#sketching between scrolling

[paulgadzikowski]

finished Star Trek: Prodigy today

[theconfusedacorn]

Self portrait:

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Month 6, day 26, Draw Everything June Day 18!

This was a fun pose :D They've all been fun but this one made the good brain juices go brrrrr

[threecowsusingthisforreblogging]

sometimes I like to make terrible animatics in an hour or two to battle perfectionism

For context:

Camille, my dnd character and at the time very inexperienced cleric, started her journey with the party as one of them died right in front of her. Laucian Xygotricht got his shit kicked in and died as Camille was trying to treat him. Luckily for him, his patron (a red dragon) managed to bring him back as a warforged.

[mwphisto]

Simple things that turn LnDs men on~

Including: Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, and Caleb x reader. Reader is implied female but most can be interpreted however you please!

Warning, this post is 18+! Some lighter smut since my brain cannot handle anything else atm (I’m graduating university in 3 weeks)

Shifting banner from @cafekitsune <3

Xavier

Cuddling with you, seeing you sleepy and warm and soft in his embrace, under his blankets, in his bed. He can’t help it, you’re just so perfect, so sweet in this state. His hands can’t help but wander, sliding over your soft tummy, your thighs, eventually landing to cup your chest. His nose nuzzles into the crown of your head, inhaling your shampoo, and the next thing he knows? His hips are swiveling softly into the plush of your ass.

When you get mad. He’s not capable of explaining why his body has the reaction it does. Other than the plain statement of “you’re hot when you’re mad.” Which isn’t a lie, Xavier finds you so hot when you’re angry. Seeing you so passionate about something that it gets your blood boiling? He’s thinking of ways to get you to cool down. How easily he could switch the downward tilt of your brows into something far more… relaxed… pleased… blissed out…

Sitting on his lap is a definite way to get his attention. Xavier can get a bit lost in his hobbies, whether it be reading or scrolling articles on his phone. Sometimes the call of his name doesn’t snap him out of his trance. But you know what does? Settling your pretty self on his muscular legs, a smile on your lips, your hands cupping his cheeks and guiding him up towards your glittery eyes. The weight of you on him, the warmth, the surprise of his train of thought being interrupted, all of it has his heart rate spiking. Until all he can see, hear, and feel is you.

Rafayel

Matching his energy can totally catch the artist off guard — the absolute best way. To be blunt, you’re able to match his freak so well he can’t help but get turned on at how in sync the two of you are. His beautiful bride, perfect in every way. When you two are so effortlessly on the same page, he finds himself struggling to keep his composure. Luckily for him, you always seem to know what he’s thinking without him so much as saying a word.

Willingly being his muse just might send Raf into a coma. Seeing you sprawled over his couch, barely dressed so he can do some anatomy sketches has him shifting uncomfortably on his stool. Your sweet smile, delicate and skilled hands, the way you whisper his name while he scribbles on his paper with a rosy blush on his cheeks. You’re just so effortlessly beautiful it drives him insane.

Noticing the smallest details about him will get his head spinning. Rafayel harbors a lot of mixed emotions regarding his past and he loves you wholeheartedly but sometimes he just can’t… let go. When you take the time to get to know him — or as much as he’s willing to give you — and you actually pick up on things that go unsaid? His head is spinning, his heart pounding, the seal on his chest burning brightly. He wants to devote himself to you, it’s just part of his nature at this point. Eventually, he’ll work through it all and give into what he needs most…

Zayne

Your laughter sends his heart into a nose dive. He’s never been one for jokes, his dry humor often carrying him through. But when he says something that genuinely has you belly laughing, his name a sweet melody on your lips as you try and contain your giggles? He’s shifting his legs to hide the growing tension between his legs. You look at him with such adoration, so sweet and delicate, he has to reign himself in before frost creeps up his neck.

Giving him your full attention when he begins to ramble about nerdy medical things definitely causes the surgeon to lose his train of thought. You may not understand the scientific terms he’s using, and you may feel a bit bad when he has to explain them again with simpler terminology, but your attention is undivided regardless. And Zayne notices, of course he does. His heart is pounding as he rattles off all of his fascinations — such as new research he’s compiled about neonatal heart defects. You’re so engaged with him, nodding along and even asking him some questions. He’s fighting the urge to kiss you senseless. After a long day you’re so willing to listen to him ramble on about his research? He’s going to marry you, and fuck you senseless for being such a good girl.

Taking care of him, such as shaving his face or washing his hair will have Zayne be putty in your hands. He does so much for others, puts so much care and effort into making their lives better. It’s only right that you step up and do the same for Dr. Zayne. Though, bless him, he didn’t expect you to straddle his lap and shave him with a straight razor. Didn’t expect to be engulfed by the sent of your perfume as you settle your weight on his legs and glide the razor over his skin. It’s intimate, the proximity of your bodies is close enough to generate some warmth. He’ll lose it before you’re able finish one side of his unshaven cheek.

Sylus

Skinship with the leader of Onychinus is pretty special. Sylus savors every second of it, given that your hands rarely touch him outside of holding his waist when on his bike. The feeling of your fingers on his cheeks, your legs caging his as you sit together on the couch, your fingers intertwining with his. He’s a goner, so touch starved it’s nearly pitiful. He’s always been a man of composure, but god dammit you’re just so soft compared to him. You’re so warm and smell so good and you’re just so… you’re so sparing with your touches. As if you’re hesitant, not sure if he’d want your hands on him in the first place. Drives him so insane, he craves to hold you close but doesn’t want to push you before you’re ready.

Seeing you wear clothes he picked out for you has Sylus adjusting his collar and inhaling deep through his nose. His mark is on you, even if it’s not on your skin, you’re dressed so beautifully. You match him, compliment him perfectly. You look so breathtaking he has to mentally pat himself on the back for having such damn good taste. Seeing you feel yourself in what he’s picked does wonders for his already big ego. Seeing you twirl and smile as you admire yourself in the dress, the skirt, the pants, the shirt, whatever he’s picked out for you for the occasion. It gives him a sense of pride, like he’s done good, and it’s a genuine plus that you look so goddamn perfect in every outfit.

Kissing his knuckles nearly sends him over the edge one night. You had finished cleaning some wounds while his evol recharged and sealed the deal with a gingerly placed kiss on his battered knuckles. Sylus nearly sees stars because of it, such an overwhelming surge of possessiveness and heat flooding his weary veins that he nearly pops a hard-on then and there on the floor.

Caleb

Stealing his clothing is something you’ve always done. Something about it being comfier, softer, smelling like him. God he doesn’t even care for the reason, he just knows you look so divine in his shirt, his boxers, his hoodie. So cute and small compared to him, marked as his for anyone who has the gracious opportunity to see you in such a state. He guesses it’s only fair you steal his clothes, since he has a small — but growing — collection of your panties—

Relying on him 100% would put Caleb on cloud nine. Giving up your tough guy act and simply putting all of your needs on him would have him struggling to keep his composure long enough to actually see the tasks through. Could be something as simple as asking him to cut up some fruit for you, could be as complicated as giving your bike a tuneup. Regardless, Caleb is blissed out and glossy-eyed as he shows his love for you in his favorite fashion.

Slipping into his bed in the middle of the night has been something you’ve done since childhood. Bad dream, can’t sleep, anxious or stressed, Caleb’s arms have always been your biggest comfort. He waits for it, waits for the creak of his door and your quiet whisper of permission. He craves the dip of his mattress, the weight and warmth of your body next to his under his sheets. He has to be mindful of where his hips land on you, purely out of fear that you might feel something you’re not supposed to just yet.

[hyunjinsmuze]

Paint me naked

warnings: Unprotected sex, humping, grinding, nipple play,creampie, slightly subby Hyunjin (at first)

contains: ⛔️smut, slight fluff, soft dom!hyunjin

summary: When Hyunjin asks you to model for a painting, a teasing joke turns into something much deeper—and much filthier.

pairing: hyunjin x reader

words: 4.8k

You met Hyunjin on a random afternoon backstage at one of Stray Kids’ early shows before the lights, before the world knew him as more than a trainee with a pretty face and a body full of nervous energy. You weren’t part of the industry, not really. You were there tagging along with your cousin, a stylist-in-training who forgot her phone charger and begged you to bring it to the venue. You remember bumping into him—literally, shoulder against chest, awkward apologies exchanged in a cramped hallway.

He laughed, soft and polite, tucking his hair behind one ear. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

Neither were you. But after that, you couldn’t stop.

It was the beginning of a slow, easy friendship. The kind that unfolds like pages in a well-worn book, comfortable, familiar, occasionally surprising. You ended up in the same coffee shops, the same late-night ramen joints, the same cramped dorm rooms where he and the other members laughed over horror movies and convenience store snacks.

What made you and Hyunjin different was the silence. Not awkward silence—never that. But the kind of quiet that hung between two people who didn’t need to fill the space with anything but presence. You understood his introverted spells, the way he disappeared into notebooks and sketchpads for days. He understood your tendency to overthink, your hesitancy to open up to new people.

He became your person. The one who texted at 2AM just to ask what the stars looked like from your window. The one who bought you hot packs in winter and made playlists for your bus rides. You never had to label it, but he was yours in a way no one else was.

He painted you once. Just your hands. He never told you he was doing it, just asked you to hold a piece of fruit one afternoon while he adjusted the lighting in his room. Weeks later, he texted you a photo of the finished piece, captioned with a single word: ‘yours.’

You didn’t ask what it meant. You didn’t have to.

Through the years, you watched him become Hyunjin—Hwang Hyunjin—idol, artist, fantasy. But he always came back to you, in small ways. A voice note here. A sketch of your favorite flower there. Movie nights, even when he was dead tired. He always had time for you, and you never questioned it.

He had other friends, of course. You weren’t delusional. But the intimacy you shared with him felt untouched, sacred. You knew what made him laugh until he cried, what song made him tear up in silence, the scent of the oil paint he used late at night.

Somewhere along the way, things shifted. You don’t know when exactly it happened, but one day you realized that your skin burned when he brushed your arm. That his gaze lingered too long when you wore off-the-shoulder tops. That when he hugged you, he held on a fraction of a second too long. That you liked it. That you craved it.

But you never crossed that line. You didn’t dare.

Hyunjin was flirtatious by nature, teasing, coy, all pouty lips and sparkly eyes—but there was something else in the way he looked at you. A softness. A depth. A quiet hunger he never acted on.

He wasn’t just pretty. He was breathtaking. Tall and lean with that graceful dancer’s body, lips made for sin, eyes that carried galaxies. And yet, he only ever seemed to look at you like you were the masterpiece.

Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was the fact that you were so close, so intertwined, that the thought of losing him kept your desires locked behind your teeth.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It started with a text.

hyunjin:

‘hey’

‘weird ask maybe, can i paint you?’

You were in bed when it came through. Face half-buried in your pillow, doom-scrolling past fan edits of him—shirtless, smirking, in that sheer black stage outfit you pretended not to zoom in on. You sat up, reread the message five times, then typed and deleted three different replies before finally settling on:

‘you’ve painted me before?’

He replied almost immediately.

‘not like this’

Your heart gave one of those annoying little skips. You could feel the heat pooling in your cheeks even though it was probably innocent. Probably. You waited, thumb hovering, then typed:

‘what’s “not like this” mean?’

It took him a minute. Long enough for you to overthink it, to imagine him staring at his screen, debating what to say. When the next message came through, your stomach flipped.

‘i wanna do a full portrait’

‘not just your hands or your back or whatever’

‘just you, sitting for me’

There was something about the way he said just you that made your skin tingle. Maybe it was the bluntness. Maybe it was the fact that he trusted you with this—something intimate, something artistic, something that sounded like it was more than just about a painting.

You stared at the message until your brain caught up with your body, until your fingers stopped fidgeting and your breath leveled out. Then:

‘okay. when?’

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

His studio wasn’t what you expected.

It was just a spare room in his apartment, walls splattered with dried paint, a couple of canvases leaning against the corners, a stool in the center with a single warm light trained on it. Music played softly in the background, something instrumental and moody.

He met you at the door, hair tied back in a loose bun, oversized shirt smudged with black paint. He smelled like that cologne you always associated with him, clean, sharp, with a hint of something woodsy.

“You came,” he said, smiling like he didn’t quite believe it.

“I said I would.”

“Yeah, but you say a lot of things you don’t mean.” He wasn’t teasing. Not really. There was something searching in his eyes, like he was checking to see if you felt it too, whatever it was.

You stepped inside, took in the space. “This is nice. Very you. Chaotic.”

He laughed. “It’s better when the light hits right. You’ll see.”

You dropped your bag by the door, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. “So… what do you want me to do?”

“Just sit,” he said, already turning to grab his sketchpad. “I’m gonna start with some quick lines, get the posture right. You can relax. We’ll talk.”

You moved to the stool, adjusting your position a few times until he gave a little hum of approval. He stood a few feet away, flipping the pad open, pencil already in hand.

“Is this for a project or…?”

“Nah.” His eyes flicked up to yours, then down again. “Just for me.”

That shouldn’t have made your breath hitch. But it did.

“So,” he said, voice casual, like he hadn’t just casually short-circuited your brain, “the comeback’s almost done. Title track’s crazy. Felix has this deep part that’s gonna blow people’s minds.”

You leaned back slightly, letting yourself settle into the rhythm of it. “Is it the angry sexy kind of comeback? Or the emotional sexy kind?”

Hyunjin laughed, head still down, wrist moving in soft strokes. “Definitely angry sexy. We’re in our fuck you era.”

You grinned. “Hot.”

There was a pause. You could feel his gaze on you again, flickering between your posture and your face.

“You look good tonight.”

Your stomach did a weird, slow turn. You didn’t reply right away, just tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and shrugged. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

He said it so easily. So simply. Like he didn’t realize the way his words sank into you, slow and warm and deep.

You glanced around, needing something to focus on. “How many people have you painted?”

He paused, pencil stalling mid-sketch. “Like… properly? Not many. You’re the only one I’ve asked to pose like this.”

You looked back at him. “Why me?”

His eyes lifted. He didn’t smile. Didn’t deflect.

“Because I know how to look at you.”

You should’ve said something clever. Should’ve laughed it off or rolled your eyes or made a joke. But the way he said it—quiet, sure, honest, left no room for anything else.

So you just breathed. Slowly. Carefully.

Then you said, “You’re flirting with me.”

He gave a soft little smirk. “Am I?”

“You are.”

“Is it working?”

You blinked. Heat surged through you in a sudden wave, hot cheeks, warm chest, pulsing low in your stomach. You opened your mouth to reply, and instead said:

“You should paint me naked.”

It came out before you could stop it. You didn’t even really mean it. It was a joke. A flirty little comment, the kind you’d made a dozen times before in less charged settings. But the second the words left your mouth, you knew they landed differently.

Hyunjin’s pencil stopped. Dead still.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable. There was a beat. Then:

“…Okay.”

Your breath caught.

“I—what?”

“I’ll paint you naked,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “If you want.”

You stared at him, frozen. “Hyunjin, I was joking.”

“I’m not.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with tension. The kind of silence that made your skin prickle. You could feel something shift in the air, something new and heavy and inevitable.

You wanted to laugh it off. But part of you didn’t.

Part of you wondered what it would feel like to let him see all of you. Not just your face or your posture or your hands—but you. Bare and unguarded and real.

And part of you, maybe a bigger part than you were ready to admit, wanted to see what he would do.

He didn’t say anything else. Just looked at you, waiting.

And before you could second-guess yourself, you reached for the hem of your shirt.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You don’t even realize what you’re doing until your shirt is halfway over your head.

You pause for a second, arms tangled in fabric, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. You want to say something, maybe still turn it into a joke, make it light, make it easy, but when you finally pull the shirt off and toss it onto the floor, the look on Hyunjin’s face shuts your brain down completely.

His mouth is slightly open. Eyes wide. Hands still clutching his sketchpad, but the pencil’s barely hanging on between his fingers.

You’re not even naked. Just in a bra, nothing fancy, black lace with a tiny bow in the center—but suddenly it feels like you’re wearing nothing.

“...Okay,” you say, voice way too breathless to sound normal. You try to smile. “You called my bluff. Happy?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just stares.

Like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like you’re not just his friend anymore, you’re something else. Something he can’t quite believe is real.

“I can put it back on,” you offer, and your voice is smaller now, not teasing anymore. “I was just messing around.”

“Don’t,” he says, and it comes out fast. Sharp. Then softer, like he’s catching himself. “I mean… only if you want to. But don’t because of me.”

You sit back on the stool, your bare skin suddenly way too aware of the air in the room. The studio light casts soft gold across your collarbones, down the slope of your chest. You can feel his eyes on you—like heat, like weight.

You glance at him. “Are you gonna sketch or just stare?”

He laughs once, short and nervous. “Sorry. Yeah. Sketching. Sketching.”

He fumbles with his pencil, nearly drops it, then clears his throat and lowers his eyes to the pad. You catch the way his hand is shaking a little. How his jaw flexes, how his tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip like his mouth’s gone dry.

You watch him. Watch the way his gaze keeps dragging back to your chest, your stomach, your thighs. How hard he’s trying to not look hungry. How he’s failing.

“So,” you say, like your voice isn’t a little shaky too, “what’s the, uh—what’s the vision here? Do I get a Greek goddess moment? Or are we going full Titanic?”

“Stop talking,” he mumbles, not looking up. His cheeks are flushed. “You’re making it worse.”

That makes you grin.

“Oh? What’s worse?”

“You know what.”

You tilt your head. “You’re getting turned on.”

He doesn’t answer, but the tips of his ears are red, and he shifts in his chair like he’s trying to discreetly adjust something in his lap.

You bite your lip. Your skin is tingling. Your thighs press together, involuntarily. It’s like the heat in the room has changed—like the air between you is full of static.

“I didn’t think this would actually do anything,” you admit. “I mean, we’re friends.”

“Exactly,” he says, finally looking up at you, and there’s a raw kind of intensity in his voice. “That’s why it is doing something.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re not just some model. You’re not just a body. You’re—” He breaks off, swallows. “You’re you. And you’re sitting there, all beautiful and confident and half-naked, and I’m supposed to just draw you like it’s nothing?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know what you’re feeling.

You’d thought this would be a joke. That he’d laugh, roll his eyes, maybe throw a pillow at you. But instead you’re both buzzing. Breathing like you’ve been running. Hearts pounding. Every second that passes feels more and more dangerous.

You shift slightly on the stool, crossing one leg over the other, and you see the way his eyes drop. You see the subtle flex in his hands. The rise in his chest.

He’s hard. You’re sure of it now. There’s a subtle tension in the way he sits, a stiffness in his posture that has nothing to do with his sketch.

And the worst, or maybe best, part?

You’re getting there too.

You feel warm all over. Every time his eyes flick to you, you get this pulse between your legs—this low, throbbing ache that makes you want to move, to shift, to do something.

And suddenly you’re wondering what it would feel like if he touched you.

Not in some grand, dramatic way. Not all at once. But something small. The brush of his fingers along your thigh. The backs of his knuckles down your ribcage. His mouth on your neck.

You swallow hard.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice low and tight.

You nod. But then your voice betrays you. “Are you?”

His throat works. “No.”

And you don’t know what possesses you, maybe it’s the ache building low in your belly, maybe it’s the way his eyes look like he’s trying not to devour you—but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“Do you… want help?”

His entire body goes still.

You clarify, because you have to, because if you don’t you’ll explode. “With… with your hard-on.”

There. You said it.

And he looks at you like you just offered him something sacred. His lips part. His pupils are blown wide, chest rising and falling fast.

He nods.

Once.

Twice.

Three times, frantic and desperate, like the words aren’t coming fast enough.

“Please.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The moment the word please leaves his mouth, something shifts.

Hyunjin—your shy, soft-spoken best friend who blushes when you compliment his jawline, is staring at you like he’s about to fall apart. And you’re not much better. Your body is buzzing. Throat dry. Every nerve alive and humming.

You stand slowly, moving off the stool. The silence is so heavy it feels like a third body in the room.

He doesn’t move.

You step closer.

He still doesn’t move—but his breath hitches when you reach for the sketchpad, gently pulling it out of his hands and setting it on the floor beside the chair. His fingers graze yours, barely, but it’s enough to make your stomach clench.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Your hand moves carefully to the waistband of his sweats. You don’t pull, not yet. You’re watching his face, the way his lashes flutter, the way his mouth trembles with restraint. He’s letting you lead, nervous and desperate, completely open, like he’ll shatter if you stop.

You lean in, close enough that your breath fans against his ear.

“You’re so hard,” you murmur, almost a purr.

He whimpers.

Actually, whimpers.

You smile a little, heat pooling between your legs. “Thought you said you could handle it.”

“I can’t,” he breathes. “Not—not when it’s you.”

You kiss him.

There’s no hesitation. No second-guessing. Just mouths crashing together, all heat and hunger and months—years—of buried tension finally snapping loose. His lips are soft but eager, a little clumsy with how badly he wants you. He tilts his head, groaning into the kiss, hands gripping the arms of the chair like if he touches you too soon he’ll lose control.

You straddle him slowly, your knees on either side of his hips, settling into his lap.

And fuck, you can feel it now, his cock straining against the thin fabric of his sweats, pressing up against the soft part of your panties. It makes your hips jerk without meaning to.

He gasps.

“You feel that?” you whisper, brushing your nose against his. “You’re so hard for me, Jinnie.”

“Fuck,” he moans, head falling back. His neck arches and you take your chance, leaning down to kiss down the column of his throat, sucking gently just below his ear.

His whole body trembles.

You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, grinding down against him. The friction sends a shock through you, your clit catching just right against the fabric. It’s not enough, but it’s so good.

He’s breathing hard now, little gasps leaving his parted lips. His hands are twitching at his sides, and when one finally lifts, shaky, hesitant—you guide it to your waist.

“Touch me,” you say. “You can.”

That’s all it takes. His hands slide up your sides, warm and wide, fingers splaying across your back like he needs to hold you in place. He looks up at you like he’s still not convinced this is real.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice cracking. “I don’t—fuck, I don’t even know what I’m doing—”

“You’re doing perfect.”

You kiss him again, slower this time. Deeper. Letting your tongue trace his, dragging your fingers into his hair and tugging just enough to make him moan. He bucks his hips up into you, instinctive, needy, and the pressure makes you both gasp.

You whisper against his lips, “You want me to take it off?”

His eyes flick down to your bra. He swallows hard. Nods.

You reach behind you, unhook it slowly, then let the straps slide down your arms. The second it hits the floor, his eyes go wide—hungry. Like he wants to memorize every inch of you, paint you again and again, frame you in gold.

He reaches up with both hands, cupping your breasts carefully, reverently.

“Can I?” he whispers, thumbs brushing your nipples.

You nod.

He leans in, mouth warm against your skin, kissing along the curve before flicking his tongue over one nipple. You arch, grinding into him harder, and he groans, low and filthy, all breath and heat.

“Jinnie…”

“I can’t take it,” he gasps. “I need—fuck, I need more.”

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping tight, guiding your movements now. The rhythm builds, your clothed cores grinding together, wet heat meeting hard desperation, the friction slick and perfect. Your breath stutters. You feel yourself clenching around nothing, aching for more.

“Do you feel how wet I am for you?” you whisper. “I’m soaking through my panties.”

His hands tremble.

“You can touch,” you say. “If you want.”

His fingers hook in the waistband of your underwear so fast it’s almost funny, shaky and eager, like he’s scared you’ll change your mind. You help him slide them down, then press back into his lap, bare now, wet and swollen and hot.

The first touch is electric.

His fingers slip between your folds, slow and shaky, and when he finds your clit you both gasp.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re—fuck, you’re dripping.”

You bite your lip, rocking against his hand. “You make me like this.”

He kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. His fingers rub tight little circles, then dip lower, teasing your entrance.

“I wanna be inside you,” he whispers. “But I don’t wanna rush. I wanna feel everything.”

“We will,” you promise, kissing him back. “But I wanna make you feel good first.”

He looks up at you, eyes wide. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing this.”

You grin. “That’s the point.”

You reach down, slipping your hand into his sweats. The second your fingers wrap around him, he shudders—eyes fluttering, hips jerking into your palm.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he moans. “Y/N—please—”

“You’re so big, Jinnie.”

He whimpers again, so pretty, and you stroke him slowly, matching the rhythm of your hips.

You’re both sweating now, breath ragged, moaning into each other’s mouths as you grind and stroke and kiss like you’re starving. You can feel your orgasm building—tight and hot and close.

“I wanna come on your cock,” you whisper. “I wanna feel you inside me.”

He nods like he’s possessed.

“I want that too,” he pants. “Please. Let me—let me fuck you—”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You pause at the sound of his voice.

Hyunjin’s face is flushed, eyes heavy and glazed with need, hair sticking to his damp forehead. His chest is rising and falling fast, lips parted as he stares up at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Say it again,” you whisper, fingers resting against his bare stomach.

His jaw flexes.

“I want to fuck you,” he says again, this time firmer, his voice low and strained, like it’s burning his throat on the way out. “Please. Let me.”

You lean in close, letting your forehead press against his, your noses brushing.

“Then do it.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t have a condom—”

“I’m on the pill,” you whisper. “And I trust you.”

That’s all it takes.

He moves fast—like something inside him just snaps. His hands slide down to your ass, gripping tight as he lifts you up placing you on one of his tables in the room with surprising strength, mouth crashing onto yours in a bruising kiss. He’s not shy anymore. His body presses into yours, fully, completely, like he’s trying to mold himself against you.

“Tell me if I do too much,” he says, breath hot against your mouth. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You nod, breathless. “I won’t want to stop.”

He kisses down your chest, licking over your nipples until you’re arching under him, legs falling open on instinct. His hands trail down your stomach, your thighs, until he’s slipping a finger between your folds again, and this time, it’s so much slicker. You’re soaked.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so wet for me.”

“For you,” you pant, gripping his shoulders. “Only you.”

He groans like he’s in pain, rocking his hips forward just once, grinding his cock against your entrance, dragging the thick head through your folds. The friction makes your whole body tense, hips lifting to chase the sensation.

“Please, Hyunjin,” you whimper. “I need you inside me.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Look at me,” he says, voice ragged. “I want to watch your face when I’m inside you.”

You do. You hold his gaze.

And then—slowly, carefully, he pushes inside.

The stretch is dizzying. He’s thick, long, and he goes slow, easing in inch by inch, his jaw clenched tight like he’s trying not to lose control. Your body clenches around him instinctively, and you gasp, your hands flying to his arms.

“F-fuck,” you stammer. “Hyunjin—you're so big—”

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice shaking. “I’ll stop. I’ll wait—”

“No,” you gasp. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

He groans, deep and guttural, and finally sinks all the way in.

For a second, you both just breathe. Your bodies flush together, your chest pressed to his, every inch of him filling you perfectly. You feel split open, wrecked, full, but in the best way.

“I’ve wanted this,” he whispers. “For so long.”

You cup his face, pull him into a kiss, and then he starts to move.

The first thrust is slow, testing, dragging his cock out almost all the way before pushing back in deep. You both moan, eyes fluttering shut. His hands are everywhere now, your hips, your waist, your face, like he can’t decide which part of you to hold onto.

The pace builds quickly.

Soft grunts spill from his lips as he fucks into you—deep and rhythmic, grinding with each thrust. He’s still gentle, still careful, but the desperation is bleeding through. His hips slap against yours, the sound obscene in the studio silence, and you can’t stop the way you’re clinging to him—fingers tangled in his hair, thighs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in harder.

“God, you feel—” he chokes on a breath, “you feel so fucking good.”

You tighten around him, intentionally this time, and he gasps.

“Fuck…don’t do that,” he groans. “I’m not gonna last.”

“Then come,” you whisper. “I want you to. Come inside me, Hyunjin.”

He growls, actually growls, and pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip tight as he starts fucking you harder. Not rough, exactly, but deep, urgent, hungry. Like he needs to bury himself in you and never leave.

Your orgasm builds like a tidal wave, tight and sharp, curling through your spine.

“I’m-fuck…I’m gonna~” you cry out, legs shaking.

“Come,” he gasps. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

And when you do, it rips through you like fire, your whole body seizing, walls fluttering around him as you scream his name. He’s right behind you, cursing under his breath as he thrusts deep one last time, spilling inside you with a loud, broken moan.

You stay like that, panting, trembling, pressed together, for a long moment.

Then he lowers himself gently onto your chest, still inside you, kissing your collarbone.

“...Holy shit,” he whispers.

You laugh, breathy, dazed. “That’s one way to end a sketch session.”

He huffs a laugh too, then kisses your neck, your jaw, your lips.

“I’m never gonna be able to paint you the same again,” he says softly.

You smile.

“Good.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The studio is quiet now.

No more breathless gasps, no desperate sounds of skin on skin, just the slow hum of the fan in the corner and the afterglow settling between your bodies like a blanket. You’re lying on the floor with him, tangled together on a half-unrolled canvas drop cloth, skin sticking slightly where your legs are wrapped around his.

Your chest rises and falls slowly. He’s beside you, arm slung around your waist, cheek resting on your shoulder. Still catching his breath.

He hasn’t said much since.

But he hasn’t let go of you, either.

You glance down at him, brushing your fingers through his messy, sweaty hair. “Hey.”

He lifts his head a little, just enough to meet your eyes.

“You okay?” you ask, and the softness in your voice surprises even you. You’re still breathless, still flushed, but the concern is real. You care. Maybe too much.

Hyunjin nods immediately. “Yeah. Yeah—I’m okay. Just…”

He pauses, lips parting, eyes searching yours.

“I don’t want this to mess anything up.”

Your heart clenches.

“Me neither,” you whisper. “But… it doesn’t feel like a mistake, right?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not even close.”

A pause.

Then he reaches beside him and grabs one of his oversized hoodies from the floor, black, soft, probably worn to death. He helps you pull it over your head, careful and gentle like he’s afraid of hurting you. It’s warm, smells like him, and falls way past your thighs.

You watch him quietly as he tugs his own shirt back on.

There’s a faint pink flush still on his cheeks, but his eyes are softer now. Sweeter. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m glad it was you,” he says. “If it was ever gonna be anyone, I wanted it to be you.”

Your heart twists, full and aching. You nod.

He walks you to the door like a gentleman, hand at the small of your back. When you step outside into the cool night air, he hesitates.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.

You grin. “You better.”

And when you walk away, his hoodie hanging off your body, your thighs still tingling from the hours before,you realize this isn’t just a shift.

It’s a beginning.

@hwangjoanna @penguins-in-space @sammhisphere

A/N comment if u wanna be added to the tag list, and if you have any request, feel free to send them on my profile

[leeeedith]

STRAY KIDS reaction when they realize they're in love with you

Bang Chan 🐺

It hits him in the quiet moments. You're next to him, head resting on his shoulder as you scroll on your phone, and he's just... watching you with the softest smile. You laugh at something and show him the screen, completely unaware of the storm inside his chest. And that's when it hits. "Oh," he thinks. "I'm in love with her." He gets quiet for a second, just staring at you like you're the most precious thing he's ever seen. And when you ask, "What?" with a little smile, he just shakes his head and says, "Nothing. Just... you make me real happy."

Lee Know 🐰

He's helping you cook, and you're singing badly to a song on the radio—dramatically off-key, swinging your hips, making him laugh more than he has in weeks. You accidentally get flour on his nose, and instead of being annoyed, he grins. And in that moment, he realizes he never wants to spend his evenings without this kind of joy again. His heart stutters. "I'm so in love with you," he thinks. He doesn't say it out loud, but later, when you're not looking, he snaps a photo of you laughing—just for himself.

Changbin 🐷

He's walking you home, jacket slung over your shoulders because you forgot yours again. The air is crisp, your hand is swinging in his, and you're telling him a story animatedly. He's not even listening fully, just watching the way your eyes light up, the little crinkle at the edge when you smile. Something in his chest aches. "I'm in love with her," he realizes. He stops walking for a second and just stares at you. You're like, "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" and he shrugs, blushing, "Just thinking about how lucky I am."

Hyunjin 😺

You're sketching quietly on the couch, your lip tucked between your teeth, brows furrowed in concentration. He's watching from across the room. You don't notice him—too in your own world—and that's when it hits. That he's completely, terrifyingly in love with you. That even your silence feels like home. He walks over slowly, wraps his arms around you from behind, and buries his face in your neck. "What's gotten into you?" you giggle. He just murmurs, "Nothing. Just don't ever leave, okay?"

Han 🐿️

You're sharing headphones, lying on your backs in the dark, listening to a playlist you made for him. You're humming along, totally offbeat, but it makes him smile like an idiot. He turns his head to look at you, your features soft in the low light, and suddenly the words hit him louder than the music: "I'm so in love with her." It's scary and beautiful all at once. He doesn't say anything, but he scoots closer and links your pinkies together. It's his quiet way of saying "I'm yours."

Felix 🐥

You're baking together, and you're smudged with flour and laughing like you haven't a care in the world. You give him the spoon to taste the frosting and look up at him, expectant, with that radiant smile of yours. And he just stops. He feels is heart bloom like spring. "I love her," he thinks. Not in the sweet, crush way—no, this is deep. Real. Forever kind of love. He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead, and says, "You make everything feel like magic."

Seungmin 🐶

You're talking to a kid at the park, tying their shoelace, laughing with them like it's the easiest thing in the world. He watches you from a distance, hands in his pockets, and it hits him all at once—like a breath he didn't know he was holding. "She's it." He's never been the overly emotional type, but his chest feels full to the brim. Later that night, he'll say it softly, while you're curled up in bed, "Hey... I think I'm in love with you." And when you smile into his hoodie, he knows it's real.

I.N 🦊

It's during a grocery run. You're picking out snacks, holding two up and asking which one he likes better, completely serious about it. And he's just... standing there, realizing that even the most mundane moments feel like a dream with you. "I love her," he thinks, stunned by how simple and true it feels. He chooses a third snack and adds it to the basket, mumbling, "Let's get all three. You deserve all the good things." You just grin, and his heart completely combusts.

[inseobts]

Heyy! Love your work! I have an idea for law and ace (my goattss dont playy lol), but it can be for anyone else in one piece too! I was thinking reader thats similar to Maomao(apothecary diaries) and her obsession with poisons, eating it etc. As for plot, really up to you but I have an idea, maybe they dock at a new island with lots of herbs and their caught trying to eat the most textbook poison looking plant, no doubt thats not poisonous type of plant. Idk it can be like their secret or something. A lil basic cause I have the creativity of a stick, so if u think of something better then plss do it no hesitation fr!! If you do write this thank youuuu!! 🫶🫶

Poison Queen

a/n: I don't know the anime/character but I hope I got the intention of it right after a small google research T.T

characters: law (wc 2.6k), ace (wc 3.6k)

tags: poison enthusiast reader, slow burn, humor, fluff (eventually)

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Trafalgar D. Law:

The island is lush. Dense, dripping green stretches as far as the eye can see, humid air thick with the scent of earth and herbs. From the deck of the Polar Tang, you practically bounce on your heels.

“Is that… purple nightshade?” you whisper, eyes gleaming unnaturally.

“Don’t eat it.” Law says without looking up from the chart he’s examining, standing nearby. His voice is as flat as the sea on a windless day.

“I wasn’t going to…” you lie.

He turns his head a fraction, golden eyes narrowing “Yes, you were.”

You hum innocently, stuffing your medical satchel with your vials and note scrolls “I’m just here to observe, Captain.”

Shachi leans over the railing besides you “This place gives me the creeps. Everything looks like it wants to kill you.”

“Or cure you” you murmur, a little too enthusiastically.

Penguin eyes you warily “Why do you sound excited about that?”

You flash them a polite smile “Because it’s fun.”

Law sighs, sharp and tired “No wandering alone. You stick close to the group. Got it?”

You nod obediently “Of course.”

He doesn’t buy it. No one does.

The island is a botanical goldmine. You’re taking notes faster than your ink can dry. Moss that numbs the tongue, vines that smell like overripe peaches but rot skin on contact, and…oh. You spot it.

A crimson-stemmed flower, petals a sickly sweet yellowish pink, growing under the shade of a tree.

You gasp.

Law, who had started sketching a tree trunk for identification, stiffens “Don’t.”

“But it’s not poisonous!” you defend, already crouching, eyes wild “It looks like it, but this is Miracle’s Folly. It only mimics toxic flora to keep herbivores away. You can eat it, and it has incredible stimulant properties.”

“You just said it looks poisonous.”

“Exactly!” You pluck one with clinical precision “I’ve never seen one in the wild before. This is amazi—”

Law snatches it from your hand, holding it between two fingers like it’s radioactive.

“You’re obsessed” he accuses.

You blink “I prefer the term enthusiastic professional.”

“You tried to eat a known neurotoxin last week.”

“I suspected it was a neurotoxin. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“You lost motor control for six hours.”

“It was valuable data.”

He stares. You stare back, unbothered.

There’s a beat of silence before Shachi and Penguin burst out laughing behind you.

“She’s gonna kill herself one day” Shachi cackles.

“Captain’s gonna lose his mind before then” Penguin adds.

Law exhales through his nose. He pockets the flower, out of your reach “You’re banned from going anywhere without supervision.”

Your eye twitches “Captain, please. This is a scientific expedition—”

He turns “Touch another cursed-looking plant and I’ll have Bepo chain you to the ship.”

You pout “Kinky.”

His ears turn red. You catch it.

Later that night, while the others are prepping camp, you quietly flip open your hidden pouch. Inside: one perfectly preserved Miracle’s Folly bloom.

You smirk “I am a professional.”

You glance at the campfire where Law is sipping his tea, glancing up only when your giggles reach him.

His eyes narrow again.

You chew the petal. Slowly. Carefully.

It’s bitter. Burns the tip of your tongue. But beneath that… Electricity.

The world tingles. Not in a hallucinatory way but in a sharpened, humming, this-might-kill-me-or-make-me-a-god sort of way.

You lean back on your heels, staring up at the canopy as the flower’s effects trickle through your veins “Oh, I have to isolate what’s responsible for this…”

“What are you muttering now?”

Law’s voice cuts through your thoughts like a scalpel.

You jolt and whip your head around. He’s standing there, arms crossed, dark brows drawn low.

You swallow quickly “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow “You’re sweating.”

“It’s humid.”

“Your pupils are dilated.”

“I’m excited to be alive.”

He steps closer. You instinctively step back, hiding your pouch under your coat. He notices.

“Show me what’s in your bag.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

You sigh, dramatic “You know, trust is the foundation of any good captain-crew relationship.”

“You ate that flower, didn’t you?”

“No! Just a piece of it.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, stepping forward “Tongue out.”

“What?”

“Tongue. Out.”

You blink at him.

He’s completely serious.

“…Always so kinky.”

He closes his eyes like he’s mentally ejecting himself from the conversation “Just do it.”

You stick out your tongue, smug “Ahhh~”

He leans in, inspecting “Slight discoloration… mild irritation… your body’s resisting the stimulant effects.”

You raise a brow “You’ve memorized what this flower does?”

“I know every entry in that ridiculous notebook you leave lying around. Including the one titled ‘Things I Definitely Shouldn’t Eat But Might Anyway’.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh” you say, quieter.

He straightens, expression unreadable “You think I haven’t noticed? The stash in the med bay. The coded labels. You catalog poisons more lovingly than most people talk about their pets.”

You look away “It’s just… interesting. The line between medicine and poison. It’s so thin. One drop too much and—”

“You die.”

“Or you cure something incurable.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Law studies you, tone dropping low “Is that what you want? To be the one who finds what no one else has the guts to touch?”

You meet his gaze “Wouldn’t you?”

His jaw ticks.

“…You should be more careful.”

You grin “But then you’d have no one to lecture.”

Law huffs, walking past you “Bepo’s watching you tomorrow. Don’t test him.”

“Bepo lets me eat weird berries if I tell him they’re for science!”

“Exactly.”

Later that night, as the rest of the crew sleeps, Law leans over the log where you were sitting earlier.

He finds a scrap of petal.

Miracle’s Folly.

He twirls it between his fingers, thoughtful.

“You’re not letting me touch anything…” you whine.

“Correct” Law replies, not even sparing you a glance as he adjusts his gloves.

You’re trudging behind him, Bepo flanking your other side like a very fluffy prison guard. The island is buzzing with life but all you’ve gotten to do so far is stare longingly at roots and flowers like a kid with her nose pressed to a candy store window.

“I’m an herbalist,” you mutter “This is discrimination.”

“It’s self-preservation” Law deadpans.

Bepo pats your shoulder gently “You did try to lick a hallucinogenic frog yesterday.”

“It looked juicy.”

“You said you saw the celestial dragons dancing salsa.”

“…I mean, I did.”

Law shoots you a look over his shoulder.

You grin at him.

By midday, you’re sulking on a log while the others finish whatever they were doing.

You pull out your notebook and begin scribbling, sketches of the strange bulbous blue fruits you passed earlier, notes on the slightly vibrating moss near the creek, and, of course, the effects of Miracle’s Folly.

You don’t notice Law watching you.

He clears his throat “Give me your hand.”

You blink up “Why, so you can handcuff me to Bepo?”

“No,” he says, kneeling in front of you with a small vial “I want to run a test.”

You hesitate, then slowly offer your hand.

He drops a single, translucent drop of something onto your skin. It tingles.

“New tincture?” you ask, curiously sniffing it.

“Neutralized extract of Miracle’s Folly. I isolated it this morning.”

Your eyes light up “You tested it?”

He mutters “Voluntarily. With supervision.”

You snort “So boring.”

“But now I need to observe secondary exposure. You’re uniquely qualified.”

Your heart does a little somersault “You mean I’m special.”

He rolls his eyes “You’re reckless. And resilient.”

“And a little cute?”

“Don’t push it.”

You grin.

Minutes pass. He keeps his fingers on your wrist, counting your pulse with the pad of his thumb.

You try not to think about that.

“It’s steady” he murmurs.

“Disappointed?”

He ignores the question “You’re reacting differently than I expected.”

“How so?”

“Your nervous system is adapting.”

“Like immunity?”

“Like something else” he says, voice quieter now “You’ve been exposing yourself in microdoses, haven’t you?”

You pause.

“…maybe.”

He looks up at you, eyes unreadable “Why?”

You drop your gaze, suddenly unsure.

“It’s not just for fun.” you say “I mean, partly, yes. But it’s more than that. I want to understand them. The poisons. The lines. Everything people fear. I want to know it. Control it. Be stronger than it.”

He’s silent.

You add, softer, “I was sick once. Really sick. No one could help. All the doctors, all the books… nothing. But the old apothecary in my town? She mixed me something that should’ve killed me.”

You glance at him, eyes bright “But it didn’t. It saved me.”

Law doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, his voice is gentler than before.

“You and I aren’t that different.”

You blink.

He rises to his feet, brushing off his coat “But if you ever eat another unknown fungus without telling me, I’m performing surgery with no anesthesia.”

You beam “That’s fair.”

That night, Law catches you adding a drop of something green and shimmering into your tea.

He stares.

You pause “It’s just moss extract.”

He raises a brow.

You sigh “…Okay, mildly hallucinogenic moss.”

He snatches the cup.

“Captain!”

“You can have it back after I test it.”

Your eyes widen.

“…Wait. Are you going to drink it?”

He gives you a rare smirk “For science.”

Your jaw drops. And suddenly, you think you might be falling a little bit in love.

Now you’re staring.

Not at the moss sample.

At him.

Trafalgar D. Water Law, Surgeon of Death, Warlord-turned-revolutionary, terrifyingly brilliant man of mystery… just drank the tea you spiked with a moss known to mildly bend reality.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s nothing.

You blink “That was an experimental dosage.”

“I adjusted for body weight.”

“Oh my god.”

Bepo’s ears twitch “Captain… are you sure that was smart?”

Law gives a slow blink “I’m fine.”

You and Bepo exchange a look.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s very much not fine.

“What… the hell is that?”

You follow Law’s dazed line of sight “That’s… the campfire, Captain.”

He squints.

“It’s breathing.”

You purse your lips “Okay, slightly more than mild hallucinations.”

“Why is it breathing, Y/N.”

“Symbolic warmth?”

He stares at you. His pupils are so dilated.

You pull out a notepad “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I see seven.”

“…I’m holding up two.”

He sways.

You sigh and grab his arm “Alright, that’s enough science for tonight.”

He lets you guide him with surprising ease, mumbling under his breath.

You make it back to the tent just as the hallucinations seem to peak.

“I need to sit” he mutters.

You lower him down gently, watching as he pinches the bridge of his nose “Throbbing temple. Flashing visuals. You’re not vomiting, though… interesting.”

He opens one eye “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” you admit, handing him water “You’re cute when your grip on reality is slipping.”

“Y/N.”

“Mm?”

“There are tiny doctors running in circles around me.”

You blink. Then look around the tent.

“…Well. You’re not wrong.”

You sit next to him. Close, but not touching. It’s oddly quiet for a jungle night.

“Headache?” you ask softly.

He nods once.

You reach up and, very carefully, press your fingers against his temples. Slow circles. He doesn’t flinch.

“Pressure can help the tension pass” you say.

He closes his eyes. Exhales.

You pause “Tell me what else you see.”

“…You.”

You snort “No kidding.”

“No, I mean…” he trails off, brows twitching “You look… soft.”

Your hands freeze “I—what?”

“You’re glowing.”

You’re absolutely not glowing, but...

“Oh” you whisper.

“You’re always buzzing,” he murmurs “Like something dangerous in a pretty bottle.”

You stop breathing for a second.

“Law…” you say, too quietly.

But he’s not done.

“I always thought I hated that. The unpredictability. But now it feels like… I don’t know.”

He leans his head forward, forehead bumping gently against yours.

“You scare the hell out of me,” he breathes “And I think I’m starting to even like it.”

You think your heart just stopped.

“Definitely a side effect…” you whisper, but your fingers are still on his skin, still gently pressing against his temples.

He exhales “I’ll regret saying all of that, won’t I.”

You smile, a little shaken “Only if you pretend it wasn’t true later.”

Silence. He doesn’t move.

Then he mutters “I’m keeping the tea recipe."

You laugh.

Outside the tent, Bepo lowers his paw from the tent flap and whispers to Shachi and Penguin “They’re in love. Told you it wasn’t poison.”

After that, Law pretends nothing happened.

You give him three days.

Three days of ignoring the fact he hallucinated tiny doctors and confessed to liking the chaos you bring to his life. Three days of sidelong glances, awkward silences, and you very purposefully reminding him of the tea incident every time he gets too comfortable.

“Captain,” you say sweetly as you walk by him, “you’re not seeing glowing versions of me today, are you?”

He glares “No.”

“Shame. I looked great in your hallucination.”

He drops his pen. Hard.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

Coward.

Later on - You don’t mean to get sick.

Not really.

It’s just that the vines didn’t look that threatening, and you were pretty sure it was just a paralytic contact toxin, and well… maybe you’d misjudged the concentration.

The world tilts sideways.

You feel your legs give out before your brain registers it.

And then darkness.

You wake to voices.

“…found her by the river. Unresponsive.”

“I told her to stop touching unknown plants. Why can’t she just—”

“She didn’t do it on purpose.”

A long silence.

Then Law’s voice again. Quiet. Cracked.

“She always makes it look like she’s in control. But she’s not.”

You open your eyes.

The ceiling of the Polar Tang greets you. So does a pounding ache in your chest. You shift and wince.

Law’s at your side in an instant.

“Stay down.” he says, low and sharp.

Your voice is hoarse “Didn’t think I’d go out like that. No drama. No romantic poisoning. Just a stupid plant.”

His eyes flicker “It was… dramatic. You stopped breathing.”

“Oh…” you say, blinking.

“I didn’t know what it was. For once, you knew more than me. And I couldn’t—” He swallows the words.

You offer a small smile “So… scared the hell out of you, huh?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just sits back down beside you. Shoulders tense. Jaw clenched.

You watch him, softly “Law.”

“Don’t say it.” he mutters.

“Say what?”

“That I was right. That you should’ve listened. That this was inevitable. That I knew you’d get hurt eventually.”

You tilt your head “Wasn’t gonna say any of that.”

He looks up, surprised.

“I was gonna say,” you murmur, “that I’m sorry I made you worry.”

You reach out weakly, stupidly, and your hand grazes his.

“I forget sometimes,” you whisper “That people care.”

Something breaks in his expression.

“Y/N,” he says tightly, “you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep flirting with death like it’s a hobby.”

“I wasn’t flirting with death.” you tease “That was basically a date. I only flirt with you, Captain.”

He glares.

You smile, and it fades slowly as your fingers curl around his.

“I didn’t want to die. Not really. Not before I figured out what this thing is.”

He blinks “What thing?”

“This,” you whisper “Whatever this is between us. The hallucinations. The confessions. The weird tension where you want to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

“You’re wrong.” he says.

Your chest tightens “Oh.”

“I don’t want to kill you, you already do that to yourself alone.”

Pause.

“I just want to kiss you.”

You stop breathing.

He leans forward. Slow. Intentional. One hand brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward him like you’re something fragile and fleeting.

“Captain” you whisper.

“Y/N” he breathes.

And then he kisses you.

It’s gentle, for all of three seconds, then desperate, frustrated, furious about the fact that he was almost losing you.

When he pulls back, you’re both breathless.

“You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever studied” he mutters, forehead against yours.

You grin.

“And you’re my favorite side effect.”

── .✦ Portgas D. Ace:

The sun is brutal on the upper deck, but you don’t notice. You’re too busy holding a tiny, glittering vial up to the light with the reverence of someone holding an engagement ring or, in your case, an exciting new potential toxin.

It’s pink. Slightly viscous. Smells faintly like fermented fruit and regret.

Perfect.

“Please tell me you’re not going to drink that.” Marco says behind you, half-exasperated, half-terrified.

“I’m going to sip it,” you say, rolling your eyes “For science.”

“For science?” he repeats.

“For science,” you nod solemnly, uncorking the bottle “And also morbid curiosity.”

He groans “Y/N…”

Too late. You down it in one go.

There’s a moment of silence as you smack your lips thoughtfully.

“…Taste?”

“Like someone dissolved candy in cheap rum and lies.”

“Oh good,” Marco mutters “You’ve poisoned yourself again.”

You wave him off “If I die, I’ll write it down first.”

He opens his mouth to argue but a loud whistle cuts him off.

“Oi!” Ace calls, walking over shirtless, sun-drenched, grinning that smug grin that says I’ve definitely started three fires before breakfast “You experimenting again?”

You nod, blinking a bit “Just something I found in a locked crate under Izo’s bunk.”

Ace raises a brow “You… drank random liquid you found in Izo’s stash?”

“Yes,” you say matter-of-factly “And also, your laugh makes my spine feel weird.”

He stares.

You stare back.

Marco sucks in a sharp breath “Oh no.”

You tilt your head thoughtfully “And your shoulders are distracting. I’ve catalogued seventy-eight poisons but can’t remember what you said this morning because you yawned mid-sentence and I lost focus.”

“…You what?” Ace coughs.

You continue, voice perfectly even “Also, I sometimes fake headaches to watch you carry me to the infirmary. You’re very warm.”

You slam your hands on your mouth to stop it from saying more, while the crew begins to gather like sharks to blood.

Thatch appears holding popcorn. Someone is calling for Izo. There’s actual cheering.

“You’re glowing,” Marco says quietly, inspecting your skin “Shimmering. That’s one of Izo’s truth serums. A prototype he was working on some time ago.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Ace echoes weakly.

You turn to him “Also, I ranked your freckles once. The ones on your jaw are my favorite.”

Ace turns so red you think he might combust without using his powers.

“You… I… how long is this stuff supposed to last?!” he splutters.

You shrug “Few hours, probably. Don’t worry. I’ll be asleep before I get to the part about your hands.”

“What about my hands?!”

“Nothing!” you say, far too quickly “They’re just… statistically… dangerous looking.”

He’s speechless. Marco is already reaching for his notebook.

You’ve become the Moby Dick’s favorite form of entertainment.

You’re still sitting cross-legged on the deck, glittering faintly in the sun like a cursed disco ball, while the Whitebeard Pirates form a loose circle around you.

“Truth serum,” Thatch hums, rubbing his hands together “This is the best day I’ve had in weeks.”

“It’s unethical...” Marco mutters beside him.

“It’s hilarious,” Izo corrects, snapping open a fan and leaning in “Y/N, darling, be honest... who took the last chocolate muffin last week? It was you, am I wrong?”

You open your mouth immediately “Not me. It was Ace.”

“Traitor!” Ace sputters from somewhere behind you.

You shrug “You left crumbs in the storage room. Also, your heartbeat spiked when someone mentioned it at breakfast.”

Everyone turns to Ace. He throws his hands up “It was one time!”

“You licked the wrapper, too.” you add calmly “Twice.”

Someone howls.

“Alright, my turn!” Thatch grins “Y/N, have you ever sabotaged anyone’s food?”

You nod serenely “I put mild laxatives in Namur’s tea once because he wouldn’t stop stealing my ginger cookies.”

Namur gasps “You monster!”

“You deserved it,” you reply without a trace of guilt “You called my medicinal brownies ‘dirt bars.’”

“Next question,” Izo purrs, leaning forward “Have you ever kissed someone on this ship?”

The crew leans in.

You blink “No.”

“Have you thought about it?” Marco asks, suddenly very interested.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Ace.”

The sound Ace makes is somewhere between a squeak and a small, internal detonation.

The crew loses it.

“YES!”

“I KNEW IT!”

“PAY UP, IZO!”

“I had money on Marco, damn it!”

You sigh as if this is all deeply inconvenient, like the truth is just leaking out of you against your will, which, of course, it is.

You say casually “He smells good. Like firewood and something sweet. Maybe toasted sugar. I haven’t narrowed it down yet.”

Ace is covering his face with his hands now, bright red from the neck up.

“Can I go lie down?” you mumble “Or roll into the sea?”

Marco snorts “Not until the glitter wears off.”

Thatch throws an arm around your shoulder “C’mon, Y/N, one more... if you had to kiss anyone else on this ship—”

“I’d rather drink from the mildew jar in my lab.”

“…Fair.”

You blink slowly, tone still deadly calm “Thatch, you once tried to trim your chest hair with surgical scissors. Drunk.”

Thatch chokes “That was off the record!”

“No such thing,” Marco laughs “She’s the serum’s hostage now.”

“I regret nothing,” you reply “Except licking the blue mushroom last month. That hallucination lasted eight hours. I tried to dissect the air.”

Ace groans “Can someone drag her below deck before she tells everyone what I look like shirtless in creepy detail?”

You look straight at him “You’re built like a statue someone made while going through something personal.”

He explodes.

The next morning you’re back to your usual self.

The strange, glittering effects of the truth serum have worn off, leaving you feeling… normal again. You’re busy carefully grinding some herbs into powder, a mixture for your next experiment, when a familiar voice rings out behind you.

“Morning, poison queen.”

You freeze.

“Don’t call me that” you mutter without turning around, but there’s an unmistakable edge of dread in your tone.

Ace slides onto the bench next to you, uninvited, a grin spreading across his face as he leans toward you, looking like he’s about to launch into a full assault.

“Oh, I think I will...” he says, practically purring “You’re the one who told the entire crew how much you love my shoulders, remember?”

You tense “I did not—”

“And those freckles?” Ace raises an eyebrow, already loving the flush spreading across your face “Did you know that Marco bet I’d get at least five different comments on my jawline today? Maybe next time you should be more specific.”

Your eyes snap to his, and you open your mouth to argue but then he continues.

“You really should have warned me before you started cataloging all my features. Or how about when you admitted you fake headaches just so you can get me to carry you to the infirmary?”

The teasing tone in his voice is getting under your skin, and you try to focus on grinding your herbs, but his words are still ringing in your ears.

“You do know that it’s not even the ‘headaches’ you fake that’s the problem, right? It’s that you actually like it when I carry you. Which I can totally tell from the way you always sigh in my arms.”

You bite your lip, cheeks burning, desperate to look anywhere but at him.

“Or how about when you—” Ace’s voice drops low, “—admitted that I smell good? Like firewood and… What was that you said? Oh, right! Toasted sugar!”

You inhale sharply “I never said that.”

“Oh, yes you did, and you know.” he says, leaning in closer, the amusement in his eyes dangerously obvious “And you also said I’m built like a statue. Do you really think I wouldn’t remember that?”

“Shut up.” You finally look up, but your voice is strained as you meet his teasing gaze.

“I mean, I’m just curious,” Ace continues, a little too happily, “how much more stuff you’ve been hiding from me. How long have you been analyzing my muscles, exactly? Do you think they’re… aesthetically pleasing?” He pauses to let the words sink in “Hmm, maybe I should flex for you to get a clearer answer.”

The crew, who had been quietly watching from a distance (but clearly listening), suddenly bursts into laughter, but you just want to curl into a ball and disappear.

“Oh, this is good,” Thatch says, clearly enjoying the show “I never thought Ace would get revenge like this, but here we are.”

“You should see her when she’s trying to make that poison tea thing,” Marco says, shaking his head “She’s way too serious about it, but now we know she’s been obsessed with Ace’s shoulders the whole time.”

“You guys are awful.” you mutter, sinking into your chair, arms crossed tightly across your chest in an attempt to hold yourself together.

Ace, however, is not letting up. He knows the soft spots, and he’s making sure to press every single one of them.

“So, how’s it feel?” Ace grins, tapping your shoulder playfully “Being soooo open about how much you like me? You definitely don’t look uncomfortable at all.”

You shoot him a glare, but it’s hard to stay mad when he’s looking so damn smug about it.

“I don’t know, Ace. It must be so hard for you to carry the weight of being so perfect that I couldn’t stop talking about how handsome you are, huh?” you bite back.

Ace stares at you for a moment, clearly thrown off by your unexpected response. Then he laughs “Oh, that’s rich. You think you can out-tease me?”

“You’re the one who’s been doing it all day.” you shoot back, finally turning to face him fully “Seems like you loved me pointing out all the things I like about you.”

The crew laughs even harder, and Ace’s grin only grows.

“I won.” he says, smug as ever “It’s not my fault you’re so obsessed with me. Honestly, I’m kinda flattered.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are.” You roll your eyes, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

But Ace doesn’t relent “Admit it, Y/N. You’re in love with me.”

You pause.

“And if I am?” you ask coolly, holding his gaze.

The teasing gleam in his eyes flickers, then vanishes. Ace looks just a little taken aback by the way you’re holding your ground.

“Well…” He scratches the back of his head, clearly flustered now “You’ve already said it once. So I’m just making sure you’re still on the same page.”

And just like that, it’s his turn to feel the heat in his cheeks.

“Well, maybe you should stop teasing me, then.” you say with a sly smile.

Ace grins, shaking his head “Nah, this is fun. You’ll get used to it.”

Now it’s your turn to mess with Ace.

After days of relentless teasing, you’ve decided that it’s time to use his own game against him. He’s made it clear that he loves to toy with you and now, it’s time for him to spill the truth, whether he wants to or not.

The deck is quiet, the crew all doing their own thing, but you know Ace will find you soon. He always does. And, sure enough, as you’re mixing something into a flask in the corner of the kitchen, his voice floats over the rim of the doorway.

“Hey, poison queen,” he says with a grin, clearly thinking of another thing to tease you about “Are you planning to poison the whole crew with whatever concoction you’re making today? Or is it just my poor, unsuspecting self?”

You don’t answer right away, focusing on your work. You’re careful with every motion. Just one drop of this ingredient, and you’ll have him talking like a parrot for hours.

“Alright, alright, what’s in the flask today?” he presses, inching closer “Am I going to shit myself?”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling sweetly “Oh, nothing dangerous, I promise.”

“Then why do you look so… suspicious?” Ace narrows his eyes playfully, still not suspecting a thing.

You flash him a mischievous smile, taking the flask with one hand and adding a few drops of your carefully prepared herbal mix into his mug “Just a little something to make sure your day is… interesting.”

Ace raises an eyebrow, but at this point, he’s practically inviting the teasing. He’s completely unaware of the slight adjustment you made. After all, you’ve poisoned your own drinks with far worse. The concoction in his mug isn’t lethal, but it’ll get the job done.

You hand it over with a flourish “Here you go, fire boy. Drink up.”

Ace takes the mug, his smirk growing wider. He’s used to your antics, but he doesn’t know you’ve just pulled the wool over his eyes. He takes a swig, and just as the liquid slides down his throat, you watch him carefully.

But then, a few seconds later, Ace’s expression shifts, his eyes flickering with confusion as he sets the mug down.

“You okay?” you ask casually, keeping your voice neutral.

Ace blinks, a frown tugging at his features “Yeah, just… feel a little weird. Like, light-headed… You didn’t actually put something in here, did you?”

“Oh, it’s just a little herbal remedy,” you say with a shrug, your grin widening “You know, to make you feel better.”

“Well, I do feel better, but I also feel...” he admits with a nervous laugh “Weird.”

That’s your cue. You pull out a chair and sit down, raising an eyebrow “I think we can have some fun with that.”

His eyes flick to yours, unsure “What do you mean?”

“You see, I didn't drink all that bottle the other day. And, well… the thing is,” you continue, now holding his gaze, “you’ve been teasing me for days, Ace. And I’m really curious about how much of what you said was… well, the truth.”

Ace stares at you, confusion melting into realization as the drug starts to kick in, the subtle influence of your concoction making him more vulnerable to his own thoughts.

“Wait, what…?” He shakes his head, trying to focus “This is… a trick, right? Did you really—”

“So, Ace...” you say in a soothing tone, leaning in slightly “Admit it, you like me.”

Ace laughs awkwardly, his eyes unfocused as his lips move to speak without hesitation “Well, uh, yeah. I’ve liked you for a while now… I just thought it’d be funny to make you squirm about it.”

You narrow your eyes, pretending to act surprised “You like me? You’ve been teasing me because you like me?”

He stumbles over his words, but it’s too late to stop himself “Yeah, you’re like… fun. I don’t know how to act around you, okay? Every time I try to be normal, you just—ugh, you get under my skin. And I can’t stop teasing you.”

You smile wickedly, feeling the rush of victory surge in your veins.

“Is that so?” you ask sweetly, letting his confession sink in “And here I thought you were just being a brat.”

"That's just my love language ok? I don't know how to act normal around someone I like, so I just tease and tease and tease."

"Love language?" you ask actually a bit shocked "So you really do like me?? Couldn't you just confess back when I got exposed with that truth telling thing?"

"It's too complicated. I just... didn't know now." he says trying to avoind your eyes.

"You just did it."

"Well, not in a fair way, though."

"I've put nothing in that drink, you idiot..."

Ace freezes “Wait a sec… Are you messing with me right now?” he asks, his voice suddenly more wary “This isn’t real?”

“Oh, it’s very real,” you reply, letting a mischievous grin slip into your expression “The truth serum is working, wihtout even the need to actually use it. You’re just… a little more vulnerable than you think.”

His eyes widen “Wait… wait, what did you do to me?”

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair “Just a little something to get you to spill your guts. But what’s even better is that you’re admitting things you didn’t even realize you were feeling.”

Ace’s face twists as the realization hits him “I—I thought I was poisoned? You… you tricked me into confessing everything?!”

The crew, who has been silently observing the entire exchange, erupts into laughter from all corners of the room. Marco, Izo, and Thatch are barely holding it together, while the rest of the crew seems equally entertained by the spectacle.

“That’s right, fire boy,” you say, leaning closer “You weren’t poisoned at all. You were just brainwashed into thinking you were.”

Ace stares at you, his face redder than ever, looking like he’s ready to combust.

“Yeah, well, now I’m gonna make you regret it” he mutters, his earlier smugness replaced by genuine frustration and something else you can’t quite place.

But for now, you’ve won. And you’ll savor this small victory for as long as you can.

The crew is still chuckling from the aftermath of your little “truth serum” game. You can practically feel the heat radiating from Ace’s flushed face, the sheer embarrassment of his earlier confessions hanging in the air like a cloud.

“Well, Ace,” you say, leaning back in your chair with a smug grin, “I gotta say, you made it pretty easy for me to get all your secrets out.”

Ace grumbles, clearly trying to salvage what’s left of his dignity “I can’t believe I fell for that.” He crosses his arms, glaring at you but clearly not all that mad, more like… flustered.

You lean in a little closer, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips “You did admit a lot, though. Like how much you actually like me.”

That catches him off guard. He stumbles for a moment, as if he wants to deny it, but there’s no escaping the truth now “Well, what can I say, you did say a lot of embarrassing things, too, when you drank that ‘serum’.”

You raise an eyebrow, the teasing still simmering beneath your words “Like what, exactly?”

“Oh, you know, I still think about you counting my freckles…” He flashes you a grin, almost too proud of himself for turning the tables.

You smirk, taking a deep breath “Well, now that I know you like me back…” You pause for effect, leaning even closer, “I can finally say it all again without the need for any truth drink.”

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. Ace’s eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, he’s speechless “Wait, what?”

You grin, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort “Yep. So now, I’m free to repeat everything. Your teasing? It’s actually kind of cute. And maybe I even find you hot… especially with that devil fruit power of yours.” You’re clearly enjoying this far too much “Might even be into that.”

Ace is completely flustered now, cheeks burning red, and he stammers, “You… you really are messing with me, huh?”

Before you can answer, he suddenly leans forward, a spark of determination lighting up his eyes “Alright, then, I’ll just prove to you how much I like you.”

You blink, confused “What are you talking about?”

He leans in, his usual cocky grin back on his face “You wanna tell me what you like about me? Then I’ll tell you what I like about you... Like a competition since you like it.”

You tilt your head, intrigued “A competition, huh? Alright. But what’s the catch?”

Ace leans in even closer, voice dropping to a low, teasing tone “No backing out. You have to admit everything you like about me, truthfully, no holds barred.”

Your eyes glint with mischief “Alright, fine. But be warned. You might not like what you hear.”

Ace’s grin only grows wider “I’m all ears, Y/N. Let’s hear it.”

“First off,” you begin, your tone as playful as ever, “I might like how your hair looks like you just rolled out of bed. It’s… charming in a ‘I just woke up and I’m not trying’ kind of way.”

Ace scoffs, looking both proud and a little defensive “Well, you know, some people can’t pull it off, but I do.”

You roll your eyes “And I might find it kind of adorable that you get so riled up when I call you out. Your pride’s kind of cute… in a completely frustrating way.”

Ace stares at you for a second, then grins, almost cocky “I’ll take that as a compliment… for now.”

But before you can continue, someone shouts from the back of the room.

“Get a room, you two!”

The words echo across the deck, and everyone bursts into laughter. Ace’s face turns redder than ever, and for a moment, it looks like he’s about to explode.

“Shut up!” he snaps, but the crew’s laughter is uncontrollable.

But the comment gives Ace an idea. He stands up suddenly, grabbing your wrist and tugging you toward the stairs leading below deck.

“Alright, fine. We’ll take it to my room,” he says, his voice a little breathless but determined “Let’s see how much you really like me.”

You blink, surprised at his boldness, but you can’t hide the grin forming on your face “Ace… you think you can just drag me to your room and get away with it?”

“Maybe,” he says with a sly wink “But you’ll never know unless you come with me.”

You chuckle, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline you get when Ace is being this unpredictable “Alright then, hothead. Lead the way.”

The crew, of course, continues to shout playful remarks as you both head toward his room. Marco just shakes his head with a knowing smile.

Ace’s room door slams shut behind you both, and whatever happens next is anyone’s guess. But one thing is certain, this game of teasing is far from over. And in the end, neither of you is going to back down from it anytime soon.

[rosegolden13]

Pictures TF-141 have of you on their phones!!

cw: stalking (but not malicious I promise)

Gaz is definitely a professional photographer. He’s just artsy like that. He’ll take the most perfect photos of you and you don’t even have to train him. He just knows how to do it. Honestly, it kind of makes you jealous how talented he is and he’s so nonchalant about it, too. Maybe it was an ex-girlfriend that taught him all this? (It wasn’t, he just has sisters, he’s a sisters kind of guy for sure). The lighting is always perfect and he’ll even help you pose, guide you into position with his hands. Is it mostly an excuse to touch you? Yes. Do the pictures always come out good? Also yes. His favorites are the more domestic ones: you wearing his shirt in the kitchen with the morning sunlight filtering through the window, you cuddled up on the couch with two blankets and a hoodie with a goofy smile on your face. These are the ones that are printed out, folded into his pocket and accidentally put through the wash, or tucked into his wallet.

Simon only has pictures of you that are as unnerving as they are sweet because you have never seen him take *any* of these but he has almost a thousand all in its own album dedicated to you. Yes, some of them are your regular selfies or posed pictures of you next to a pretty fountain or across the table on a date. His favorites are of you and him together- he likes the reminder that you’re really his. But the large bulk of the pictures are taken from strange distances… You at the bar laughing with your friends at girls night when you’re absolutely positive Simon was supposed to be at home waiting for you… and then there’s the one where you’re on your morning jog… The only explanation he gives you is a casual shrug and a gruff "It's for your protection, love." Just be glad you didn’t scroll to the very top of the album because there’s some from before you two were dating. Ahem… enough of that creep…anyways…

Price has the most terrible pictures of you. I’m talking god awful. Like most of them are of you in your pajamas, unshowered, messy hair, no makeup, and to make matters worse, it’s taken at the worst angle known to man. Of course, a few of them are decent because they’re ones you have sent him but if he’s taking the picture? He’s bound to zoom in way too much and get the strangest angle THEN he’ll even coo at the picture, proud of himself. In half of them, you’re trying to smack the camera away- he always chuckles at those ones when you look through them together. When you try to insist that he delete these, he genuinely frowns, entirely confused like they’re not the most heinous pictures. “What do ya mean, love? Look at that, that’s my girl. I’m keepin’ ‘em all.” Lovesick man tsk, tsk. Don’t ever tell him that he can change his lockscreen from the default or it’ll absolutely be the most embarrassing picture of you imaginable.

Soap is also artsy and can take good pictures of you but half the time, he chooses not to. He likes to capture the chaos and there is some beauty to that, too. So, yes, he’s got some cinematic pictures of you on hikes overlooking a view or on the beach where you're lounging in the sun. But mostly his camera roll is filled with blurry selfies from when you two were drunk at the bar or videos from when you two got scolded at the grocery store for pushing each other down aisles in grocery carts. His personal favorite and lockscreen is a picture of you with your face all scrunched as he squeezes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. There's also a scattering of sketches he's drawn of you on classified documents and then secretly snapped a picture of. He'd be in deep shit if Price found out about those... "Keep 'em a secret, lass, will ya?"

Okay just one more of these cuz they're so fun hehe. Yes, ik Price is probs great at tech from being in the military but I like to imagine he's sucky at an iphone- it's so endearing.

[tbaluver]

"Where Do Babies Come From?" - The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: xavier x reader, zayne x reader, rafayel x reader, sylus x reader genre: fluff fluff + silly + scenario summary: your child(ren) ask you and your lover where babies come from requested: anonnie ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა a/n: hihi lovelies ! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)♡ posting this before the livestream that's in a couple hours ! i hope you all enjoy reading and i hope to have a couple more posts out this week ! (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

“Papa, where do babies come frwom?” The question was simple yet it struck him like a lightning bolt. His son’s innocent eyes stared up at him, waiting for an answer but he was left frozen at his spot, his mind completely blank. How could he possibly explain this? He was never prepared for this question, it was never in the parenting books he’s read when you were pregnant.

In your shared bedroom, you sat on the bed, scrolling through your phone when Xavier and your son walked in, hand in hand. Xavier held a small notebook in the other but your son darting towards you with open arms distracts you. “Mommy!” He squeals as you scoop him up and plant a sweet kiss at the top of his head.

“Mommy, me and daddy want to know where babies come from!” You blink, glancing at Xavier who sits at the edge of the bed, nodding along to his son as he opens up the notebook, ready to take notes

“You and daddy?” You ask, darting your gaze at your son and back to Xavier. “Well..when mommy and daddy love each other very much..” You trail off, choosing your words carefully. You wanted to keep it as innocent and simple as possible and it seems that your son believed you as he nodded along.

When your son ran off the play, you sighed in relief, glad to know that the topic didn’t go any more awkward than that. “So Xavier...why did you need to know?” You quirk a brow at him, as if he wasn’t also the reason you both have a son who you both love very much.

“So next time, when we have another child I’ll know what to say.”

Zayne:

Small footsteps padded across the floor making their way towards Zayne’s home office. He sat at his desk, reviewing the slides for his upcoming conference, absorbing all the details. Zayne usually lets her play around in his office if she wants to, but if there is anything bothering her, he can always ask her.

“Daddy?” She peeks at the side of his desk, stretching up on her tippy toes so she can see him. Zayne’s attention shifts, the sound of his office chair turning so she knows his focus was fully on her. He reached out, scooping her up and settled her comfortably in his lap.

“What’s wrong dear?” He asks softly.

She tilts her, “Since you’re a doctor where do babies come from?” The question caught him off guard for a moment but it quickly softened into a smile. It’s impossible for him not to find her adorable to be so curious at this age. It reminded him of his own childhood where he would always ask his parents questions.

He clears his throat, “They come from their mother’s stomach.” A simple answer his own mother had given him when he was around her age. It was enough for him even if he hadn’t fully understood it at the time.

Her brow furrowed slightly as she processed the information, her finger tapping her lip as she thought. “But..how did the baby get there?”

Zayne chuckles softly, his heart melting at the sight of her little mind trying to piece things together. Gently, he pinches her cheek. “I promise I’ll explain it to you when you’re older, alright ?After I’m finished with this, we can go play”” He kisses the top of her head before setting her down, hoping she’ll forget about it for now.

Rafayel:

Small feets padded their way toward their father who sat at the couch, balancing a pencil between the bridge of his nose as he concentrated on a sketch. The moment he heard their playful shrieks come closer to him, his attention shifts as he sets the sketchbook down. With arms opened wide, the children dove into his embrace, their tiny bodies crashing into him playfully.

“Daddy daddy!” One of your sons bounce up and down in excitement, his voice bubbling with curiosity.

He chuckles softly, pulling them away. “Yes my little glub glubs?” He asks as all the children snuggle closer to him. They exchange glances, deciding on who would speak first. Rafayel raises a brow, a smile tugging at his lips as he watches his children in curiosity

“Where do babies come from?” One of them suddenly asks, the other two nodded in unison, their eyes wide as they wait for their lemurian father to speak. He froze in his spot, leaving him momentarily speechless.

“Oh!” He stammered, scratching the back of his hair, smiling sheepishly. “How about you ask mommy? Y'know she’s very experienced with that.” Yes, yes he’s a genius. He dodged the question for now.

“Mommy told us to ask you!”

“Yeah! Yeah!” Another chimes in.

“She said you’re the reason we’re here!” They nodded eagerly, waiting for him to provide an answer.

“Does that make you our mommy then daddy?” The youngest asks, innocence in their eyes as well as confusion. However, the question hit him like a brick, leaving him frozen in his spot again. They completely misunderstood what you said and now his children are looking at him as if he was a male seahorse.

He blinks, “No, no I’m still daddy,” He clarifies, chuckling nervously. “What mommy means is...when me and her kiss.. in the sea, we make a seagull come and deliver you to us one by one! It’s a realllyyyy long process.”

You’re definitely going to pay him back after this.

Sylus:

You and Sylus were nestled in the living room couch, your hand resting gently on your baby bump. While you watched a show/ movie, Sylus sat beside you, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he flipped through pages. Your little girl sat at the coffee table, creating little scenarios in her world of dolls and toys, the tiny figurines making soft clicking noises as she moved them across the table.

With a curious expression, she picked up the two dolls in each hand, one she often associated them as ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’, studying both of them. Her crimson eyes flicked between the two figures and then over to their small family of children she had arranged in the playset. Her gaze shifts to your grown belly, curiosity of hers growing.

“Mommy, Daddy?” she asks, her cute little voice gaining both of your attention. She walks over to you both, her white hair tied up slightly bouncing with each step.

“What is it sweetie?” Sylus asks, lowering the papers, his crimson eyes meeting hers. She hesitates for a moment, still holding the dolls before shifting her gaze back between you both.

“Where do babies come from?” She asks innocently. The question hung in the air for a moment, catching you both off guard. It wasn’t just the question itself, but it just felt so sudden. Sylus knew that this would eventually come but he didn’t expect it to be quite so soon. Maybe he shouldn’t have bought her a room full of dolls.

“Well sweetie they come from your mother’s v-”

“AHEM.”

Looks like you’ll handle this for now and Sylus gets to sit this one out

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Ok, imagine this. Lewis being a father and when he is at Ferrari, his daughter is helping him with his Italian, because daughters mother is from Italy. Maybe Lewis and the Mom still being good friends and daughter always spending a few months in Italy since she has been small so that is why her Italian is so good.

Sorry, English is only my second language!

Rosso e Sole

When Lewis stepped into the Ferrari garage for the first time, clad in red from head to toe, there was a buzz in the air. Not just because of the legend now standing under the Prancing Horse emblem, but because standing beside him, a touch shorter than his shoulder, was a girl with wavy dark hair, sun-kissed skin, and greenish-brown eyes that sparkled like the Italian coast.

Her name was Yn. Sixteen, confident in her quiet way, and with an Italian lilt to her English that made the engineers smile every time she spoke.

“Papa,” she said that morning, standing just outside the hospitality suite, looking up at her dad who was clearly trying to memorize his morning briefing in Italian, “you just said the car is made of bread. You meant carbonio, not pane.”

Lewis blinked down at her. “Wait, really?”

“Veramente,” she smirked. “You said: ‘la macchina è fatta di pane.’ Which would make for a deliciously fragile car.”

He groaned. “Oh my god. Why is this language so hard?”

Yn shrugged, stepping up beside him and tapping on his tablet. “You’ve just got to stop trying to make everything so literal. Italian is a feeling, not a formula.”

Behind them, a few of the mechanics stifled chuckles. One even whispered to a colleague, “La ragazza di Hamilton è meglio di lui in italiano.”

And she was. Always had been.

Yn was born under a hot sun in Tuscany, in a small private hospital where her mother, Maria, had insisted on giving birth near her parents’ home.

Lewis had been there, holding Maria’s hand, tears falling on the baby’s blanket when Yn let out her first cry. They had been young, ambitious, wildly in love, but even then, they both knew that love alone wouldn’t be enough to build the life Yn deserved.

So when Yn was barely a year old, Maria and Lewis sat together on the terrace of Maria’s father’s home, drinking espresso while the baby slept inside, and made a decision that would shape the rest of their lives.

“We’re not going to make each other happy, not in the way we thought,” Maria had said softly.

Lewis nodded, fingers fidgeting with the sugar packet in his hand. “But we’re going to make her happy. That much, I know.”

And they did. They built something beautiful out of what they had. A friendship that turned into a lifelong alliance. Two worlds that somehow always made space for each other.

Yn grew up between two countries, two languages, two lives. When her parents had to be away—photo shoots in Paris, testing in Bahrain—she’d stay with her Nonno and Nonna in a house full of lemon trees, espresso machines, and old records of opera playing in the kitchen.

She never minded. She never resented it. Because her parents never made her feel like she came second. Every reunion was filled with joy, every phone call with love. They never missed a chance to tell her she was adored.

Now at sixteen, Yn was becoming her own person—curious, witty, always carrying a journal around to sketch or write little thoughts in Italian and English. And since Lewis joined Ferrari, she had become somewhat of a celebrity in the paddock.

“Hey, principessa,” called one of the engineers as she passed the garage entrance. “Did your papa learn how to say ‘rear wing’ yet?”

“Not unless he wants to tell you about his red wine again,” she quipped, without even turning around.

That afternoon, Lewis and Yn sat together under the canopy outside the Ferrari motorhome. She was scrolling through her notes app where she’d written down a few helpful phrases for her dad to memorize before his post-qualifying interview.

“Okay,” she said, handing him her phone, “repeat after me: La macchina ha avuto un ottimo bilanciamento oggi.”

Lewis furrowed his brows. “La macchina ha avuto un ottimo... bilanc... bilanciamento... oggi.”

“Perfetto!” she grinned.

“Wait. What did I just say?”

“That the car had great balance today.”

“Right. That’s... true, I guess. We can pretend it did.”

She laughed, and then leaned over to fix his collar.

“Fans love this, you know,” Lewis murmured. “Us talking like this. Teaching me Italian. You’re becoming more famous than me.”

“Impossible,” she teased. “But they do like it. Especially when you mess up.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Papa,” she said, her tone suddenly softer. “You know I love this, right? Being here. With you. Watching you race.”

He looked at her then, his expression warm, the lines around his eyes softening. “You don’t think it’s weird? That we missed so much time together when you were younger?”

“Not weird. Just… life,” she shrugged. “I never felt unloved. Not once. And I always had Nonna and Nonno. They taught me how to cook and yell at the TV during football.”

“I owe them everything,” he whispered.

“We all do,” Yn replied.

There was a beat of silence between them before Lewis spoke again.

“Do you ever wish we’d done it differently? Your mom and me, I mean?”

Yn tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe. But then I wouldn’t be me, would I? I wouldn’t have grown up between London and Florence. I wouldn’t have learned to be strong, or independent. I wouldn’t have learned to miss people and still love them just the same.”

Lewis stared at her for a long moment, then pulled her into a hug. “You’re too wise for your age.”

“I read a lot of Italian poetry,” she smiled into his chest.

That Sunday, after the race, Yn stood in the paddock, holding her dad’s race suit jacket while he did interviews. As usual, she corrected his phrasing gently when he slipped up.

“No, Papa, it’s soddisfatto, not soffritto. You just said you were ‘onion-fried’ with the car’s performance.”

Somewhere nearby, a fan held up a cardboard sign that read: Yn for Italian Teacher of the Year!

Maria arrived a bit later, fresh from a photoshoot in Milan, her heels clicking on the pavement. She waved at Yn, who ran into her arms, and then the two joined Lewis for a brief chat near the motorhome.

“We’re thinking of renting a place in Rome for the summer,” Maria said. “You should come.”

Lewis raised a brow. “You mean all three of us?”

“Why not?” she shrugged. “She’s growing up. We should enjoy the time we get.”

Yn beamed. “Can we? Please?”

Lewis smiled. “Only if you promise to keep teaching me Italian.”

Maria smirked. “And maybe some fashion, too. You still can’t dress without her help.”

“Rude,” he said, but laughed.

As the three of them stood there, blending the past and the present, the paddock moved around them, fast and loud. But in that moment, Yn didn’t feel like a girl caught between two worlds. She felt exactly where she was meant to be.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-💚🐍

[paulgadzikowski]

the look of Anansi was influenced by Orlando Jones' look in American Gods

...

heavily influenced

[tormentfraud]

SUPER URGENT. BIG MAJOR URGENCE. DON'T SCROLL PLEASE. DON'T TAG AS IDENTIFIERS EITHER PLEASE

BALOO JUMPSCARES

hello everyone. callisto a.k.a. mars. this is a matter of my security with a soft deadline of july 20 and a hard deadline of august 1.

tl;dr is i'm disabled (undiagnosed chronic pain + dislocating knee, long covid, severely mentally ill) and need to VERY URGENTLY get from edmonton to oklahoma before mid august, otherwise u'm houseless because my parents are leaving and i have no job to be able to support myself (i've been looking for a year and am STILL looking) or the ability to work more than 20 hours a week. will be doing pokémon sketches $1 lineart $2 coloured and i will also be selling things (separate post will be made when this starts)

plane ticket comes to anywhere between $330 and $450 + pet fees. a suitcase here is about $60-$70 and i need a carry-on and a big guy. shipping things... depends on the weight but that is something i need to update the post with later. the goal i'm putting loosely at $700 CAD ($511 USD) for now

as always, dm me for my e-transfer if you're canadien. my girlfriend's ch1me is $plaguespoken and here is my paying pal and her paying pal.

0/700 CAD (0/511 USD)

more detail under the cut:

i am disabled and struggling with long covid and extremely high stress - all of these things cost me my job last summer. i need to get out of alberta - the weather, the lack of employment or care of others' wellbeing, and the cruelty i faced in the work force here are just... bad. and alberta is becoming more and more right-wing and frankly i'm scared, especially to be alone without family as a young lesbian.

my parents are leaving - my mom in a few weeks, and my dad until august or september. it could be as early as august 1. the current plan is for me to go to oklahoma with my girlfriend and his mother for a bit (politically not much better than alberta, but i will have support and be able to rest and recover my health and help around the house), and from there, back up to canada. for now, i only need help with getting me down there.

we need help covering a plane ticket and shipping some of my belongings down. i still don't have my passport but the money is still tucked away for it. for that, i'm just waiting for a new ID card since mine apparently expired back in february.

i can do pokémon sketches ($1 lineart, $2 coloured), they won't be fantastic because i'm very out of practice, and i also might try to sell some of my belongings if anyone is interested. i'll make posts with things up for sale - it *will* be a first come, first serve thing.

[eden-axe]

One Grey Hair

LADS Men x gn!MC

Summary: During your day to day life he finds a bit of grey in your hair. He realizes now that at least in this life you both get to grow old together.

I tried to make this as gender neutral as possible, but some parts indicate and afab MC apologies.

Xavier

Word Count: 616

Xavier is watering the plants first thing when he wakes up but he is thinking about you as you said you would be home later today. You went out last night for a girls night with Tara, Simone, and Yvonne and planned on staying over at Tara’s place.

As he is spacing out and mindlessly watering the plants he finally registers the smell of bacon and pancakes. He quickly puts down the watering can, almost tipping it over, as he runs over to the kitchen.

‘Did I start sleep cooking?’ He panics as he slides into the kitchen.

His wide eyes relax at the sight of you turning around with two plates of breakfast. You jump slightly, not expecting Xavier to be awake this early. You smile at him and give a small greeting as you walk over to the kitchen island to put the plates down.

As you walk by Xavier to the kitchen island, his pupils dilate as he gets a glimpse of your hair. A few strands of grey hair tucked behind your ear, to Xavier seeing these few grey hairs made you look even more beautiful.

He silently walks over to the kitchen island across from you and slowly picks at the food.

“You’re home early.” He quietly states, his eyes still locked onto your hair.

You look up from your own plate, “Oh, yeah. Yvonne offered me a ride home since she had to go to work later, and I wanted to get home soon since we had a date later. Remember? I wanted to get some actual rest since we barely got any sleep.”

You laugh lightly at the memories of last night. Xavier hums and asks how your night went. You go on about your night with the girls, a yawn in between each memory. Xavier listens, but watches the way the grey hair moves as you move your head along as you speak about the fun you had last night. He smiles at how excited you sounded about last night.

Soon you slowly stop talking as Xavier finishes eating, “Are you alright? Is something on my face?”

“What do you mean darling?” Xavier absent minded asks.

“Xavier!” you break his focus, “Seriously what are you staring at? You ate really slow today, and your mind is kinda elsewhere right now.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head.

“Your hair, it’s greying.” Xavier smiles when he finally lets it set in.

You feel your face get hot as you turn away, “Yeah, Simone pointed it out last night and I thought about dying it to match my hair”

“Don’t!” He exclaims sitting up from the stool. He looks at your shocked face and coughs before sitting back down, “Don’t, it looks nice, I like it.”

“You do?”

He nods and walks over to you and sits besides you and reaches out to examine the grey hair up close. You watch him examine your hair as you continue your previous thought, “Yeah, well Tara, uh, she had your same enthusiasm about being against me dying my hair.”

He lets go of your hair and grabs the plates, “You go get rest, like you planned to. I’ll clean up here alright.”

You yawn and nod. Xavier smiles and kisses your temple and sends you off to bed.

When he hears the bedroom door shut he pulls out his phone. He scrolls through his contacts and finds Tara’s number and sends her a quick text. A simple, ‘Thx u 4 being a good friend’

Xavier then goes to finish the dishes as he lists out the rest of the morning chores he has to do before you get up later for your date.

Rafayel

Word Count: 645

After days of begging you finally let Rafayel dress you up and sketch you. He picked out one of his white shirts, and you decided to forego the bottoms as the shirt reached down to your mid thigh. You walk over to the couch as Rafayel finishes setting up the area with pillows, blankets, water, and snacks. He turns around when he hears the bedroom door open, and he stops in his place when he gets a look at you.

“Wow,” he whispered, his breath stolen from his lungs, “Just, wow.”

Your face burns as you smile at him. You walk over to his statue-like state and wrap your arms around his shoulders. “I’m guessing you like it?” You tease near his ear.

You hear him swallow as you kiss below his ear. He wraps his arms around your lower back as he says both of you side to side, “Cutie, you are divine. You have no idea how lucky I am.”

“I can guess,” You pull back and stare at him, “So shall we get started?”

Rafayel blushed and turned around to hide his flushed face, “Yes, um. Please sit, I'll grab my sketch book.”

You laugh as you take a seat on the couch. You sink into the lush pillows, and drape a cotton blanket over one of your legs. You bring your other leg up onto the couch, at the same time you bring one of your hands behind your head. You use your other hand to move your hair from your face before placing it back on your lap.

When you look up Rafayel is sitting on a stool staring at you. You smile back and nod at him to begin.

He immediately starts sketching. He takes his time looking over your features, and you can feel his gaze over your body as he slowly pencils in each shadow and highlights that painted over your form. Rafayel starts to make simple conversation about anything and everything with you: His aunt, memories and traditions of Lemuria, upcoming art shows Thomas has planned for him, and even your upcoming anniversary. You also make conversation about your own work, childhood, and previous anniversaries you both shared.

“Raf~” you cooed, “Don’t think I don’t know the difference between referencing and staring.” You covered your chest and laughed. You brought an orange slice to your lips as Rafayel quickly took his eyes off you and back to the paper.

“Well I just like to admire,” he takes another peak, “Can you really blame me?”

Soon your conversations start to slow as Rafayel starts to look at you for longer periods, his gaze unfocused as they reach your face. Soon enough he puts his pencil down as he gets up slowly, placing his sketchbook on the stool.

“Raf?” You start to feel uncomfortable as he stares down at you.

He lifts up your chin and tilts it to the side. Before you can even process what is happening you hear the click of a camera, and Rafayel’s phone in your face. He is taking multiple photos at different angles.

You grab his phone and pull him down onto the couch, “Love what has gotten into you?”

You look at his gallery and see the focus of the pictures, not of you, but silver strands of hair that are laid atop of your head. You reach up to touch where you guessed the grey hairs were, but Rafayel’s lips were resting along your temple.

When he pulled back he grabbed your left hand, and brought it to his mouth, “Please let me paint you. I need to capture your maturing beauty, you are aging like a fine wine cutie.” He kisses your wedding ring and looks at you with pleading eyes.

When you agree with a gentle sigh, he quickly runs over to grab his canvas and paints.

Zayne

Word Count: 1,181

You had convinced Zayne to go to the award ceremony the Akso Hospital was hosting, where he was going to be given another award for his performance and contribution to protocore syndrome.

“My love I don’t see the importance, I’ve been awarded things like this many times. What makes this time different?” Zayne asks as he looks at you through the mirror as he adjusts his tie.

You sigh and walk behind him, “It’s because you aren’t getting any younger, soon you won’t be able to attend these ceremonies with your old bones.”

He lets out a breath of amusement, “My love, I’m only 48, and my health is just fine. I will be able to attend more than enough award events for the coming years, much to my dismay.”

“Zayne,” you whine, and wrap your arms around Zayne’s arm, “I want to see people praise my lovely husband. I don’t normally have off the day of your ceremonies, and since you never want to go… Now is the perfect time to attend one.”

Zayne turns towards you and uses his free arm to pull you in closer, “If it will make my partner happy, then so be it.”

He pulls a jacket over your shoulders and leaned down to kiss you.

“Shall we go?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s stuffy here.” Zayne squeezes your hand as you both make your way to a less populated area of the banquet hall.

“You say that whenever you have to attend a meeting at the hospital.”

Zayne just laughs as you both find a small standing table near the wall.

Soon while you two are talking over non alcoholic drinks, Greyson comes over and taps Zayne’s arm, “Hey one of the hospital's sponsors wants to speak with you. Mr. Richard Smith.”

Zayne puts his drink down on the table, “Alright give me a moment,” He pats your hand that lays on the table, “I won’t be long. I’ll be back before the award announcement starts.”

You nod and kiss his hand, “Don’t worry Mr Popular, I’ll have Greyson keep me company until you return.”

Zayne laughs as you drag Greyson over to your side and shoo him away. It takes a moment to find Mr Smith, but the first thing he notices about him is liquor filled boasts. He was a man much older in age, and robust around the face. It takes Mr Smith a moment to realize the man of the hour is standing by his side. It took for his date, a much younger looking woman; She looked akin to a model with her figure.

“Ah Doctor Li, what a pleasure to finally meet the shining star of Akso Hospital. I hope all is well with you and your patients.” His breath is heavy, and thick.

Zayne internally recoils at the smell mixed with his dates perfume, but puts on a pleasant smile; The kind of smile he would give to his more stubborn, yet younger, patients, “Ah, yes I make sure all my patients are taken good care of before taking any time off for things such as this. I hear you are one of the hospital's sponsors.”

“Ah I don’t wish to take much credit from the work you all do here,” an obvious lie, “But indeed, I pay quite a hefty fee for this place to keep its high quality equipment.”

“Well I must thank you for your generosity then, without it many patients would not have the care they need.” While half sarcastic, Zayne understood that his words were true, so he was truly grateful for his selfish need to be praised by the public.

Mr Smith laughs and keeps the conversation, or rather one sided monologue, going for quite a while. Zayne tried to excuse himself, but could not find an appropriate time to leave, and slowly his irritation had grown too much. He just wanted to return back to your side.

“I’m very sorry Mr Smith,” Zayne’s voice was short, causing Mr Smith to be silent, “I came with my spouse, and I do not wish to leave them alone any longer. You understand, right?”

The older man moves his hand further down his date’s waist, “I can understand that desire, especially with this lovely lady by my side tonight.”

“I can imagine, so if you’ll—”

“But may I ask one more question Doctor,” before Zayne could respond Mr Smith continued, “Your spouse, their getting quite older now, their age is starting to show Doctor Zayne, especially on their body. Are you sure they are someone you want on your arm for these types of events.”

Zayne can feel an icy chill run down his wrists. He clenches his hand, “Mr Smith, if I might speak plainly for a moment.”

“But of course, we are all for honesty tonight!” He raises his half drunken glass.

Zayne grabs a glass from a passing waiter, “Well, I’d rather we not be as honest as you sir. As my partner’s physique is no one else’s concern but mine. And for your information, I think their appearance makes them look mature and elegant, and it's given their body plenty of experience for me to enjoy.”

Mr Smith and his date stare at him wide eyed. Zayne takes that as his cue to take his leave. As he walks back to the table where he left you. It did not take long to find you, and with the old man's words still ringing in his ears, he can’t help but study your appearance more than before. When he gets a good look at you from a distance that's when he notices the way your hair has started growing grey. He started to move quicker, and soon you both made eye contact, but then the lights dimmed and a melodic voice carried across the room, “Thank you all for attending this night's charity gala, and award ceremony dedicated to our lovely doctors.”

The audience claps and gathers closer, making it so Zayne cannot squeeze through back to you.

“Now for the first award we want to dedicate to our most prized doctor. He has contributed to many successful surgeries over the years, and helped us get one step closer to helping cure those with protocore syndrome. Please welcome to the stage Doctor Zayne.”

Zayne walks up to the stage, giving quick apologies as he pushes through the crowd to the stage. He grabs the mic and bows, giving a quick thank you, “I would also like to give a final thank you to my wonderful spouse who has been with me through it all. I hope to have many more years with them til we are old, grey, and can no longer accept awards.”

Zayne then takes the award and bow once more, then he immediately walks over to your side, Greyson long gone, and gives you a quick kiss. He then links your hands together and slowly makes his way out of the venue with you. With his words to Mr Smith ringing in his head, and he plans on acting on them.

Sylus

Word Count: 503

You park your bike in the garage, and as the garage door closes behind you, you drag your feet into the house. Your uniform felt uncomfortable. All you wanted was to take a shower and take a long rest with Sylus.

“Hon, I’m back!” You called out, making your way through each of the large rooms.

“I’m in the kitchen sweetie~” Sylus's voice carried. You slowly made your way into the kitchen where Sylus is. He is making a small fruit board when you enter. You reach out to Sylus and hug him from behind, and you are able to feel his chest rumble as he laughs at your tired state.

“Are you tired kitten?” He rubs your arm gently as you bury your face in between his shoulder blades.

You hum, hugging him tighter.

“Go lay down on the couch. I’ll join you in a moment, alright.”

You hum, but take your time letting him go. When you manage to drag yourself to the connecting living room you notice the couches state. It was covered in soft pillows and blankets; Even your favorite plush was on the couch, wrapped in one of the blankets.

You grab the plush and sit on the far side of the couch waiting for Sylus. You think about your long weekend and hug the plush tighter.

“I believe I told you to lay down sweetie.” He muses, holding the plate of fruit. You pat the couch and Sylus huffs a smile placing the food down on the coffee table. He picks you up with ease and lays down, placing you on top of him.

He reaches for an orange slice, “How was your trip?”

“Long,” you bite the slice he placed near your lips, “but successful.”

“That’s my prized hunter.” He kisses your head.

You continue to talk about your mission and how you and your team got lost due to a wanderer taking out the train lines. While you talked Sylus took to turning on the TV and putting on the show you both had started weeks prior. Soon enough he felt your body relax as your words got quieter and quieter as your attention gradually shifted from the stress of your work, to the enjoyment of your show.

Sylus is also watching the show, as he keeps his hands occupied with playing with the ends of your hair. Soon he realizes your hair has coiled around his hand and he looks down at his hand. That’s when he sees thin silver lines wrap around his fingers.

He slowly untangles his hand from your hair, then motions to Mephisto to get a close look at you. When Mephie perches on the couch, Sylus starts to single you the section of hair that has turned grey. He wants to look at this later, but also wants to enjoy this silent moment with you a while longer. He was glad that in this life, you both can finally live a full life, and that is his greatest happiness.

Caleb

Word Count: 475

Caleb wakes up with a silent jolt as his arm wakes him up with a sting. He always makes sure to sleep with his arm off the bed for this reason. He glances over to you to make sure you are still sleeping; He sees you laying on his chest, wrapped in his other arm, sleeping peacefully.

He flexes his unfeeling hand, his eyes narrow at the steel glowing in the neon lights of Skyhaven pouring through the window. He turns his head to you and watches your chest rise and fall steadily. He smiles and brushes your hair with his other hand, feeling the warmth of your face on his fingertips.

Caleb starts to feel you move and stills his movement. As you stir for a moment, you just end up snuggling closer into his chest. Caleb stays frozen until he feels confident you aren't going to wake up. He then moves his hand away from your face towards your hair.

He stares at your face as a small smile rests on your resting face. He mimics your smile content in the life he has managed to build with you. Then he slows his hand movement down as he starts to study the grey in your hair. It was tangled around other strands, but it has grown in count since the last time he checked.

He reaches out with his robotic hand to examine it closer, but when the metallic silver is put against the natural grey of your hair he pauses. His hand hovers over your face; He knows that this is a new arm, an arm no longer connected to Ever, but still a symbol of his imperfection compared to you.

Caleb starts to pull his hand away when it is quickly pulled to your face. He looks at his hand and sees you holding his hand onto your face.

None of you say anything, but when you kiss his prosthetic hand, he knows that you are scolding him with love.

“It’s nothing pips, you don’t need to worry,” He brushes his thumb on the apple of your cheek.

You hum at the contact, “Are you sure? I know you have something on your mind.”

“It’s just,” he pauses, taking another glance at your hair, “You’re old.”

You sit up, “What! I’m only 42!”

Caleb’s eyes widen, then pulls you down onto his chest, “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant honey.”

“Then what did you mean jerk?” You roll your eyes.

“I just meant that I’m glad we are able to grow old together,” He brings your grey hair to his face, “I never thought I’d be lucky enough to see this day.”

He lets go of your hair and hugs you tighter. Soon you both drift back to sleep, deciding that today is a good day to sleep in.

[iydiamartinx]

DRAWN TO YOU

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 972 synopsis: You get curious about what Damian is drawing. a/n: I low key feel like I fucked up the ending cause its so cheesy lol. Also again aged up Damian Wayne cause of the romantic subplots if you squint

The early morning light slanted golden rays through the tall windows of the library room, casting a warm glow across the usually dim room and making it feel brighter, more open. The manor was hushed, save for the distant clatter of Alfred preparing a late breakfast for the house’s more nocturnal residents, the occasional muffled footsteps of Duke pacing in an upstairs study, and the quiet mutters from Damian beside you.

Damian sat cross-legged at the far end of the couch, a sketchbook balanced on one knee, pencil in hand. His brows were furrowed in concentration, his bottom lip caught gently between his teeth as his hand moved in quick, practiced strokes. You’d been watching him on and off between scrolling on your phone, finding the soft sound of the scratches of his pencil on paper oddly soothing.

“What’re you drawing?” you asked eventually, nudging his ankle with your foot.

“Nothing,” he replied a little to briskly, not even looking up.

You arched a brow. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“It’s not ready,” he said flatly, tone clipped and guarded. “It’s… unfinished.”

You smirked and leaned a little closer, craning your neck to peek over the edge of the page. In one swift motion, Damian tilted the sketchbook away, , shielding it against his chest..

“Don’t,” he said sharply.

“Why not?” you teased, lips pulling into a pout. “You never let me see.”

“Because,” he muttered, still refusing to meet your eyes, “it’s rough.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. You knew Damian well enough to recognize when he was hiding something. He rarely ever got flustered. Or if he did, it wasn’t an emotion he allowed to be seen so easily. But right now, it was obvious from the way he avoided your gaze and the flush of red creeping up the tips of his ears. Whatever he was drawing, clearly meant something to him.

So, you waited. Pretending to drop the matter and go back to scrolling on your phone casually. You patiently waited for him to relax. And when he stood to grab the eraser he’d left on the coffee table…

You struck.

Quick as a flash, you snatched the sketchbook off the couch and jumped to your feet, dancing just out of Damian’s reach. He lunged for it, but you were faster, already backing away with a triumphant grin.

“Y/N—don’t—!” he exclaimed, his voice rising—not in anger, but in something far rarer for him.

Panic. Pure, wide-eyed panic.

You grinned. “I just want to see. I’ve caught glimpses of the landscapes you paint, and they’re amazing. You shouldn’t be embarrassed about a ske—”

Whatever you were saying died on your tongue the moment your eyes dropped to the page.

You froze, your breath catching.

It wasn’t just a quick sketch or a casual doodle—it was a detailed portrait of you.

He’d drawn you the way he saw you when you weren’t looking. Curled on the couch, phone in hand, a faint smile tugging at your lips. The way your hair fell over your shoulder. The slope of your jaw. The softness in your expression. Every line was purposeful, every shadow carefully placed. There was a quiet reverence in the way he’d captured you—it made you feel as if you were something precious to him.

You looked up slowly, heart pounding. “Damian…”

He stood rigid a few feet away, arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes—his eyes were uncertain, almost vulnerable.

“It’s not finished,” he muttered, gaze dropping. “The hands aren’t right. The shading needs—”

“Damian.” You said his name again, softer this time.

When he finally met your eyes, you crossed the distance between you and held the sketchbook gently to your chest, like it was something fragile. “This is… beautiful.”

Damian didn’t answer. He stood stiffly by the table, arms crossed, expression tight with embarrassment judging from the flush on his cheeks.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice soft now. “I didn’t know you looked at me like that.”

He glanced up—just once. And then looked away again. “Tt. Of course I do.”

You closed the book carefully and stepped toward him, smile tugging at your lips. “You’re really talented, Damian.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he muttered, arms folding across his chest in a defensive habit.

You shook your head gently. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

When you reached him, you rose up on your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek—just enough to send the flush returning to the tips of his ears. His hand twitched like he wasn’t sure whether to grab you or cover his face.

“Next time,” you murmured, “just ask if you want to draw me. I’m happy to pose for you.”

He studied you for a moment, brow still faintly furrowed. “You’re not just saying that?”

Your expression softened. “Damian. I mean it.”

You held the sketchbook out to him, and he took it slowly, fingers curling around the edges with a careful touch.

“You’re the only thing I want to draw lately,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Your chest fluttered, warmth blooming behind your ribs at the quiet sincerity in his words.

“Then draw me,” you said, gently. “However you see me. I want to know.”

He didn’t answer, but something in his posture softened as he sat back down—just enough for you to lean in and rest your head on his shoulder. Watching in contentment, as he opened his sketchbook again, pencil already in hand. 

And so the rest of the morning continued to pass in a peaceful silence, sunlight warming the room as you continued to watch him and the way his pencil moved across the paper. Steady and careful, drawing you in the only way he knew how— like you were the only light to his darkness.

[valeisaslut]

Chill day head cannons with reader and Ellie cuz they deserve it :(

yes. yes. YES nonnie. they SO deserve it. gonna give these two horndogs some well deserved break from the drama. coming right up:

COLLIDE POPSTAR!READER AND ROCKSTAR!ELLIE VERY MUCH NOT CHILL DAY HC'S:

sundays in new york are miracles. your schedules never align. NEVER. but today they did—no shows, no press, no 5 a.m. calls. it's like god got drunk and said “fine, they can have one day.” so now it's just the two of you in ellie’s nyc apartment, tucked somewhere downtown in a building with too many windows and no privacy. the bed's too big, the coffee’s too bad, and it’s perfect.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ellie’s awake first—god knows how, the world must be ending—and she’s laying there with her hair a complete mess, yesterday’s eyeliner smudged like war paint, scrolling through her phone. one arm behind her head, phone tilted dangerously close to falling on her face.

you, meanwhile, are starfished beside her. dead to the world. breathing soft, mouth open, cheek squished into the pillow. you're wearing her merch tee that reads FIRE ME UP in faded tour font, massive on you and somehow bunched up to your collarbones, exposing the laciest pair of black panties known to man and just enough skin to send her into a full-blown crisis.

she blinks. watches you for a solid five minutes, already mentally sketching you. then, pokes your cheek with one calloused finger.

“babe,” she whispers dramatically, “wake up. your titties are out. i’m in distress.”

you grunt something that sounds like “no they’re not.” she grins, tucks her phone under the pillow, and kisses your nose.

“they are,” she murmurs, already slipping her hand under your panties. “but don’t worry. i’ll handle it.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ coffee is code for aftercare. burnt, instant, somehow sacred. you both pad into the kitchen half-naked, ellie in her boxers and you are still in panties and the same tee. she starts the coffee machine while you sit on the counter, bare thighs pressed to the cold marble. when she stands between your legs and hands you a mug, you take it with one hand and cup her jaw with the other. “you make good coffee.” “you make good decisions about shirts.” and takes a sip from your cup just to be annoying. ends up with you bent over the counter.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ she lets you pick the movie after. and it’s a romcom, obviously. she complains the whole time—“this dude’s so fucking cringe. he’d cry if you didn’t text back in 3 minutes.”—but you catch her sniffing when they kiss in the rain. she blames it on the coffee. her arms stay around your waist the whole time. her chin rests on your shoulder. you don’t comment on the way she hums your song under her breath halfway through. but you hear it.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ she draws you while pretending not to. again. you’re lying on her lap, scrolling your phone, and she’s got her sketchbook open behind you, tongue between her teeth, drawing your thighs like they personally offended her. you only catch her when she mutters, “god, you’re such a brat.” it’s not even under her breath.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ midafternoon. sunlight bleeding through the windows. you're half-dressed in a tank top that’s more suggestion than shirt and shorts that shouldn't legally count. your unreleased track is thumping through ellie's speakers—sultry, bass-heavy, pure trouble—and you’re dancing in front of the mirror like you’re back in rehearsals. hips rolling. hair sticking to your neck. sweat catching on your collarbone.

ellie’s on the couch in sweats and a sports bra, fully manspreading, eyes heavy, pretending to scroll her phone but watching you like you’re the halftime show at the end of the world. eyes almost piercing your ass.

“what you doin’?” she asks, voice low, dangerous.

“new choreo,” you hum, spinning slowly, catching her gaze in the mirror. “need to test out the bridge.”

“test it on me,” she mutters, not even blinking.

so you do.

you strut over, straddling her lap like you own her (you do). your hands find her shoulders. hers find your thighs. the music keeps playing, slow and hot, and you roll your hips against her like you’re still rehearsing, like the couch is the stage and ellie is your spotlight.

“you’re gonna kill me,” she groans.

“goal achieved,” you whisper, just before your lips brush her jaw.

the track loops like 15 times. the neighbors hear everything.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ the grocery run is an actual disaster. tried to go incognito, but you two are the worst at laying low. you’re in sunglasses and a slutty little zip-up that’s barely zipped, ellie’s chain heavy around your neck. she's in a leather jacket, beanie low, licking cheeto dust off her fingers like she wasn’t the one who opened the bag in aisle seven.

she grabs your ass in the meat section. hard. you yelp. she smirks.

you both leave the store only with flour, a bottle of wine, and a jumbo-sized bottle of lube in a fully transparent plastic bag. the lube was completely on purpose. a pap snaps the shot right outside and ellie throws up the middle finger with the same hand that was just on your ass. next morning, TMZ runs the photo with the headline: "ROCKSTAR AND POP PRINCESS GEAR UP FOR WHAT CAN ONLY BE DESCRIBED AS THE APOCALYPSE."

comment section is in shambles. someone tweets: “girl math: wine = foreplay, flour = aftermath, lube = survival.” they’re not wrong.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ it starts innocent—just you, ellie, a bag of flour and a pot of water doing its best impression of mount vesuvius on the stove. you’re halfway through making pasta from scratch (don’t ask why, it’s sunday, you’re unhinged and saw a nara smith tt) and somewhere between “do we have basil?” and “babe that’s not how you stir it,” and being horny from the wine, she grabs the spatula like it’s a mic, throws her sunglasses on, and goes:

“yo.”

you freeze. “…not again.”

“yo.”

“…ellie.”

“name another goat who got a strap and a grammy— bad bitch in my bed, she a popstar but she callin’ me daddy.”

drops the spatula like it’s hot. literally. it clatters to the floor. throws her head back like she just ended eminem's career.

you nearly snort prosecco out your nose but you recover. quickly. pick up a wooden spoon and point it at her like a weapon.

“got the tats and the guitar, you act real tough— call yourself daddy but you whined when i rode it rough.”

ellie clutches her chest. “that’s below the belt.”

“so was i.”

she paces, dramatically wiping her nonexistent tears. “aight. aight.” then clears her throat and goes,

“got a popstar wearin’ diamonds on her coochie, you sing high notes while you bouncin’ on my—”

“ELLE.”

“i was gonna say lap! jeez.” (she wasn’t.)

you clap back with:

“you bring the strap, i bring the hits, they scream my name more when i ride your di—”

"OKAY."

you both go feral. pasta’s burning. the kitchen’s a war zone. flour in ellie’s hair. marinara on your shirt. the neighbors file the third noise complaint of the day. you’re crying from laughter. ellie claims she let you win and uploads a blurry story captioned: “rap battle. i was robbed. #freeversequeen.”

she adds “rapper (unofficial)” to her instagram bio for exactly 20 hours. deletes it after you post “this you?” with a clip of her tripping over a rhyme in your story.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ the shower is not innocent. not even a little. it starts soft—her hands in your hair, your arms around her waist. and then is forehead pressed to tile, your breath fogging the glass. ellie behind you, one hand tangled in your wet hair, the other sliding lower. “you’re unreal,” she pants against your shoulder. “you’re so fucking unreal.” it’s slow, intimate, soaked in need. shampoo drips down your spine while she kisses your neck and moves like she’s been dreaming of this. it’s worship. it’s reverent. steam and moans and soft gasps. it ends with her holding your trembling body to her chest like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“you feel so fucking good,” she breathes against your throat. “so real. like i don’t have to pretend when it’s you.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ you end the day on bed again, half-naked under the blanket, one hand under your tank top, the other scrolling through tiktok. she shows you a thirst edit someone made of you both. you pretend to be annoyed. she bites your thigh. you moan into her ear.

there's a half-eaten pint of ice cream on the floor, your hair is still wet, and her voice is soft in your ear—“i missed you. i miss you even when you’re here.” she’s shirtless, you’re glowing, and the tv is just white noise to the rhythm of your joined breathing.

outside, new york screams.

inside, you whisper, “i love you.” she kisses your shoulder and says, “say it again.”

the day is unholy. earned. love and chaos in equal parts. and when the world comes knocking again tomorrow, you’ll answer it knowing that sundays like this exist.