough for the whole bloody castle, but then you’ve got this weird telepathy thing when you’re alone,”

James doesn’t even argue. Just nudges your knee with his.

You don’t think it’s weird. You think it’s love. Real love. Not just noise and theatrics, though you’ve got plenty of those. It’s in the silence. The comfort. The way you fit into each other’s lives so neatly it feels like you must have been built from the same material.

—

That night, you’re asleep before he is. Half passed out on one of the sofas in the common room by the time he returns from Quidditch practice, hair damp and messy, cheeks pink from the cold.

He finds you curled under a blanket with a book half-open in your hands.

“Hey,” he whispers, brushing your forehead.

You open your eyes sleepily. “Hi,”

James sits beside you on the couch, nudging your legs until you make space for him to lie down. You shift and let him rest his head against your chest, your fingers already finding his curls.

He exhales, long and slow, like the world has been holding its breath until now.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

You smile, bending low to kiss his forehead. “Love you more.”

And no one’s around to see it. No one to whisper about the golden couple or how perfect you look together. It’s quiet. And that’s when it feels the most real.

[meanbossart]

Jacked anon again (jeez I guess this is my legacy on your blog now lmao), I tend to forget how ripped he technically is in game, but that's because I tend to ignore that. Bro has a default strength stat of 8, which means a -1 to strength checks and strength based stats, so I tend to attribute his in game model's defined abs and tits to a few things: 1) not much variation to the game's body models, and 2) bro was starving for years, and so any muscle he did build up, whether for aesthetics purposes to lure in victims for Cazador or working out our of boredom or whatever the hell you want to say it was, were especially noticeable due to the fact that he was starving. Kind of like Hollywood movie stars being severely dehydrated so their abs are super noticeable.

So I personally don't see him as being super buff due to the combination of those things. Not to say he shouldn't have any muscle whatsoever, I just tend to forget that not everyone interprets things in the same way haha. To me, Astarion would be on the thinner side if there was more variation in BG3's body models. I also don't tend to see people drawing Astarion as buff as you do (nothing wrong with that at all btw, I love men with tits) and the fact that in your lore he's a Rogue/Fighter multiclass, it's definitely fitting and fun to see a different interpretation of him. Does that make sense? I hope that makes sense lmao. All this to say, I love how you draw him. There's no right or wrong way to draw a character (for the most part, nuance exists) and I enjoy seeing the different ways people draw him!

LOL, there are worse things to be than "the Jacked Anon", at least. Thanks for playing along!

At some point in my life I heard from a DM that stats should not necessarily be a factor in how a person designs & roleplays a character; and I really like that! Otherwise, I could see how characters within x or y mono class could all turn out a little too similar, so that's usually the assumption I operate under - though like you said, it's all up to preference, and at the end of the day I do still like to point and laugh whenever a low CHAR character sticks their elbow into their pint while flirting at the inn.

For me, I take the character's body types pretty much as they are save for some small changes I would make if it were up to my preference - but they wouldn't really affect their silhouette overall. Here are my personal justifications for everyone's vacuum sealed six-packs, plus what I would tweak if I had the chance:

Astarion: He was very fit when he died, and his body retains that state as long as he's well fed. I personally like to make him even more pale than he appears in-game and emphasize the tired eyes.

Gale: Using a charm to improve his appearance. I wouldn't change anything per-se, but I would have made it that at some point throughout the game he stops using illusion magic on himself and reveals a paler, older-looking man whose whole half of his body is rotting off.

Karlach: Just beef her up, to be honest. I also would have liked her outfit to resemble some type of rugged uniform to solidify the mercenary/wardog aspect of her story.

Lae'zel: She's perfect, LOL. But I wouldn't scoff at unique gith armor for her and perhaps a shorter haircut.

Shadowheart: A more, erm, subtle armor set would have been nice, and I think they could have pushed a more wild/messy look with the hair and makeup like we see in the concept art. it would have made her far more unique and served as a really neat visual foreshadow of her incident from childhood/father's lycantropy. I especially like the ones where her hair almost completely covers her eyes.

Wyll: I mostly think that his transformation into a devil could have been far more dramatic, but I also believe a large body type would have suited him more and made for a nice contrast with his gentle nature.

[calypso-rt]

HELLO SO some stuff is happening to me rn with my frat boy friend and it gave me an idea for a fic 🙈 Could you do a Frat boy! Rafe x Reader that are just friends and he needs a date for his date function, so he asks her? the theme/idea for the date function is that they get handcuffed to each other for the night and they have to drink a bottle of champagne. Definitely flirty friendship (w lotsa tension) but up to u whether anything actually happens or not!

Love love love your works! 🫶

Cuffing Season

-> Frat!Rafe x Reader

-> A/N: this has been sitting in the drafts for AGESSS but it's out. thank you @rafeycameronsgf for such a fun idea

You’re halfway through a paper on political theory when your phone buzzes.

Rafe 😕:

yo u home? emergency. need you.

You sigh. Glance at the clock. 6:47 p.m.

Another buzz.

i’m outside

You blink.

Sure enough, two minutes later: knock knock knock on your door.

You open it, and there he is. Backward hat. Faded hoodie. Grinning like the devil.

“Hey, genius,” he says easily. “You busy tonight?”

You fold your arms. “You’re aware it’s Thursday and I have three papers due.”

He smirks. “Perfect. Then you’ll need a break.”

“Rafe.”

“Listen.” He leans against your doorframe. “I need a date.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“For the function. The handcuff one.”

You stare. “The what?”

He grins. “It’s stupid. Whole theme is we all get cuffed to our date and have to do challenges together. Drinking games. Obstacle courses. Whatever. My original date bailed. But 's for the best since you’re the only person I trust to win me that title, anyway.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what makes you think I’d say yes?”

He flashes that dangerous smile, the one you’ve seen melt half the campus. "Because you secretly love chaos. And you haven’t been out in weeks."

He’s not wrong. You’ve been buried in your books. And you do like chaos... on your own terms.

Rafe leans in slightly, voice low. "Come on. You know you’ll run circles around these people. I’ll even buy you all your drinks."

You narrow your eyes. "You’re really desperate, huh?"

He smirks. "I’m asking you, aren’t I?"

And despite yourself, despite the very obvious implications of being handcuffed to Rafe Cameron for an entire night, something in your stomach flips.

You sigh. "Fine. But if you annoy me, I’m taking the key and leaving you cuffed to Topper"

His grin turns downright wicked. "Deal."

...

You almost forget why you agreed to this. Until you’re standing in front of the mirror, trying to decide just how good to look.

You’re not a regular at the frat scene. You watch it happen from the edges. You’ve seen Rafe in his element: confident, loud, magnetic, and you’ve always been the one with a knowing smirk in the back of the room, drink in hand, unbothered.

But tonight… cuffed to him?

You smirk to yourself and pick the dress, the one you reserve for nights you want to be remembered.

By the time you’re done, your hair falls in soft waves, your lipstick is a shade deeper than your usual, and your phone buzzes again:

Rafe 😕:

outside. don’t make me come drag you out 👀

You grab your jacket and head downstairs.

When you step out, you spot him leaning against his car, blue jeans, black tee, hands in his pockets.

And when he sees you?

His entire posture changes.

His smirk falters for half a second, like he wasn’t prepared. Then it comes back twice as cocky, but his eyes drag over you like they’re memorizing the view.

“Holy shit,” he says low. “You’re gonna be the reason half this party cries tonight.”

You cock your head. “That good, huh?”

He pushes off the car, crossing the distance in two easy steps. His voice drops. “Better. You’re dangerous like this.”

Your breath catches, just for a second, but you recover fast. “You’re the one who asked for this.”

“Trust me,” he says, leaning in, voice like velvet, “I’ve been wanting an excuse.”

Before you can question that statement, he holds out his hand, handing you some handcuffs. “Cuff me, genius.”

You roll your eyes but your fingers tremble slightly as you fasten the cuff to his wrist, then your own. The click feels louder than it should. When you glance up, his gaze is already on your mouth.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You lift your chin. “Try to keep up.”

The frat house is already buzzing when you pull up. Bass thumping, bodies moving, lights spinning.

Rafe slides out of the car and pulls you with him, the chain between your wrists forcing you closer than you mean to be.

“You good?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing your knuckles, an excuse, probably, to touch you.

You nod. “I can handle a party.”

“Yeah?” His grin turns wicked. “Can you handle being cuffed to me all night?”

You smirk. “Don’t tempt me.”

Inside, people immediately turn. Rafe Cameron, cuffed to you? It draws attention. Whispers. Stares. He eats it up, throwing an arm around your shoulders, pulling you through the crowd with easy arrogance, but you can feel it: the tension in the way he holds you a little too close, the way his fingers flex against your side.

“Didn’t know you had this in you,” he says against your ear when you pass a particularly wide-eyed group of sorority girls.

You glance up at him, eyes glittering. “You clearly haven’t been paying enough attention.”

He stops walking, just for a beat, turns so you’re facing him, closer than close.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly, voice a little rougher now. “You have no idea how much attention I pay.”

Your pulse kicks.

Before you can answer, someone calls your names for the first challenge.

Rafe smirks. “Guess we’ll see if you can really handle me tonight.”

And with that, he tugs you toward the center of the room, handcuffed, heart racing, wondering how in the hell you’re going to survive this night without letting him see how much you already want more.

...

“Cameron! Y/N! You’re up!”

You glance at Rafe, raising a brow. “Remind me again why I said yes to this?”

He grins. “Because you like winning.”

Fair enough.

They call you both to the center of the room where a long folding table is set up, shot glasses in a neat row, alternating liquids. Some tequila, some water, some vinegar (to mess with you), some mystery shots that smell dangerous.

The challenge: One hand each. One person drinks, the other handles the refills. Fastest pair wins.

Rafe looks down at your cuffed hands, then back up at you, eyes glinting. “Guess that’s me and you, superstar.”

You smirk. “Just don’t slow me down.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He leans in close, voice a dark drawl. “Try to keep up.”

The countdown starts. 3… 2… 1… GO!

From the first second, you two are locked in. Seamless.

Rafe flips the first shot toward you with perfect timing. You down it, slam the glass. He grabs the next one, fluid and fast. When it’s his turn to drink, your grip is already on the next glass, waiting.

People start cheering when they see how fast you move.

“Holy shit, look at them!” someone shouts.

But you barely hear them, your whole world is narrowed to the heat of Rafe’s body next to yours, his breath in your ear every time he leans in, the sharp glint of focus in his eyes when he watches you.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs after you knock back a brutal shot without flinching. His hand squeezes yours under the table, fleeting, electric.

You smirk. “Thought you said I couldn’t handle you.”

He laughs, a low, wicked sound. “You might be the only one who can.”

Another round, faster now, you and Rafe moving in perfect sync, like this is a game you’ve been playing forever. The cuffs force you close, shoulders pressed, legs bumping, heat building in every unspoken glance.

By the time you slam the last glass down, the whole room is roaring.

“WINNERS!” someone shouts.

Rafe grins wide, breathless, and turns to you, eyes bright, chest heaving from adrenaline and tequila.

Without thinking, he grabs your cuffed hand and lifts it over your heads, triumphant. “Dream team, baby.”

You’re grinning too, heart racing, not from the win, but from the way he’s looking at you now. Not like a friend. Not like a teammate.

Like a guy who’s been trying to hold it together all night, and who’s about five seconds away from forgetting you’re supposed to be "just friends."

...

The night blurs in a whirl of heat and music and too many shots. You lose count after the third round of challenges, the cuffs feel like part of you now, the weight of Rafe’s hand in yours a constant, grounding thing.

At some point, the crowd thins. People disappear to rooms, to Ubers, to dark corners.

You and Rafe end up collapsed on the beat-up couch in the sunroom, fairy lights flickering, music muffled now, the air cooler against flushed skin.

You’re both giggling at something stupid, an earlier challenge, the fact that you managed to win two rounds in a row even though you’re swaying slightly now. Rafe leans back, head tipped against the wall, eyes half-lidded and fond.

“You’re trouble, y’know that?” he says, voice low and lazy.

You nudge him with your knee. “Me? You’re the one who handcuffed me to you for four hours.”

He grins, tipsy and lopsided. “Best decision I’ve made in a while.”

You should laugh it off. Should tease him back. But something in the way he says it, too soft, too sincere, catches you.

You glance at him, heart thudding a little too fast. “Rafe..?"

He turns his head, meeting your gaze fully now, no smirk, no cocky edge. Just warmth. “Yeah?”

You swallow. The words come out before you can stop them. “I think I… might kinda like you.”

Silence.

Then he exhales a soft, shaky laugh. Runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N.”

Your stomach drops. “I shouldn’t have said—”

“No, no.” He grabs your cuffed hand gently, thumb brushing over your skin. His voice is rough with something like relief. “I’ve liked you since forever.”

You blink. “What.”

“I mean it.” He shifts closer, forehead nearly touching yours now. You can feel his breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint and tequila. “But I wasn’t gonna screw it up. Not with you.”

Your pulse is a wild thing in your chest.

“I don’t want this to be because we’re drunk,” he says softly. “Or because we’re cuffed and everyone else is gone.”

You nod, throat tight. “Me neither.”

He studies you for a long moment, eyes searching, reverent. Then slowly, carefully, he leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek.

Soft. Steady. Like a promise.

When he pulls back, his voice is barely a whisper. “When we’re sober. I want our first kiss.”

You can’t speak, just squeeze his hand in silent agreement. And there you stay, tangled together on the couch, cuffed and incredibly drunk, hearts racing, two idiots too fond of each other to move.

But finally, finally, knowing you’ll get the moment right when the time comes.

[angelkiyo]

𝑭𝑼𝑪𝑲-𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑶𝑭 𝑬𝒀𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑬𝑹! - 𝑺. 𝑮𝑬𝑻𝑶

syn: the rising band cursed expansion plan to play their first big gig…but not before suguru spends some time to relax with his pretty gf after she does his eyeliner.

tags + a/n: sorry for it being a tad late; i've been locked in this week with app preparations and being employed, 2.1k wc, nsfw, GETO WEARING EYELINER *cough* that one anon, geto being a d1 pussy eater, geto wearing LEATHER PANTS LMAO, p-in-v, unprotected, riding, unedited/lowk choppy? (if any of you guys are interested in being a beta reader for me, pls shoot me an ask in my inbox or a dm lol)

when you opened the door, the room was a practical sensory overload; it smelled of cigarette smoke, somebody’s blue raspberry vape, lavender incense, and something sweet—which was probably you and your miss dior perfume suguru got you for your birthday not too long ago.

it was loud due to the constant playing of instruments: suguru tuning his bass guitar, shoko practicing the drums, and not to mention gojo’s purposeful off-key singing of “king for a day”. while this, nanami was simply with some noise-cancelling headphones, glaring daggers at gojo’s incessant singing.

you peered over and walked to suguru, sat on the loveseat while he sang a bit. he looked over to you and his eyes brightened. “y/n! cmon!” he had asked you a few moments prior to do his eyeliner: something that he messes up on, despite the fans going crazy over it.

you sheepishly smiled and pulled out your pink make-up bag from behind you. nanami saw the both of you and cleared his throat to alert gojo and shoko to leave. gojo nodded and smiled, “we’re gonna run some errands before the gig. don’t have too much fun.”

suguru scoffed, letting them leave and close the door before he looked over at you and smiled. “hi baby. thank you for agreeing to do this.”

you nodded, “of course! anytime, my love.” he sat up a bit, giving you space to adjust yourself, sitting in a position where you’re straddling his thighs.

it’s moments like these where suguru likes to enjoy living in the moment with you. you always doll yourself up, even more so when he has a show. you wore a cute little black slip shirt with lace at the hem of the skirt and the sleeves with a cute little black jean skirt, plum ribbons in your hair, a necklace he bought you and finally: a little stick of eyeliner.

“hold still, my love.” you whispered, holding his face firm. your bodies were close to each other’s, to the point that you could even hear suguru’s heartbeat from where you were. the smell of his cologne and mint hit you like a freight train and you loved it. you decided to use your pencil instead of liquid; pencil allows for perfect little mistakes.

“you’re gonna blind me before my show,” he joked. his lips curved to a smile whereas yours attempted to fight one off.

“you’ve gotten hit by a mic-stand before. you’ll be alright.” you muttered. you pushed his bangs back to his ears and began to apply eyeliner once he closed his eyes.

“you apply it so gently,” he mumbled. you answered with a “mhm” and smoothly applied it on his eyelids before moving onto the bottom of his eye. 

“alright, you big baby. i’m gonna do your waterline, okay?” he shot you a smile and nodded, “just don’t blind me.”

you shuffled to be at closer precision near him and felt suguru’s arms snake around your waist. the coldness from his ring-clad fingers on the skin of your waist sent shivers down your spine. he was so meticulous, yet gentle. the beautiful shade of violet that graced his irises made your chest tighten and butterflies flutter in your stomach like you had a school girl crush.

the lights from the room were dim and made his features appear softer. his hair was half-up and the rest of his soft hair spilled over onto his shoulders nicely. as beautiful as your man looked right now, you were focused. you hummed softly under your breath and slowly began to use the little plastic on the bottom of your eyeliner pencil to smudge it a bit on the outers of his waterline. “and…done.”

he blinked and looked at you, and just something about his already alluring gaze amplified by something so trivial like eyeliner, did something to you. the smooth yet imperfect look of the eyeliner gave edge to his pretty face, clad with his eyebrow, lip, and nose piercings. the eyeliner accentuated his beautiful eyes and it sent you over the edge. you grabbed the little compact mirror that you keep around in your makeup bag and handed it to him. he examined your work on his eyes and he smiled.

you clicked your tongue on the roof of your mouth, “you look good.”

he laughed softly, placing the compact mirror onto the coffee table in front of the couch, and then played with your hair framing your face, “all thanks to you, my love.”

he grabs your wrist gently with one arm, pulling you in to kiss your cheek, while the other sits on your waist. “let me thank you, baby.”

he held your face softly as he kissed your lips gently, passionate. you felt his pierced tongue slide in your mouth, his hands roaming around your body gently like you were made of porcelain. he begins to lower his kisses from your lips to your neck slowly and sensually. his ice-cold hands against your warm skin sent shivers down your spine again.

“a-ah! suguru, your show…” you whispered, your lips slightly opened at the sensation of his touches and lips on your neck.

he smiled at your concern. “doesn’t start for another 3 hours... we’re okay, love,” he muttered. suguru laid you on the loveseat, his knees planted between your legs. he gently tugged at the hems of your lacy top and slid it and your jean skirt off with ease, showcasing the pretty lacy set you decided to wear; they were purple, his favorite color.

“you look so pretty, baby. if you think i look good, my lovely girl, you look like a goddess,” he said, showering your body with kisses, ending at the little star tattoo on the right side of your abdomen, a matching one you have with him.

your entranced gaze is glued onto him as he begins peeling off the layers of black clothing he adorned, exposing his own detailed and intricate tattoos on his ribs, reaching over to his back. designs of snakes, ravens, and phrases in kanji were etched on his smooth, pale skin; they were some of your favorite features about him.

suguru went down on you again, slowly leaning down to where your pussy was: dripping and practically impatient for him. "so wet f'me already. hm, pretty girl?" he said, moving the crotch area to the side and sliding his long fingers to feel you. you didn't have to look at him to know that he was grinning.

you breathed out, a sigh of impatience and restlessness leaving your lips. "fuck, suguru. just fuck me already..." you whined.

“be patient, sweetheart.” he said, going down on you. his teeth latched onto the waistline of your violet lace panties, pulling them down slowly. his thumb met your clit where he began to massage it slowly. he equipped his index and middle finger to slowly thrust into you.

“my—ngh—god!” his fingers felt fast and steady, thrusting into you and intricately moving his fingers like he was playing his damn guitar; it felt too damn good. he was playing with your pussy like it was a guitar.

then, before you knew it, he removed his fingers and replaced them with his tongue, where it met your entrance.

“fuck…suguru—!” you whined, feeling the cold metal of his tongue piercing against your hot fluttering walls; he simultaneously kept his thumb on your clit.

suguru was a fucking tease to you, making eye contact with you as he practically ruined you with his tongue. his head was snug between your legs ever so nicely while his tongue went in and out and in and out with such vigor. you felt compelled to practically arch your back in reaction.

you rolled your hips against his face, it felt too damn good. his soft black hair was intertwined with your fingers, the strands being pulled every time suguru went too fast. "fuck, lovely. you taste sweeter than my favorite candy..."

your whines filled the room, walls fluttered against his tongue, and you bucked your hips at your eventual release, suguru's name being yelled like a continuous prayer.

when you eventually came, you couldn't help but ogle at the man, sticking his index and middle in your pussy just to fucking taste you. you eyed him as he placed his fingers in his mouth with a mischievous grin etched on his face, “so so sweet, my beautiful girl.”

you cocked your eyebrow at the evident tent in his pants, laying your weight on your elbows to lift yourself up slightly, “need help with that?”

god, were you in for it.

“willing to help me?” of course, why wouldn’t you. you quickly unbuckled his leather pants and slid down his boxer briefs, his cock springing up and hitting his abdomen. suguru was big; specifically more lengthier than thick but curved a bit. 

suguru sat down and leaned against the armrest of the couch you were on, “ride me, pretty girl?”

you sucked your teeth and giggled, grabbing his cock and pumping it a few times before lifting yourself on your knees to have them on each side of his thighs. “god…” you muttered, rubbing his tip against your folds. suguru’s hands found themselves on your hips as you began to slowly sink yourself onto his throbbing erection. 

you felt like the wind was knocked out of you as suguru slowly but surely entered you inch by inch. the stretch was too fucking much and you felt him practically split you in half with the way you were then slammed onto him, despite your arousal already acting as lubricant for such. your lips parted and you felt his hands guide your hips side to side on his cock. “jesus christ—! aah—suguru!” 

the simple feeling of him handling your hips with such force and the sound of his rough groans sent butterflies to your core. you felt him hit your pleasure spots and threw your head back in reaction; he was too fucking good and you felt on the brim of overstimulation. it was messy.

on the other hand, suguru was fucking loving this; he was leaned back and admiring the way your pretty tits bounced with every thrust and the way your head threw itself back. your skin was ever so soft against his calloused fingers as he maneuvered you on his cock, feeling you practically milk him and attempt to squeeze him dry. every thrust, moan, gasp played as a symphony before him. not to mention how incredibly sexy you looked. god, you were a sight to behold.

“you’re so pretty, baby…” he groaned, smiling at your expressive face as you were getting fucked before his eyes. before you came, suguru laid your body on top of the couch instead, his name along with a string of curses, once again, becoming a repeating chant you yelled out as you felt yourself come again.

“fuckfuckfuckfuck— suguru!”

you felt his cock twitch and the blush on his cheeks becoming more apparent. you felt him pull out and release on your stomach, painting you in milky white.

you sighed, stretching your arms and feeling the weight of the couch get lighter. your boyfriend got dressed and walked over to the bathroom near the lounge area to get you a warm towel to clean you before he slid your underwear and skirt back onto you and handed you your top, sitting next to you.

“your eyeliner still looks good,” you giggled, caressing his still-blushing face. the eyeliner still looked smudged but in the regular rockstar sexy way that he wears it.

“all thanks to you. nice to know it’s fuck-proof,” he remarked, laughing lightly.

suguru kissed your cheek and caressed your face with such care, like you were a doll. “see you front row?” he said, voice low in your ear.

you laughed lightly, “where else would i be, babe?”

you kiss him on his jaw, soft and slow; the action alone made him groan under his breath, letting out a little 'fuck' before laughing lightly. suguru smiled at you and twirled your hair with his index finger.

“good. i play better when you're watching.”

[luvseraphh]

wanna head home?

⊹ synopsis. in which you go to your first party and don't have as much fun as you thought, and turn to your brother's best friend in an attempt to get out of there.

⊹ content warnings. fluff, drabble, fem!reader, brother's best friend!sero

⊹ pairing. hanta sero x reader

Hanta was wandering around the halls of the party, looking for wherever his friends had wandered off to, when he noticed you, eyebrows furrowed as you stared down at your phone.

"What's up?" he asks, leaning against the wall next to you, shit eating grin on his face and red solo cup in his hand.

"I can't find my friends, none of them are texting me back, I just-" you groan, hand pushing your hair back out of frustration.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I think you need some fresh air, c'mon," he says, grabbing you by your hand and leading you out the front door onto the much more quiet front porch. The two of you sit down on the steps up to the front door and he continues to sip on his drink as you decompress.

"Thanks, I needed out of there," you sigh softly, looking up at the night sky.

"No problem, I've been looking for an excuse to get you alone," he grins, and you can't quite tell if he's joking or not.

"Very funny," you reply, playfully rolling your eyes and gently nudging him with your foot.

"Not joking," he responded, looking over at you with heavy eyes, full of emotions.

"Stop playing. You know we can't do that," you say, voice growing serious, heavy with longing.

"Why do we have to let your brother get in the way of what we have? I know you want this as much as I do," he groans, running his hand through his black mullet.

"I'm not gonna fuck up your friendship, I just don't want to make things weird between you two," you defend yourself, looking over at him. He lets out a soft incoherent grumble before smashing his lips against your own, hand grabbing your jaw.

"What do you say we get out of here?" he asks, breathless from the kiss as he pulls away from your lips.

"I'd say that's a good idea," you laugh softly as he pulls you up from the steps.

Taglist - @justmylvr @lwcedribbons @im0nsaturn @dvartefox @failurewater @f0reverfaded @t0asty1 @iv-vee @mp3nai @straows @grenadehearts @hecate-frenchfries @imagine-all-the-imagines

ⓒ luvseraph 6/16/25

[holycritchance]

unintentional outcome | chance x reader

synopsis; sometimes things are better not going as originally planned. word count; 1.7k author's note; aaaaa my first piece for the loml - i've been nonstop playing the game since it was released and i finally feel as if i have a decent grasp on how to write for him!! this is for the monthly theme in the date everything discord :))

“Well good morning to you, too, cool kid.”

Freddy rumbles with a laugh as you grab onto the handles of your refrigerator, throwing open the doors with an excitement that was… uncharacteristic for you at this early hour.

“Mornin’, Freddy!” You chirp in response, eyes scanning what little food you had inside.

“What’s got you so chipper this morning, eh? I didn’t see you stop by Kopi’s for your morning fix,” Freddy questions, watching as you reach inside and pull out a container of mixed fruit to examine. “Is it some special day? Feel like Holly would’ve told me if it was a holiday.”

You hum to yourself as you set the fruit on the counter nearby before diving back in. “Not a holiday! Just excited for some plans I’ve got today.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful!” He beams at you. “Whatcha got going on today, cool kid?”

You smile, grabbing a ziploc bag containing half a block of cheese. It joins the fruit on the counter and you shut Freddy’s doors, next swinging open Cabrizzio.

“Just… hanging out,” you say with a damning flush reddening your face. “I thought a picnic would be nice, yeah?”

Freddy’s expression becomes one of mischief as he chuckles. “Oh, I see. You’re hanging out with Chance today, aren’t ya?”

“Don’t make me regret confiding in you,” you retort as you bring the fruit over to Sinclaire for a quick rinse. “I’ll never tell you a thing again, Freddy.”

Freddy laughs in response, clearly amused at your empty threat. “Alright, alright,” he acquiesces, raising his hands. “A picnic sounds lovely. Here, there’s some ice cream I made last night waiting in the freezer — I tested the waters and made a black cherry with some chunks of dark chocolate mixed in. Take it with ya!”

You can’t contain your glee as you reach into the freezer and pull out the container, placing it with the rest of the food. With everything in one place, you bend down and dig through the cabinets beneath your sink.

“Ah, there we go! It’s no picnic basket but it’ll do,” you murmur as you pull out an old shopping bag and carefully load the food inside along with some silverware. “Thanks, Freddy, you’re the best!”

Freddy flushes with a chuckle. “Anything for you, cool kid. Swing by later to tell me how the ice cream was — and about your date!”

You shoot Freddy a pointed glance as you hurry around the corner and make a beeline for the office. As you approach the door you hear soft music playing within and a nervous feeling crawls up your spine. You stand outside the office, bag in hand, heart racing as your hand hovers over the doorknob.

You’ve no idea how much time passes before Dorian is what stands between you and the office, an eyebrow quirked at you.

“Just gonna stand here all day?” He asks, startling you. “Never seen you so rigid, friend. Nerves getting the best of you?”

“No!” Your face scrunches up in irritation as Dorian chuckles at your far too quick response. A surge of courage surges through you as you straighten your back and push past Dorian into the office. “See! I’m going.”

“Have fun —”

That’s all you catch before you practically slam the door behind you. You stop short as you find Chance standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by papers, game pieces, books and various writing utensils. A speaker playing some instrumental piece sits on the shelf and all the curtains are closed, giving the room a rather eerie feel.

“Ah, hello!” Chance calls, stepping over the disarray to meet you. “Sorry about the mess, I guess I got a bit carried away again…I’m just stumped on how I wanna go about this one.”

“Crafting another campaign?” You question, a fond smile tugging at your lips.

Chance chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Am I that obvious?”

You hold up the bag of food. “Wanna tell me about it over some snacks?”

With that, you’re led into the heart of Chance’s planning, standing with him amongst the many pieces of torn-out notebook paper and guidebooks. You notice sketches of characters from past campaigns scrawled in the margins accompanied by scribbled out plots, twists, settings — worlds built only to be discarded.

“You see, I was thinking of asking you and Dasha if you wanted to reopen the troubadour run,” Chance says as he searches for his notes amongst the clutter, “for some, say, post-credits fun! I was thinking about how we never touched further on how Miles fared within reaching their dream and came up with… here!”

He bends down, grabbing a few papers and holding them out to you. He takes the bag of food from you and sets it aside, eyes never leaving you as you read through his ideas. As you flip pages back and forth, he watches your eyes scan each line and awaits your feedback.

“A royal ball?” You look up to see Chance grinning broadly. “Let me guess — at the apex of the event, expect an enemy force to raid the palace, pocketing whatever they deem valuable. This all is inconsequential to a point until they choose to also take with them… the prized royal family heirloom, a priceless ribbon sheath! Another adventure is born!”

Chance smiles but shakes his head. “Quite the imagination you have! I guess I’m starting to rub off on you, yeah? However, I was just thinking we have a relaxing session for once! Something fun and unexpected!”

“Woah, no risks? No danger? That is unexpected,” you agree. “You said you were having troubles with this? It seems so well thought out, though.”

Even in the dimmed lighting you can see Chance redden as he takes the papers from you. “Well, heh, I really appreciate that. My shortcomings lie within the main event itself — dancing, specifically. I’m just not sure how to best describe it to give you guys the imagery I usually provide.”

“You don’t know how to describe…how to dance?” You ask, confused. He nods and you can’t help but laugh — the idea of a man able to create such vast and beautiful worlds can’t conjure up a way to explain a dance?

Chance huffs, pouting at your reaction. “I-I’ve tried everything I could think of! I even talked to Rainey but that, well, didn’t give me much to work with. This music I’ve had on repeat for hours now has helped only set a mood but nothing more!”

He’s clearly frustrated as he gestures to the papers and whatnot scattered all around the two of you. The aforementioned music fills the silence that follows and you let it play for a moment before an idea comes to mind.

“Dance with me, then.” You hold a hand out to Chance, hoping to the geode goddess herself he can’t notice the tremble in your fingers. “Maybe if you live the experience it’ll be easier to work into a story?”

“Is this just an excuse for you to hold my hand?” He teases but rests his hand in yours regardless. “You know how to dance?”

“Vaguely.” You guide his other hand to rest on your hip before placing your unoccupied hand on his shoulder. “Ready?”

Chance is quiet and you slowly begin to lead in a, frankly, improvised dance. You’re careful to follow the beat while also making sure you don’t step on any of his materials. Neither of you speaks for a couple of moments, too focused on keeping up with one another.

Soon, comfort creeps its way in and the two of you move fluidly together. The proximity becomes less nerve wracking and you find yourself slowly moving closer, practically chest to chest as the dance continues.

“Is… this working?” You murmur after some time, curious.

Chance nods. “Oh, yeah. Had the scene all figured out about five steps into this whole thing.”

“I’m glad I could help.” You go to step back, figuring this is all he needed, but his grip on your hip tightens ever so slightly. “Chance?”

“I’m sorry I turned our hangout into a G&G planning session,” he mutters, casting a glance at the abandoned bag of food in the corner. “You brought food and everything only for me to hijack your plans.”

You attempt to stifle a laugh but find yourself unsuccessful, opting to cover your mouth with your hand. “You say this as if I’m having the worst time of my life.”

Chance shrugs, still swaying the both of you with the music. “Yeah, but —”

“I’d rather this over what I had planned,” you interrupt, reaching up and tapping the space between his eyebrows. “I admire your passion for what you love, Chance. Besides, I’ve just spent — what? — the last ten minutes in your arms. This was the best first date I’ve ever been on!”

Abruptly, the two of you stop swaying. Neither of you step away from each other, however, even when the speaker runs out of charge and leaves deafening silence.

“First date?” Chance echoes, a sort of excitement in his tone. You refuse to meet his gaze out of sheer embarrassment and he chuckles before giving your hip an affectionate squeeze before stepping back. “Here, I gotta clean this up and finish writing the oneshot. Are you free tomorrow to play?”

You nod, words failing you. His smile practically lights up the room and you can’t help but smile yourself — Chance’s joy is nothing if not contagious.

“Great! I’ll let Dasha know,” he says. “And maybe afterwards, you and I can grab something to eat? Koa’s place would be a great place for a second date.”

You nod as he talks, eyes widening as the words second date are spoken.

“A second…! Y-yeah, absolutely!” Your eagerness has you tripping over your words. Clearing your throat, you try again. “I’d love to.”

Chance places a hand on your shoulder and leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Till tomorrow, then.”

Your heart leaps into your throat as you nod furiously, slowly backing out of the office. Once the door is shut you find yourself staring at it just as you had earlier, only this time the nerves are gone, replaced by overwhelming joy. Your heart pounds in your chest as you grin and run for the kitchen.

“Freddy! Freddy! I’ve got something to tell you!”

[pokemonshelterstories]

Hi Charlie, (I love reading your blog!!) I don't have a question so much as a "it's been weeks and I can't get this out of my head" lol

So, Geodude right? Little guy, has two arms. Evolves into Gravler, four arms two legs, all well and good.

Gravler evolves into Golem, which has TWO arms and two legs.

Again, I don't have a question I just think it's kinda weird that a pokemon would grow a bunch of limbs, decide "no thanks" and just get rid of some.

I can't really think of any other pokemon that does that besides maybe bugs.

that's a really great question! evolution is such a weird and tremendous process that every once in a while you get a real head-scratcher like this. there's been a lot of debate over this topic in academic circles for a while!

right now, the theory that's won the most followers is that it has to do with modes of transportation. geodude do a lot of climbing using their arms. when they evolve into graveler, they continue to climb cliffsides, but they're a lot heavier and more cumbersome after evolving. the extra arms help them stabilize themselves and haul their weight up. when they evolve into golem, they spend a lot more time rolling around! they don't climb nearly as much, so they don't need the extra limbs.

of course, not needing something doesn't always mean that the pokemon gets rid of it. there's probably some benefit to having fewer limbs for golem that pushed their biology that way. it's possible that the loss of the extra limbs was to make shedding out their skin easier and prevent the limbs from slowing them down as they roll. some golem have even been found to have little vestigial limbs hiding under their hardened skin! which i think is kind of cute

that's really our best guess for now, but that's what makes studying pokemon so fun! there's always something weird out there that we haven't quite figured out

[wistericaine]

pr nightmare | mattheo riddle

rockstar!mattheo x reader | chaotic fluff | wc: 1031

summary: mattheo meets your chaos through a pr disaster

This week had been a genuine PR nightmare for Mattheo. 

The end of his band’s tour was approaching, and Mattheo couldn’t be happier about it. For as much as he loved to party and drink his days away, he was absolutely exhausted. Train ride to train ride only to perform on stage—even though chaos was fun, there was only so much he could do.

And attention was always a hit or miss, he had found. Theo had bullied him quite a bit for his changing attitude on the idea of attention—wanting to bask in it one day and vomit from it the next. He supposed that world tours did something like that to you. 

Which is why he ducked the line almost as soon as he could. 

He ducked and he ran, ran as fast as he could away from the venue. Headphones on, hoodie pulled over his head, and arms flailing about as he ran faster than the wind could blow against his face. It was a freeing thing to do. He could feel his soul seeping through the sweat on his skin, finally basking in what he had wanted to do the entire tour. 

And that was when he had bumped into you. 

It was a small bump, thank God, that didn’t push either of you over. A shove, more like it. 

What had shocked him the most about it was the fact that you hadn’t recognized him during that interaction. That you just asked whether he was okay without any mention of an autograph or a photo. The fact that you just wiped his face with a small towel before continuing on with your night. 

Never before had he had an interaction like that. Even before the band had started, most of his interactions would be around sex or fights.

Never that. 

He stood for just a moment blinking. Dumbly, he thought. Who spends minutes thinking about a girl just because she didn’t ask you for a signature?

Mattheo could’ve answered that question for himself—truly, he could. But when the flash of a camera and the rustling of leaves finally registered in his mind, he knew that there were more important questions to answer than that. 

The park felt noisier than usual.

You usually came there for comfort—the quiet and calm peace of the place calming you down almost instantly. Whether it be from a long day at work or just a generally bad day, the park was an instant remedy.

Today didn’t seem very remedying though, you noticed, walking around the crowds that were currently mingling by a newspaper stand. 

There were some on their phones. Some reading the papers and some even doing both. Their voices ranged from quiet to loud, obnoxious enough for you to pull your headphones out just to cancel the noise. 

And yet, even with that in mind, you were still mildly curious.

But it wasn’t until you passed by the newspaper stands that the drama truly caught your attention. Just past the fountain stood a magazine stand with glossy covers stacked one on top of the other. There were multiple on display—but the one that caught your attention had bold red letters on its front.

Mattheo Riddle’s new girlfriend. 

On the cover you found a photo of you and the man you met last night—distorted in a way to look more like a romantic moment than what it truly was. A single mishap of a panicked man running away from whatever it was he was running from. 

You figured that this magazine was exactly what he was running from. 

Yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to look away from the photo. It had been edited to quite a decent extent, the coloring of it just a bit redder and orange. Text had covered the entire page to the point you could barely make out the cover photo, questions and speculation about who you ever were. Fake names and dates were thrown in there, some stating that you had known each other for months while some said since childhood. 

It was all ridiculous. You hadn’t even heard of the man before. 

You rolled your eyes and scoffed, about to walk away before you heard a familiar voice. 

“You saw it too, huh?”

You turned around then before gasping just so. The man from last night—Mattheo Riddle—was standing with the same hoodie and glasses he had on last night. 

“I have.” you murmured quietly. 

He sighed then, grabbing your arm and dragging you off to a more private place. “I was hoping I could find you before the tabloids did. Don’t know why I wished for that.”

You nodded before looking at him. “How do famous people usually deal with this stuff?”

“Well—” he said, looking around for just a moment before pulling you down a small alley. “I suppose a public relations team and a well-rehearsed lie.” he shrugged. “I mean, my team wants me to fake a relationship.”

You felt your eyebrows rising at that. “They what?”

“Money.” he shrugged. 

“Well—” you said, before pausing at the idea.

Your life had been a bit boring lately, if you were being honest. Not much had happened, and you figured that this might be the chance you had to change that. A fake relationship could turn into a fake engagement. Plus, you might get some fun experiences.

“Only if you get me a nice ring for the engagement.” you settled.

Mattheo blinked once, twice, before his jaw dropped. “What?”

“A nice ring for the engagement.” you repeated. “And I want weekly dates. And, if you’re lucky, I’ll give you my top secret dance that you can write a whole album about.” 

“Are you serious right now? He deadpanned. 

“It goes to the rhythm of ‘Ballroom Blitz’, if you must know.” you said, huffing dramatically like he had forced you to tell the secret. 

Mattheo laughed at that. A full body laugh, one that left him panting on the wall and smiling bright at you. 

“You’re insane.”

“It’s called improv, baby.” you winked at him. “Now come on! The first date starts now.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be a PR disaster after all.

hello everyone, i hope you guys enjoyed! i had this idea that i wanted to try for rockstar!mattheo, so i did. i imagine he has a kind of artic monkeys x maneskin vibe, so do with that what you will. thanks so much for reading!

nav . masterlist . library blog . side blog

© wistericaine 2025. do not copy, translate or claim any of my works as your own. reblogs + comments are so very appreciated!

[howlingday]

Jaune's Funeral

Saphron: (Lifeless, Sitting quietly)

Jaune: (Ghost, Floating by) Whoa... Looks like everybody from Beacon is here! And they're all laughing at me! Probably just doing this to look good!.

Ren: Easy, Pyrrha... Take it easy...

Pyrrha: Jaune... JAUNE~! (Sobs)

Jaune: Is she... really that upset?.

Russel: Cardin, calm down!

Cardin: SHUT THE HELL UP AND LET GO OF ME!

Jaune: What the- Cardin?!.

Cardin: DAMN YOU, ARC! YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST GIVE UP 'CAUSE YOU'RE SCARED OF ME?!

Dove: Cardin, c'mon! People are mourning here!

Cardin: I'm not leaving! Not until he comes out here and fights me like a man!

Lark: He can't do that 'cause he's-

Cardin: WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, ARC, I'M GONNA MAKE YOU WISH YOU NEVER MET ME! YOU HEAR ME?! (Tears well) Who do you think you are, huh?! Friggin' punk! Who'm I gonna fight now, huh?! WHO'M I GONNA FIGHT?!

Dove: He's gone, Cardin! He's gone!

Cardin: RAAAAAAAAGH! (Punches picture) Y- You're supposed to be here! F- For me... (Weeping)

Russel: C'mon, boss... Let's go...

Cardin: (Dragged out, Sobbing)

Lark: S- Sorry about all that...

Cardin: NOOOOO! (Chokes) NOOOOOOOO!

Jaune: I... never would've seen that coming...

Emerald: You see that?

Mercury: Ah, who cares? Only downside to all of this was that those idiots didn't get killed, too.

Cinder: I'd watch what you say, you two. The last thing we want is people looking at us as their enemies.

Mercury: Oh, please, I know exactly the kind of guy he was; he's the dumb starry-eyed kid who thought he'd make a difference by throwing his life away to save some kid he never met... just to look good in front of whatever girl was watching him.

Cinder: Well, I'm certainly not going to argue that.

Jaune: Those... jerks! It's my funeral and they're just here to make fun of me?! If I could get my hands on them, I'd- (Reaches out)

Goodwitch: (Grabs Mercury and Cinder) Honestly, I was upset by Mr. Winchester's emotional outburst, but everything you two just said has pushed me into a violent temper.

Jaune: Professor Goodwitch...?.

Goodwitch: (Passes, Walks up to Saphron) My condolences for the loss of your brother. Please allow me to say a few kind words.

Saphron: ...

Goodwitch: (Approaches Jaune's picture, Sighs) I can't help but feel responsible, Jaune. Your heart was kinder than anyone else's, but my inability to prepare you for the world has led you to make the ultimate sacrifice before you could even think of graduating. You... It may be impolite to speak ill of you, but I am nothing if not honest. (Shaking) You were my weakest student, which only makes it all the more frustrating to never see you become the strong huntsman you could have become! If only I had just believed in you more!

Saphron: ...Jau...ne... (Breaks down)

Jaune: ...

Terra: Over here, Adrian.

Adrian: (Toddles next to her)

Terra: (Sets Adrian down, Prays)

Adrian: (Looks to her, Prays)

Terra: ...Do you understand what's going on? What all of these people are doing here? (Picks him up) He saved your life, and all these people are grateful to him for it. He was a kind man to have so many friends, and I want you to be like him and become a kind man yourself. (Approaches Saphron) Thank you for inviting us.

Terra: (Walking home with Adrian in her arms) There will be people who make you angry. There will be people who make you sad. But the people who you make happy will be the ones who will show you just how much your life is worth. And I want you to be the one who makes everyone around him happier than you could possibly be. (Hugs)

Pyrrha: (Sobbing)

Cardin: (Screaming)

Goodwitch: (Shaking)

Jaune: (Floating above, Watching them all)

[kumasakka]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❝ 𝐉𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐈𝐖𝐀 𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐎𝐅𝐅 ? ❞

　like the title suggests, you’re showing off the modest look of the internet and surprise him with the most beautiful makeup look someone can pull off or a collection of unserious drabbles inspired by jojo siwa !

ft. isagi yoichi , itoshi rin , itoshi sae , iglesias bunny , yukimiya kenyu , chigiri hyoma !

content. 2.5k wc , so much crack , unserious , humour , up to 0.4-0.5k words per drabble , admin tsuna had too much fun while writing this shit , cringe , crappy writing , safe for minors . credits for dividers @/dollywons .

author’s note. have fun reading you all and don’t mind me — sorry for grammar mistakes. I got inspired by those tiktok videos which appeared on my fyp again and I have to admit that I’m a little late, but who cares heh.

ISAGI YOICHI.

　"COME on, love. We're already late and the others are waiting!" the dark-haired male exclaimed, ushering you to hurry up.

It doesn't even matter that much if you're late. After all, you're just meeting with your friends for a little party — a party that came out of nowhere. A silly and out of fun party.

"Pfft—" you stifled a laughter, speeding up your pace to the car. "I'm coming! I hope you aren't wearing expensive or uh, something fancy..."

With the last steps ahead, you slowed down again and walked normally to the car — the only weird thing? You didn't dare to glance into his direction as you opened the door and stepped in.

　THUD !

"I can't find my keys..." he looked around and searched everywhere for the starter of the car, "you got my keys?"

"Of course." you replied, eyes glued to the window and your face not moving an inch to glance at him.

You placed your small bag on your lap and opened it, hands digging in to find your own keys. It took a while. You took a while. But you can't blame yourself, you searched for the keys without even looking into the bag.

"Love?" Isagi blinked a few times, wondering why you needed so long.

Eventually, he turned his head to you and watched how you handed him the keys. His hands gripped the wheel before letting go, accepting the keys.

"Hey... Is there..." he slowly started, concerned why you weren't facing him, "wrong?"

"No. Why are you asking?" you answered nonchalantly.

"Oh..." he raised an eyebrow, slightly hesitating to continue.

Yet, his curiosity caught him and he pushed the urge to continue.

Wrong move? Perhaps.

"Ah you got there something." he lied and his hand reached out to remove the nonexistent dirt off your neck.

"Thanks—" you interrupted yourself as he swiftly got a grip of your chin and forced you to face him.

"Face me properly— What the..." he staggered in his breath, immediately removing his hand off your chin.

"What's wrong?" you tried your best to act normal, biting your lip so you wouldn't burst into laughter.

"So... what a pleasant surprise." he blinked slowly. "Wow..."

"Dream guest on my podcast? Oh my gosh I mean..." your voice was uncomfortably low, "honestly let's spice things up, one of my exes."

"Please..." he sweat dropped. "Remove that makeup."

"What? You don't like it?" you feigned hurt. "You're going to be the dream guest."

"NO SORRY, IT WAS A JOKE—"

"JOKES ARE SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY?"

ITOSHI RIN.

　"YOU are lucky that lukewarm dipshit is going to be later than us."

Rin complained as you two finally left the house, only that you're trailing close behind him. "Yes, yes." you nodded at his nonstop complaining, locking the door while doing so.

It's not like you're super late, just a few minutes. The friend you're visiting doesn't even live that far away, only twenty minutes with the car. But if Rin's extremely annoyed then you most likely arrive there in ten.

"Hurry up." he demanded and made his merry way to the car.

"Chill. It's not like the others will be there on time. Most of them will be later than a few minutes." you shook your head and followed into the car.

"Arriving before them is the goal." he didn't glance into your direction as he started the car.

"Honestly? Noticed, that's literally your lifelong goal." you slammed the door shut.

"I'm just better than them." he murmured and began to drive out of the garage.

"You sure are..." you commented, making him glance at you.

"What's with the hairstyle?" he stared at your messy bun.

"Oh I wanted to try something new out." you answered, still looking out of the window.

"Yeah..?" he muttered, eyes returning to the road again — driving out of your home.

Bad, bad idea.

"Mmh yeah." you bit your lip, forcing yourself to stay silent.

As soon as the lights turned red, the car slowly stopped again. And your boyfriend took this opportunity to face you properly, leaning slightly forward to get a better look of your face.

"Is that... black face paint?" he questioned, deadpanning already.

"You got a prob', or what?" you put on your serious face and met his gaze.

"..." he stayed silent.

"I was a bad girl..." you started, "I did some bad things. I swear I did it all for fun and it meant nothing... It never happened. It was a secret. Like when a tree— Rin where are we going?"

"Somewhere..." he murmured, suddenly feeling all moody as he turned right — even though he should've taken the straight path.

"Hey, that's the way back home!"

"We're not arriving there with this makeup."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN? I'M BEAUTIFUL—"

ITOSHI SAE.

　"CALM down, Sae! We aren't even late, we're thirty minutes early." you deadpanned.

"Don't care. Gotta be there earlier than that lukewarm asshole." he murmured under his breath as he gripped the wheel.

"You're making everything into a competition whenever Bunny gets mentioned." you sweat dropped and closed the door.

"Are you wearing a mask?" he questioned as soon as he glanced into your direction — only seeing the white strings around your ears.

"Erm... I'm a little sick." you lied, coughing a little into the mask as you used your hand to cover your upper face.

"Oh?" he hummed under his breath and started the car, oblivious to the prank you're pulling on him.

A grin crossed your lips, while staring out of the window to admire the beauty of Madrid. It was beautiful, maybe even as beautiful as your makeup. Oh if only he knew how cheeky you are.

The car was drowning in silence, ears filled with your favourite songs as you coughed again and scrolled through your playlist, searching for a certain song.

"Is something wrong, [name]?" he questioned after the music was gone.

Actually it wasn't gone, you just put your phone on silence as you skipped to the main part before pulling down your mask, eyes finally facing forward. And slowly the volume came again.

"[name]... What's with—" Sae got interrupted, already irritated by the prank you're pulling.

"Thou shall not lie... Thou shall not cheat... Thou shall not get caught," you forced him to stay silent by pushing his head away so he can drive properly. "Or you'll end up just like me oh!"

"That's it..." he sighed out, halting as the lights turned red — his head banged against the wheel.

"Karma's a bitch! I should've known better." you danced the practised moves despite being shackled in the seat, "If I had a wish, I would've never effed around!"

"Will I ever have a moment of peace in this life..?" he continued to drive, trying his best to ignore your shenanigans.

"When I saw the pics of you and her, I felt the knife twist!" you got out stacks of pictures and threw them into the car.

"You're cleaning the mess later." he deadpanned.

Suddenly a picture hit his face as he was finally able to take a look on it. "What the—" his eyes twitched, seeing the edited picture. It was beautiful (in your eyes). Him and Bunny on a wedding.

"I'm so done with—"

"PSHHHHH!"

IGLESIAS BUNNY.

　"LET'S get going, my love." he smiled as he guided you outside of your shared home.

Did you seriously have to act like this? You're pretending as if there were paparazzi's or something, gaze glued to ground without lifting your head. At this point are you the celebrity or him?

Not even he was able to get a glimpse of your face. Of course, he doesn't doubt that you look beautiful again but he still wants to see you face him properly. You've been acting strange all the time!

"What's wrong?" he questioned curiously and opened the door to the passenger seat for you.

"Nothing, why?" you forced yourself to not laugh as you got in, pulling down the cap deeper into your face.

"Are you sure?" he chuckled and with that, he closed the door to enter the car on the other side. "Are you nervous because Itoshi's girlfriend is going to be there too?"

"Getting intimidated by who?" you grimaced slightly.

"Nevermind." he smiled, not daring to start the car yet — he wants to see your face first. "It seems like you changed."

Where's the sweet and energetic [name]? Today, you didn't even drop one freaky comment. Not even a single one. Something must be wrong — you definitely don't act like this and he picked it up right away.

"Well... No one has made this dramatic of a change yet." you tsked and shook your head. "No one has made in my generation this extreme of a switch and... I am the first in the generation."

"I'm not following..." he watched as you pulled off the cap. "Oh wow."

"I mean it's very scary. But!" you smirked at him smugly, "someone's gotta do it."

"This makeup is scary." he dropped without further shame, an expressionless smile on his lips.

"Shut up, it's not." you frowned jokingly, finally turning to him to glare at him.

"Don't glare at me with those pretty eyes." he chuckled, raising his hands to prove his innocence — the innocence he never owned.

"Pretty like my makeup." you shone with your ugly makeup which totally didn't match your outfit.

"Right... Flying pigs exist now, don't they?" he leaned forward and opened the storage, grabbing makeup remover wipes.

"Oh dang, you store them here?" you blinked in surprise. "Never saw this in your car. Hey, did a girl leave this here? Are you cheating on me?"

"I've been storing them here for a while." he explained and got out one for you, handing you it, "after I found out bad makeup means bad day."

"Naww, did you watch the reel I send you?" you returned his smile and pushed the wipe away. "No thanks."

"Come here, darling. It won't hurt, I'll be gentle."

"BUNNY— GET AWAY!"

YUKIMIYA KENYU.

　HONESTLY, you don't understand why he's being so fancy with the outfits. After all, you two just wanted to meet up with a few friends and there was definitely no need for him to choose a clothes for you.

"You're exaggerating." you sweat dropped and walked down the stairs.

"Am I or are you?" he sweat dropped, gaze wandering to your covered face.

Just like a celebrity — pretty outfit yet face hid from the world with those glasses and mask. Seriously, are you sure who you were calling exaggerating? Him or you?

Maybe it was just his expensive taste in fashion, after all he was a model and his world revolved around the modest trends, soccer and you. At this point, you fear that he thinks this is normal.

So you're teaching him your world. The one, you lived before this luxury. The time where you actually had fun with silly clothes — wearing colours or musters without worrying that they don't match. Makeup is one thing.

"Nah, you are exaggerating." you accepted his hand as he guided you down the last steps.

"Sure, yes. I am exaggerating." he chuckled and accepted it without another word, closing the door behind you and then trailing behind you.

"Accept the reality." you nodded in acceptance, getting into the car.

"I already did, my love." as soon as he started the car, your phone connected with bluetooth and the first song immediately started.

For a while, you waited Kenyu to get ready to drive off as he buckled the seatbelt. You stared out of the window and slowly removed the glasses and the mask, acting as nonchalant as you could.

"—it took you two weeks. To go off and date her. Guess you didn't cheat..." you started to go along with the text.

"Oh, traitor by Olivia Rodrigo?" he hummed, finally looking into your direction.

"But you're still— You're still a TRAITORRRRRRRR!"

"What in the world..." his smile went from genuine to blank, "Oh wow... What a nice surprise."

"You got a problem, dude?" your voice was dangerously low, almost growling.

"No..." he trailed off, sweat dropping as he was about to get out, "Let me get something..."

"Heh... Guess you couldn't handle my charms." you chuckled, immediately grabbing his wrist so he wouldn't escape.

"[name], love, my universe, my future, dear, darling... Wipe this makeup off."

"Kenyu, sweetie, pookie wookie dookie, my favourite, cutie patootie, baby, bae, hubby, sweet cheeks, the father of my children... No."

"Please?"

"Kenyu, dude, bro, pooks, treasure, father of my children—"

"What?"

"WHAT’S WRONG?"

CHIGIRI HYOMA.

　THE diva, queen, whatever coming personally. Taking even longer than me." you said loudly in the car.

You listened how your boyfriend closed the door and sighed out at your announcement. "What a lovely greeting. Thank you, peasant." he played with you and buckled the seatbelt for him.

"Of course. Only the best for your exquisite taste, princess." your eyes stay glued outside of the window.

"I thank you again." he murmured and got his keys out, starting the car slowly. "Aren't you going to buckle your seatbelt?"

"Nah, it's only a few minute drive." you replied, leaning back into the seat.

"Safety first." he sighed out and leaned closer to you, hand finding its grip around the seatbelt so he can do it for you. "Am I not supposed to be the princess? Why are you getting the princess treatment?"

"Because I'm a queen." and with that, you finally turned to him, face inches away.

"Holy—" he didn't even hesitate to back away in a quick second, his hands on his own seatbelt. "What's... this?"

"My..." you paused and coughed, now setting your voice on the lowest tone you could reach. "Ahem my new look. It's the modest. From the internet."

"The modest?" he grimaced slightly, taking in your so-called new look. "Baby, do you even know what that means?"

"Of course, Hyoma. What's that even supposed to mean?" you frowned, voice deeper than his.

"All offence intended." he added without feeling bad.

"Come here, you stupid—"

As soon as you were to near him, he didn't waste time to unbuckle his seatbelt. "In the name of your love for me, back off." his back was pressed against the car door, hand ready to open the door so he could escape.

"Because I love you, I have to do this." you shook your head, faster than him

this time and grasping his hand.

"Stay back, woman!" he exclaimed and tried to push you away.

"You're a woman yourself!" you didn't care if he pushed you away as you pulled him in.

"More woman than you? Definitely!"

"Accept your true gender— WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

"I SAID WHAT I SAID..!"

"Watch your tone, boy. I'm giving you the same look now. That's what you WANTED!" your one arm wrapped around his neck while getting out a marker out of your purse.

"[name]..." he stopped wriggling in your hold for a moment, hands on your arm.

"Yeah?" you hummed and got off the lid with your teeth.

"Is this a permanent marker?"

"No..." you kissed his cheek with a smile. "Don't worry."

"BACK OFF—"

© 2025 kumasakka — do not plagiarize , copy , modify , translate our work !

[roguishcat]

Thirsty Thursday: Coconut Rum Confessions

Summary: Having been just friends with Tav for years, Astarion finally decides to tell her how he really feels.

Excerpt: “Darling, I don’t want to see you once a month and talk about inconsequential nothings. I want this to be real. I want us to be real. I want it all! I mean” – he took a deep breath – “if this is what you want too.”

Word count: 6.9k

Tags: MNDI, Humour, Romance, Astarion x Tav, Astarion is bad at feelings (but he confesses!), piv sex, fingering, dry humping, Astarion being a brat, soft dom Astarion, smut with feels, fluff, Astarion and Shadowheart are bitchy besties

A/N: I decided to turn this into a little one-shot collection called 'Dating for Dummies'! This story is part 2 and follows directly after the events of 'Brunch'.

Thank you so much @preciouslittlebhaalbae for all your help and suggestions! If it wasn't for you, this would have a million mistakes! You are such a gem for helping and I really appreciate it! 💖💖If there are any mistakes left, it's because I decided to write some more last minute.

“My, my! What are the odds of seeing you three here!” Tav teased, clearly having fun seeing them squirm as they tried to come up with a reasonableish excuse for being there.

“Fine, you got us,” Shadowheart shrugged her shoulders with a laugh. “How was your date?”

“It was great, actually. Really great. Just great!”

Tav’s smile was a little tight, which had Shadowheart frowning. She’d known her long enough to know when Tav was lying. Seeing that she was looking anywhere but at Astarion, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Damn that stupid elf, it seemed that he still had a chance.

“Then how come you’re here with us instead of getting it on?” Karlach grinned lecherously.

“Well, you know me. Don’t go home with them on the first date and all that. Just felt him up a little under the table. I’m a lady, after all.”

The look on Astarion’s face was that of an outraged debutante clutching her pearls.

“Just kidding! You should have seen your face!” Tav giggled and gave him a light shove. “Never thought I would see the day when little ‘ol me would make Astarion Ancunín look so scandalized.”

Astarion cleared his throat and pushed his curls back. “You misunderstand, dearest. I’m just shocked that you would be so crass.”

“Well, perhaps that’s what happens when someone is friends with you for so long,” Shadowheart said with a treacly-sweet smile that did not reach her eyes.

Bitch.

Astarion shot her a dirty look.

You’re the bitch.

Shadowheart rubbed her eye lightly with a perfectly manicured middle finger.

“Anyway,” Tav pretended not to notice the exchange, “as nice as it is to chat, I promised Gale I would help his daughter with her school project tomorrow. So, I have to get up early to catch the train to Waterdeep.”

“Do you need a ride home?” Astarion blurted out, making Shadowheart do a double-take.

“Sure, if you’re offering,” Tav nodded and waved goodbye to Karlach, oblivious to the murderous glare Shadowheart shot in Astarion’s direction.

“I’ll go get the car,” Astarion said and darted towards the parking lot.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Shadowheart caught up with him – damn she could walk quick in those heels – and grabbed his arm.

“What do you think? Driving our sweet Tav home so she doesn’t get mugged. Because I’m a gentleman like that.”

“You are the furthest thing from a gentleman.”

“I thought you wanted me to make a move!” Astarion accused, annoyed that he sounded like a lovesick teen talking about his crush.

“Yes, ‘wanted’ being the key word here,” she hissed, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “Stop playing mind games, Astarion. Because if you do make a move but don’t follow through, I’m calling Lae’zel.”

Now that was a proper threat. Karlach, he could probably win over by giving her his saddest, wettest eyes. To say that Lae’zel was not fond of him would be the understatement of the century. She barely tolerated him and his antics over the years. He was quite sure that the gith was just itching for a reason to rough him up or run him through with one of her swords. She’d got a little softer over the years since she became a mother, but it didn’t mean that they were buddy-buddy.

“Fine, I will be virtue personified!” He said dramatically, pressing his hand to his heart.

“I don’t believe that for a second, but we will see.” Shadowheart pivoted on her heel and turned away, back stiff, perfect ponytail flicking from side to side.

Half an hour later and about twenty minutes into their ride, Astarion still couldn’t summon the courage to say anything remotely close to asking Tav on a date. Why was this so difficult when it came to her? His mouth felt dry and his palms felt wet. It was so out of character for him. Him! The one who seduced so many with just a look! But when it came to Tav – someone that he actually wanted to have a genuine connection with – he found himself tongue-tied.

“Now this is a very nice ride,” Tav commented, running her fingers along the comfortable seat with a yawn. “Remind me again, why do I pay for most of the brunches when we meet up?”

“Because you love me and want to treat me to cheap coffee?”

“Sounds about right,” she closed her eyes with a contented sigh and relaxed into the car seat.

Astarion shot furtive glances at Tav, noting with annoyance that she looked good enough to eat. He did not know how Halsin could resist. He sure was finding it difficult. But then again, that duck-lover was always much too dutiful and proper for his own good. Because in spite of his reputation and extensive experience, Halsin was too much of a gentleman. Astarion, however, never claimed to be such.

The car ride was over too soon for his liking.

Astarion unbuckled his seatbelt, leaning over to open the car door for Tav. Their noses bumped together gently as he drew back.

Tav’s tongue darted out through an opening of her mouth to wet her lower lip. It was an invitation if he ever saw one. He leaned in, sensing the subtle shift in the air, the feeling of anticipation. In the past he hadn’t cared to go slow. Astarion had rushed into kisses the way a reckless swimmer would dive into water without checking where he would end up. Only the end result had mattered. Getting off or getting something else that he had wanted. But this was Tav. His Tav. Or perhaps not his, yet. But that could be remedied easily enough.

Intense eyes drank in the slightly parted lips, the beautiful neck, the rise and fall of her chest. Tav shifted towards him. Astarion cupped her cheek with his hand, and she leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut. Astarion closed the distance between them, meeting her lips gently. He wanted to be ferocious, to kiss her in a way that would make her toes curl, in a way that would ensure that she would not want any other to kiss her again. But he found himself holding back. For no reason other than his stupid, stupid self.

The kiss was lukewarm at best. She felt his reluctance, drawing back with a frown.

“Astarion?”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at her as her pleasant expression gave way to a concerned frown.

“Astarion, is everything okay?” Tav put her hand over his, thumb stroking smooth, lightly-freckled skin.

He realised that he had to say something. If he let the silence stretch any longer, Tav would certainly take his reluctance personally.

“Yes, of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be, darling?”

She sighed and moved his hand away from her face and onto the car seat.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” she smiled and gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks for driving me home. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

He stared after Tav long after she was gone.

What in the sweet hells was that?

A week later, Astarion found himself in front of her apartment with a bottle of coconut rum. Why coconut rum? Well, that was a different story for a different time.

He hadn’t bothered to change before coming here, so Astarion was still in the gorgeous number he’d worn to the fundraiser. Being there, surrounded by all those superficial, self-serving people who barely knew which charity they were raising the money for, got a bit too much. He felt stifled, suffocated. He went out to get some air and started to walk. Then he just kept walking until he found himself in a cheap liquor store, buying a bottle of rum, then walking more still until he finally reached Tav’s apartment.

She wasn’t home. Which shouldn’t have been too surprising. She was probably out with Halsin. For their second date.

He scowled at the thought and opened the bottle, taking a generous swig of the disgusting drink. The rum was an in-joke. She was supposed to laugh and let him in, the rum being a peace-offering of sorts.

Now he was stuck sitting outside her apartment, his back pressed up against her door in his eye-wateringly expensive suit. It would probably be ruined. Astarion was surprised that he felt a dark sort of satisfaction at the thought.

He heard the clicking of heels and saw pretty strappy stilettos stop in front of him. Cute. She painted her toes silver, he noticed. Hot. 

“And why, may I ask, are you camped out here, hm?” Tav asked with a sigh, but he could swear that he could hear her fighting back a smile.

“It’s a free country,” he took another swig from the bottle. “I can get drunk wherever I want.”

“I mean,” Tav crouched in front of the elf, brushing the errant silver curls aside to get a better look at his face “you could have called and told me that you wanted to come over.”

He could hear the exasperation in her voice but didn’t look up. Instead of answering, Astarion gulped down some more rum. The taste just would not grow on him. How annoying.

“Scooch over a little then, I need to open the door. These heels are absolutely killing me, and you can proceed to get drunk inside my apartment,” she rose and nudged him playfully with the toe of her shoe.

“Should have worn the ones that I bought you for your birthday,” he muttered, grasping her calf and running his fingers down to her ankle.

Tav gave a shocked squeal and wriggled out of his grasp. She had always been extremely ticklish, and this was his way of reminding her that he could and would abuse that knowledge.

“Let’s leave the ‘I-told-you so’ for a later time, when you aren’t so moody and I’m not in pain,” she suggested.       

Astarion shrugged but shifted enough for Tav to open the door.

Once inside, Tav immediately kicked her shoes off, her happy groan making a shiver dance up his spine.

Astarion decided to relocate and sunk down on her sofa, not relinquishing the bottle when she tried to take it from him. Tav huffed and sat down next to him, laying her legs across his and putting her head on his shoulder.

“Want to tell me what this is all about?” she murmured. “Or are we just going to pretend that this is your typical Thursday evening?”

“How’s Gale’s daughter?” he chose to ignore her question. Because answering that would open a whole new can of worms and he did not have the emotional capacity for that.

It was obvious that he was just trying to change the subject, but Tav pretended not to notice.

“I swear, she is more like Lae’zel than him, despite all the magic used to make their child resemble him in some way. And bless Gale’s heart, he really tries with her. But the bossy little madam demanded ‘that teacher, the one in the ridiculous clothes’ come by and help her with her assignment last week and then again this afternoon. Gale could have done it in his sleep, he is heads and shoulders above me when it comes to… well, everything. But no. Had to be me.”

She stopped speaking and ran her fingers through his silver curls, feeling him relax a little under her gentle ministrations. They stayed silent for a while after that.

“Why do you think Gale and Lae’zel work? As a couple, I mean.” Astarion spoke quietly. He probably wouldn’t have asked if not for the fact that he had a generous amount of alcohol in his system and was running on two hours of sleep.

“They just do. I guess the why and how is only up to them to know. But Lae’zel has definitely gone softer round the edges, just enough to allow herself to be happy. And adopting Lae’zel’s son, and having a daughter with her… Being parents becomes them. They are wonderful together.”

Astarion noticed that he was running his hand up and down her thigh, the hand holding the rum pressing Tav closer to his body. Treacherous hands, what a mess they got him into. Now he would have to come up with some kind of excu-

“Astarion?” Tav breathed softly, idly stroking his hair and loosely coiling his curls round her fingers. “I’m tired. Aren’t you?”

They both knew that she wasn’t talking about the late hour. The unspoken part of the question hung heavily in the air, the atmosphere becoming charged.

“I-” he began, uncertainty colouring his voice. “I never told anyone, but my father left my mother when I was quite young. She could have done much better than him, but the bastard made her believe that he loved her. And she was much too wide-eyed and naïve to know better.”

Just like a certain someone I know, he would have added, but didn’t want to draw any parallels.

 “She worked tirelessly to help him pay for his studies. Because they were in it together, or so she thought. And then they had me. Suddenly, he realised that he was not cut out to be a father and just up and left. Taking what was left of the money, leaving us with nothing. Less than nothing. Leaving us in crippling, impossible debt.”

He scowled, thinking about his mother. The mother that gave up so much to make sure that he could become someone of worth. The mother that he almost never visited.

“Growing up, I would say or do something, and my mother would tear up because it was ‘as if he was in the room.’ I guess she never stopped loving him.”

He didn’t really want to talk about his past. But he wanted to explain. Wanted Tav to understand that he cared. That she mattered. And that his unwillingness to pursue her in earnest wasn’t just him being a bastard. Or perhaps, not entirely.

“I constantly heard about how I was his spitting image. That I looked just like him.  I knew that my mother and others didn’t mean it that way, but I often felt like they were saying that I was just like him in every way.” Astarion took a shuddering breath, his fingers gripping the bottle a little tighter. “The same unreliable bastard who was capable of abandoning the people who cared about him most without so much as a fucking explanation.”

He felt Tav’s lips near his temple and her fingers on his face. She pushed back his curls, brushing the shell of his ear and then moving her hand to stroke the back of his head. Astarion’s shoulders relaxed a touch. Tav had always known how to prevent him from retreating into himself. More importantly, he’d always known that these gentle touches were given freely. No strings attached. He didn’t know how he’d managed to stay in her good books over the years, but sure as hells he wouldn’t question her about it.

“When I was in the last year of high school, I decided to confront him. I knew his name, of course, and I found out where he worked at the time. Waited outside the building for hours until that bastard finally left for the day. And you know, everyone telling me all these years that I looked just like him was absolutely right. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing an older, much wealthier version of myself. I got up and wanted to say what I thought of him, but I just couldn’t. Couldn’t force the words out.”

He took another swig of the rum and wrinkled his nose. Damn, this stuff was disgusting.

“Our eyes locked. He recognised me, there was no way that he didn’t. And then he just walked past me. As if I was a nobody. I suppose, in a way I was.”

Astarion took a shuddering breath and decided to just go for it. In a way, it felt good to tell someone. No, not just someone. To tell her.

“I got completely shitfaced drunk that evening. Went home and vomited all over the place. My mother didn’t say a word about it, just helped me through the night, then took care of me the next morning.”

“And that’s-” he stilled his shaking fingers - “that was when I decided that I would show that arrogant, stuck-up prick just what I was made of. I studied like mad to get into a good university. I was prepared to do anything to quickly move up in the world. So that next time we met I was not somebody who could be ignored so easily. Somebody he would have no choice but to show an ounce of respect.”

He was shaking again. He wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for Tav squeezing him closer to herself, but she didn’t interrupt him.

“And then, when I turned thirty – still so young for an elf, but much further along in life than he had been at that age - I felt that I was ready to throw my success in his face and show him just how much him not being in my life didn’t matter. But I- I didn’t get the chance. He died before I had the opportunity to see him again. Shot twice. No surprise there, really. He conned and swindled enough people over the years to make plenty of enemies. And he had already been revived once that year, it would be illegal to do it again.”

He remembered how he felt when he had seen the announcement. Angry. Absolutely livid at not having the chance to tell that fucker how much it didn’t matter that he hadn’t been in his life.

“Him dying…” Astarion took a deep breath to steady himself. “I didn’t want his love, or approval, or a pat on the back. I just wanted to talk to him, as equals of sorts. I wanted an answer. Just one fucking conversation that would help me to understand. With everything else that he passed down to me, did I really take after him so much that I was incapable of touching anything precious to me without destroying it?”

Tav kissed his shoulder but didn’t speak. Anything she could say would be inadequate at this moment. She hated that he had to live through that. Hated that his father would just cast him and his mother aside for no reason other than his ambition.

“And here is the crux of it,” Astarion went on. “Is wanting something, really wanting it, wanting it more than anything else… Is that enough to preserve it? Because I want this to be real. I want us to be real. To hells with excuses!” He leaned forward to put the coconut rum on the coffee table. It was now or never. He wanted – no – he needed to stop living his life like he was trying to prove that he wasn’t someone else. It was time to start living. Really living. Not just going through the motions and pretending that he enjoyed it. He didn’t know what he wanted. Or what the new plan would be. But he didn’t want to spend another day feeling afraid to tell Tav how he had felt about her for years.

“Darling, I don’t want to see you once a month and talk about inconsequential nothings. I want this to be real. I want us to be real. I want it all! I mean” – he took a deep breath – “if this is what you want too.”

He finally turned his head to look at Tav, her eyes wide and her mouth parted a little.

“Tav?”

She didn’t speak, but leaned forward and kissed his cheek tenderly, making his eyes flutter shut. Then she lifted herself a little to wrap an arm around his neck, the other hand coming up to rest on the back of his head as she ran her fingers up his neck and then the shell of his ear, making him shudder in want.

Then his lips found hers. And soon she was straddling him as their kisses grew heated, Astarion’s insistent hands moving her dress out of the way enough to expose skin just above her hip bones and continue their ascent.

“So, I’m guessing there will be no third date with Halsin?” he managed to say between kisses.

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “There wasn’t a second date. I cancelled. It wouldn’t be fair to string Halsin along.”

“You sweet, caring thing. How kind of you to worry,” Astarion inwardly preened.

“Is this really what you want to talk about now?” Tav giggled.

“I don’t want to talk at all.”

But he did want to make sure that this was okay. That this was what she wanted, too. He wanted to ask her, to-

Tav chose that moment to nibble on his ear and grind against the bulge in his trousers, making Astarion short-circuit. 

“Star, you may safely assume that I am most enthusiastically yours. Do your worst.”

Well, if that was a challenge, then he was definitely up to it. Except, if she kept grinding oh so deliciously against him for much longer, he wouldn’t be up to it for very long.

Astarion drew her in, and his lips devoured hers hungrily. Tav let out a moan as Astarion gripped her possessively, dominating her completely. It was no surprise that she yielded to him, really. He was a superb lover, after all.  She parted her lips for him to drive his tongue into her mouth. Coaxing, conquering, controlling every motion.

They broke apart and Astarion found that he rather liked having her this close. Face flushed, chest rising and falling, lips plump and parted invitingly. Tav was currently busy unbuttoning his shirt with the eager inquisitiveness of someone unwrapping a present. The look of intense concentration on her face was endearing.

“Careful, darling. This ensemble happens to be one-of-a-kind,” Astarion admonished her gently.

“Well, then I would like to submit a complaint to whoever decided it should have so many damn buttons!”

“Impatient, are we?” Astarion chuckled, his voice deeper, thick with arousal. He started helping her, unbuttoning from the collar down as Tav gave a frustrated groan that became a happy sigh as his chest and abdomen were finally revealed.

Laughing, she brushed against him to nip on his neck, stealing a husky sigh that turned into a groan when she palmed him through the fabric of his trousers.

“You’re the one to talk.”

He whimpered, his body instinctively rocking into the sensation. Tav was right, of course. He just couldn’t wait for her to finish undressing him. And for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the last time he was so excited to see someone naked. But he didn’t have to tell her that.

“You seem to think, my dear, that you’re in charge here.”

Arrogant and cocky. A familiar role.

“No,” Tav kissed his temple and whispered into his ear, “I am happy for you to lead.”

Astarion’s groan melted into a trembling sigh when her breath ghosted over the shell of his ear. His lips moved down to kiss the swell of her covered breast while his hand touched the other. Feeling emboldened by her reaction to his thumb brushing across her nipple, the elf began kissing the covered part of her breast before catching the peak teasingly between his teeth. Lifting his hips, he ground his erection against her core, delighting in the way her breath hitched. Encouraged, he did it again and was rewarded by a moan.

“Astarion, please!” Tav breathed out with a plosive sound as she arched her back, needing more.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he ground out between thrusts, “I suppose I-”

Tav chose that moment to unzip his trousers and finally, finally touch him. Eyes half-lidded, she ran her hand down his shaft, moving back up to smear pre-cum across the head with her thumb.

“I do ask nicely. Please.” She pumped him once, then again for good measure. “Please,” she moaned into his ear, “Please.”

Astarion grabbed her wrist.  Because his night would not end with him making a mess in his trousers like some pre-pubescent teen.

Tav squealed when he lifted her, the world briefly blurring as Astarion carried her across the room and into her bedroom with rather impressive speed. Kicking the door open and briefly getting entangled in his trouser legs – damn those things! – he set Tav down on the bed before both of them could fall over.

The battle with his clothes was brief and he came out victorious. His expensive outfit went flying across the room, soon joined by Tav’s dress. He wanted to stop a moment, to drink her in, but Tav – quite understandably impatient – immediately started kissing him passionately.

“Wait,” he pulled away to unclasp her bra and flung it onto the floor. “Much better.”

He palmed her breasts, reveling in the feeling of having the freedom to explore, touch and taste. Perhaps taste was his favourite, after all. He had never really got over his oral fixation.

Astarion climbed on top of Tav, kissing her feverishly. The intense, predatory look in his eyes made her heart race. He was delirious with want. An uncontrollable sort of longing to be closer to her. It was a desire so powerful that it destroyed whatever control he had left, leaving him a panting mess.

“Darling I- I promise that I’m going to do this right next time.” Astarion’s voice grew huskier as he propped himself up on his elbow, the other hand grabbing her hip roughly. “But now I just have to be inside you. Just-”

“Yes. I’m ready.”

Tav put a warm, lightly trembling hand on his back. She was so wet, she knew that she was more than ready. But Astarion still entered her slowly, making sure that it didn’t hurt. Giving several shallow thrusts, he pushed himself in completely with a strangled groan.

“Gods” – he breathed out and rocked forward again and again, her moan sending a shiver down his spine – “Tav, darling-”

The inexplicable pleasure had his low-pitched hums turn to whimpers as he tried and failed to set a pace. It was probably the sloppiest, worst form of his life and he felt incredible. Greedy hands and whet kisses exploring her body were welcomed, and her own touch making his breath hitch. He realised that he wasn’t doing enough. It was their first time and he wanted – no, he needed to make sure that it was memorable.

“Gods! Tav, I ought to-” he closed his eyes, reaching blindly for her face. “I must-”

He was rambling, unable to stop himself, mouth running a mile a minute. He couldn’t even understand exactly what he was saying. The stress of the past several days coupled with a generous amount of alcohol – why did he even get that stupid rum! – had him spewing all sorts of nonsense.

She put her fingers over his mouth, finally stopping him from saying more.

“Star, I-”

He gripped her wrists, cutting her off with the sudden press of his hands. 

And he was lost.

He inhaled sharply, his entire body tensing as heat shot up his spine. With a deep groan, he bit Tav’s shoulder and shuddered, thrusting into her as he chased wave after wave of pure bliss.

Breathing hard, he lay there, feeling completely boneless and spent. And then he realised that he must be the only one.

Shit.

He did not just do that! He did not just cum about three minutes into sex with the woman he’d been trying so hard to impress for months and had adored for years.

“Shit,” he said, not sure what to do after such a cock-up. There was only one thing to do, really. He had to leave.

Panicking, his eyes darted to Tav’s face, then to the door, then her face again.

“I’m-”

Warm, soft lips silenced him. The kiss was warm and gentle; it was so very Tav.

“Tav, I- I’m sorry,” he managed when he pulled away.

“Sorry? Why?” Tav felt that she missed something important but wasn’t quite sure what.

“The sex was shit,” he said bluntly.

“I didn’t think so.”

The look of confusion on her face was both adorable and exasperating. Surely her past encounters weren’t so terrible that this disaster seemed great in comparison?

“But you didn’t even- well…”

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. He – the one who had a veritable cornucopia of lovers – couldn’t even do something as simple as properly pleasuring his partner. What an embarrassment.

“No, I didn’t. But that’s not all sex is about for me. I love being close to you. Us isn’t just about sex. Although, don’t get me wrong, this was fun. But being with you is about a million little things. Like getting cheap coffee. You talking to me about your work and how Shadowheart annoys you constantly. It’s about the excitement I feel every time I see you and how I keep thinking about how your day went when we aren’t together.”

Astarion had always been a skeptic, so he had to bite his tongue to avoid saying something snarky. But Tav wore her expressions boldly. And over the years he’d learned enough about her to know without any doubt that if Tav said something, she meant it.

“Well that all sounds rather dull,” he scoffed, hiding his pout and flushed cheeks in her hair.

“Perhaps.”

“So domestic and uninspired.”

“Mmm…” Tav ran a soothing hand down his back and up again to rest her fingers on his shoulder.

“I suppose I could get used to that.” Astarion turned his head to the side to put his lips to her neck, Tav giggling as his curls brushed against sensitive skin.

He stayed like that for a little while before pulling out of Tav, a soft moan from her making him feel a little better. He moved to spoon her, pulled Tav closer, clutching her closely and putting his leg over hers.

“I will fuck you into the bedsheets tomorrow,” he couldn’t suppress a yawn.

“Sounds like a date.” Tav grabbed the edge of the duvet, pulling it over them both.

“Is it really enough for tonight?”

Is it enough for you to stay?

“Yes. I fell in love with my best friend. I feel very lucky to have you.”

And apparently it was just that simple. Astarion wanted to say something back. He did try. But he felt weightless and happy, and coming up with words seemed rather challenging at that point. So, he decided to give himself a minute to think about it. Then another. And then another.

Astarion could not remember falling asleep. His sleeping was odd in itself. He couldn’t remember the last time he chose it over trancing. Yet, there he was. Being woken up by a playful ray of light that managed to find a gap in the curtains. He squinted and pulled the covers up higher so just the tip of his nose was poking out. It didn’t help.

He felt the bed dip as someone sat down next to him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like someone hired Karlach to ring bells in my head and she is taking the job too seriously.”

It was a terrible joke. It would have to do.

“I thought you’d feel like that. I brought you some water and a Scroll of Lesser Restoration.”

Shifting under the covers, Astarion noticed that he was wearing a pair of simple cotton briefs and was decidedly cleaner than he should have been after sex. Tav must have cleaned him as much as she could without waking him. The thought filled the elf with gentle warmth.

“How did you manage to get your hands on one of those, hm?” He cracked one eye open and shut it immediately with a hiss. Damn that cheerful sun.

“That’s for me to know, isn’t it? Come on. Up you get.”

The task felt truly Herculean, but Astarion managed to sit up – with an appropriate amount of complaining – drink the water and then read the writing on the scroll. With a glow, the magic settled over his skin, chasing away the horrid throbbing in his skull. It felt wonderful. But not as heavenly as the vision in front of him – Tav wearing nothing but a towel and a smile. Hair damp, one after another droplets of water making their way down her neck, down her cleavage and then disappearing under the towel.

He swallowed, his mouth feeling dry again.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he reached for her, moving her hair out of the way so he could have a better look at her soft skin. “I could get used to waking up to this.”

“And I could get used to having a handsome elf in my bed. Besides, didn’t you say something about fucking me into the bedsheets?”

“Indeed, I did! And I’m about to make good on that promise.” His voice was playful, but there was a glint in his eye — the glint of a predator that finally had his prey cornered.

Astarion grabbed Tav round the waist and fell back, bringing her on top of him. The towel fell open, Tav’s bare breasts and stomach pressing against him most enticingly.

"So, now that you have me where you want me, what are you going to do?" Tav asked playfully, running her hand down his chest with an appreciative sigh.

“Everything.”

“That sounds like it might take a while.”

“I’m overdue for some time off anyway. And what better way to spend it than this.” Astarion lowered his voice – as if to share a secret - and kissed her. Tav welcomed his kisses and wandering hands with gentleness, running her fingers through his curls to caress his ears.

“Gods,” he broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“No, I mean- I love you. I’ve loved you for so long, it became second nature. I didn’t even think of it as love. I just thought of it as a feeling that I reserved only for you. But nothing that I could put into words. So, I want to say it again. I love you, Tav.”

And then he kissed her. And it was sweet, tender, and perfect. He brought one hand to the small of her back, the other snaking down to make its way between her legs. Breaking the kiss, Astarion rose slightly to murmur in her ear.

“Eyes on me, my sweet,” he said in a voice so velvety it sent heat straight to her core. “I want to see exactly how you look when you fall apart.”

“I always have my eyes on you.”

He started slow, a gentle brush of digits over a bundle of nerves, savouring it. He’d pull away - barely brushing over where she wanted his fingers most- only to press harder, then harder still. Tav shut her eyes and rocked against him with a groan.

Suddenly, she yelped, her eyes flying open when she felt a harsh slap and then a stinging sensation on her ass.

“Did you just spank me?”

“I did say ‘eyes on me’, dearest. Tsk” – he clicked his tongue and continued his ministrations, fingers moving faster. “Honestly… Can’t you follow simple instructions?”

“You’re impossible!”  Tav’s laugh turned into a wanton moan and she ground against him.

“And you’d be a liar to say that you don’t love it.”

Astarion smirked and watched the rise and fall of her hips as she brushed against his rapidly hardening cock. The shock of it was short-lived as Astarion retaliated by moving his fingers directly to her clit. Tav didn’t stand a chance, really. She shattered so beautifully. Astarion watched her with an intensity that sent yet another overwhelming wave through her. 

Content that she was most satisfied, Astarion moved to lay her down on the bed. Still feeling floaty, Tav watched as he hooked his fingers under his waistband and pulled his underwear down, freeing himself. His cock throbbed in his grasp, slick with precum. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, touching himself as his hungry eyes took her in.

“Stole the words right out of my mouth,” she murmured, lifting her arms, beckoning him. “Come here, my love.”

He complied, sliding along her body, his lips finding hers. Astarion moaned into the kiss, his hands lifting Tav’s legs to lock over his hips.

He slid into her, and Tav began to move against him in a slow, tantalising rhythm that made his breath hitch.

“Astarion,” Tav moaned, then said it again so tenderly it made his heart ache.

He started moving, rolling his hips and finding a rhythm that had them both gasping and groaning in pleasure. The room was filled with lewd sounds of skin upon skin, of bodies moving and writhing together. He seared her skin with hot, messy kisses, sucking and biting her neck as she tilted her head to expose herself more to him. He felt her hands slip through his curls, tracing the delicate lines of his pointed ears.

“Oh, darling,” Astarion groaned, thrusting deeper, delighting when she gasped and arched against him. “Can you give me another one, my sweet?”

“Yes. Yes, I-” Tav nodded as she clung to him, feeling tension building up inside her again as his hands traced the contours of her body.

Astarion angled his hips to hit deeper, finding a spot that made her throw her head back against the pillow with a strangled moan. A few more well-placed thrusts, his fingers once again on her clit, and Tav felt her climax. More intense than the last, it overwhelmed her senses.

Preening, Astarion finally let go, allowing himself to get lost in her. Her breath hot against his skin, the feeling of her muscles spasming against him, the lewd noises she was making. He didn’t last long. Astarion bit her shoulder, burying himself deep inside her as his orgasm hit him hard.

They stayed still, the sounds of their unsteady pants filling the air.

“So…” Tav trailed off as Astarion rose a little on his elbows to look at her. “You are definitely a biter.”

“What?”

“You bit me again.” Tav smiled, trailing slightly trembling fingers over where his blunt teeth left marks on her skin. “Are you a vampire, by chance?”

“Oh, darling. If I were, you’d be the first to find out.” Astarion snorted, trailing his hand along her side just beneath her breast.

Tav squealed and tried to get away from him, but Astarion was having none of that.

“Ah! It’s not fair! You know I’m ticklish!”

“I do. And I intend to abuse that knowledge,” he nodded and continued his assault.

Somewhere across town, Shadowheart was getting worried. Astarion had acted erratically last night. It seemed that not being able to confess to Tav was taking a toll on him. And whilst they weren’t exactly friends, she felt that she, perhaps, was somewhat responsible for his odd behaviour. Maybe telling him to make a move hadn’t been a good idea. After all, if they hadn’t told each other how they felt after years of knowing each other, perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.

Either way, despite having no obligation to nanny the elf, Shadowheart decided that she would give him a call and ask him why he was an hour late. In her experience, Astarion was impossible, careless, and highly annoying - but never late.

He didn’t pick up at first. And when he did, he sounded rather… preoccupied.

“Yes?”

“Well, good morning to you too. Are you planning on swinging by the office today? You know, since they still didn’t fire you and all?”

“Actually, I’m taking a week off.”

“Oh?”

Now that was new. She couldn’t remember the last time he took a holiday or even a sick day. Hungover or not, on his deathbed or not, he still dragged his sorry carcass to the office in whatever state he was in.

“Yes, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t call me unless the office is on fire.”

Shadowheart heard a giggle. A familiar giggle.

“Fine. Whatever. Perhaps we will actually get some proper work done without you getting in the way. Tell Tav I said hi.” Shadowheart smirked when she heard her friend give a muffled squeal.

“I won’t.”

Astarion hung up and tossed his phone onto the pile of his likely ruined clothes.

“So…” Astarion trailed off and brushed Tav’s hair out of her face. “Where were we?”

Because he meant what he had said earlier. Now that he had Tav exactly where he wanted her, he would do every single thing that he had imagined doing to her over the years.

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