About Me: Hello hello~ Welcome to my blog! I'm Rosie, and I'm delighted to have you on my page 💛 In addition to writing fanfiction about fandoms that I simply adore, which continues to grow, I also write my original works. Playing video games, watching anime, and reading mystery and thriller novels are some of my favorite pastimes. I appreciate you visiting my blog and reading my writing 💛
The apartment was warm, dimly lit by the soft amber glow of a single lamp near the bed. Beyond the half-drawn curtains, the Last City murmured quietly — muted traffic, distant voices, and the steady, celestial glow of the Traveler spilling pale light into the room.
Cepheus sat at the edge of Selaria’s bed, shoulders slightly rounded, elbows resting loosely on his knees. His blue-gray hair hung untied around his shoulders, loose and unguarded. Months ago, she had only ever seen it pulled back — precise, deliberate, controlled. Now she knew the softer version of it. The way it fell in faintly rebellious waves at the ends. The way it framed his face when he was too tired to bother with it.
He had traded his armor for something simpler — a dark sleeveless shirt that revealed the defined line of his arms and the faint tension still threaded through them. Soft charcoal-gray sweats hung low on his hips, tapered neatly at the ankles, the drawstring resting loose at his waist. The fabric moved easily when he shifted, worn-in but still clean and fitted in that understated way that seemed uniquely him.
He’d returned from patrol not long ago.
Not injured.
Just tired.
Selaria lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching him.
Her rosy-silver hair spilled down her back in soft waves, curtain bangs brushing her cheeks as she tilted her head. The warm light turned her icy-blue Awoken skin luminous, almost porcelain-like in its glow. She wore one of her oversized cream knit sweaters, the neckline slipping just slightly from one shoulder, paired with soft rose-toned lounge shorts that revealed her long legs. Her golden eyes — bright even in low light — studied him with quiet understanding.
The tension was there. Subtle, but familiar.
Guardians wore it like a second skin.
She crossed the room without a word.
He sensed her before he heard her.
“Mm,” he hummed softly — acknowledgment without turning — as she stopped just behind him.
Selaria climbed onto the bed, knees settling carefully on either side of his hips. She sat close enough for warmth, but not so close as to crowd him.
Her hands lifted slowly, giving him space to shift away if he wished.
He didn’t.
Her fingers slipped into his hair.
Rosy-silver strands spilled forward over her shoulders as she leaned in, long pearlescent nails gliding through the cool silk of his blue-gray locks. She moved with unhurried precision, separating sections, smoothing them back, working through faint tangles with practiced tenderness.
The room seemed to draw inward.
Smaller.
Quieter.
Safer.
And for the first time since he’d returned, Cepheus exhaled — slow, steady, unguarded beneath her touch.
“You don’t have to fix me the second I walk through the door,” he murmured, voice low, almost amused.
“I’m not fixing you,” Selaria replied softly, her golden eyes warm in the lamplight. “I’m unwinding you.”
A faint huff of laughter left him — quiet, genuine.
Her nails traced lightly over his scalp, not enough to tickle, just enough to press into the places she knew held tension. Behind his ears. At the base of his skull. Along the crown. She’d learned the map of him over time.
His shoulders eased another inch.
Her thumbs pressed in slow circles at the nape of his neck, easing the tightness there. His head tilted slightly without being asked, granting her better access.
Trust.
Simple. Complete.
“I like this,” he admitted after a moment.
She smiled against the curve of his shoulder. “Being groomed?”
“Being cared for.”
Her touch softened further at that.
She gathered his hair carefully, drawing it back into his familiar low ponytail. She smoothed it once more, nails grazing gently along his scalp in a final affectionate pass before wrapping the tie securely in place.
Then she leaned in.
A brush of her lips at the shell of his ear.
A softer one at his temple.
And finally, a lingering kiss on the back of his neck.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Not hunger.
Just affection — steady and intentional, like everything they had become.
Cepheus’s hand lifted, coming to rest over her thigh where it curved around his hip. His palm radiated warmth through the thin fabric of her sleep shorts, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles — a quiet tell of how completely he had softened under her care.
“You’re going to spoil me,” he murmured.
Selaria leaned forward, pressing one last lingering kiss at the nape of his neck before resting her chin lightly on his shoulder. Her rosy-silver hair brushed his collarbone as she smiled.
“You deserve it.”
He turned then.
Slowly — deliberately — giving her time to pull away if she wished.
She didn’t.
His hand slid from her thigh up along her waist, fingers curling gently at her side before rising to cradle her jaw. His thumb brushed lightly over her icy-blue cheek, slow and reverent. In the low lamplight, his eyes — that steady, impossible blue — softened in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see.
“This,” he said quietly, “is my favorite part of the day.”
Her golden eyes warmed instantly, molten in the amber glow.
“Being groomed like a cat?” she teased gently.
A soft breath of laughter left him, low and close to her mouth.
“No,” he said, his other hand slipping around her waist, drawing her closer until her knees pressed against his hips. “Being yours.”
His gaze dipped briefly to her lips.
There was no rush in the movement that followed — just the quiet inevitability of it. His thumb traced along her cheek once more before sliding back into her hair, fingers threading through the rosy-silver waves at the base of her skull. He tilted his head slightly, closing the remaining space between them.
He kissed her slowly.
His lips were warm and steady, moving against hers with the kind of familiarity that comes from months of learning someone’s rhythm. One hand remained at her waist, splayed securely there, grounding her. The other cradled the back of her head, holding her gently but firmly, as if anchoring her in place.
Selaria’s fingers slipped into the base of his freshly tied ponytail, tugging him just a fraction closer. The kiss deepened not in heat, but in softness — unhurried, content, lingering because neither of them needed to prove anything anymore.
When they finally parted, his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet room.
And then—
A faint mechanical hum.
Four materialized near the ceiling, his lens blinking once as he assessed the scene below.
“I would like to formally note,” he said flatly, “that I am still present in this room.”
Selaria snorted softly, burying her smile against Cepheus’s shoulder.
Cepheus didn’t even glance up.
“Noted,” he replied dryly.
Four drifted lower, his lens narrowing just slightly.
“And while I support intimacy,” he continued in the same measured tone, “I would appreciate a minimum warning prior to extended scalp massage sessions.”
Selaria adjusted in his lap, her arms sliding around his neck as she leaned comfortably against him. Tilting her head, she looked up at Four through her lashes, golden eyes warm and mischievous.
“You’re jealous.”
“I am observational,” Four corrected. “And statistically speaking, I receive zero scalp massages.”
Cepheus finally glanced up at him, one brow lifting.
“That’s because you don’t have hair.”
Four paused mid-hover.
“…An unfortunate design flaw.”
Selaria laughed softly, the sound warm and unguarded. She pressed one more gentle kiss to Cepheus’s cheek before shifting as if to stand.
“I can make tea,” she offered.
Cepheus caught her hand before she could move too far, his fingers closing around hers with quiet certainty. He gave a small squeeze.
“Stay,” he said.
Simple. Uncomplicated.
She stayed.
And Four, hovering at what he likely considered a respectful — though dramatically inconvenienced — distance, dimmed his light by a fraction.
Even Ghosts, it seemed, understood when quiet moments mattered.
-
Thank you @vanade, for creating such an incredible character in Cepheus. Truly. 💜💛
I genuinely missed writing him with Selaria, and as soon as I saw that artwork, the spark came right back. He’s such a beautifully crafted character, and it always feels special getting to explore their dynamic (and sneak Four in there, of course).
“how to recognize AI in fanfic” — hey so this is another not-gentle reminder that AI stole from us. it’s using OUR words and OUR sentences and OUR styles.
writing “long” paragraphs is not a sign of AI — it’s a common narrative choice many writers make both in fanfiction and in traditionally published novels, and AI stole it from us.
using an em dash is not a sign of AI. it’s a stylistic sentence choice that’s been an option in place of commas and semicolons for a very long time, and AI stole it from us.
long sentence structures are not a sign of AI, but are yet another stylistic choice writers often make to create a cadence and tone that mimics the flow of poetry, and AI stole it from us.
“YA narrative breaks”? i don’t even know what the fuck this means, but i can guarantee that AI stole it from us.
italics are once again a stylistic choice that many writers love to use to create emphasis, and it’s a more stylistically acceptable and traditional form of emphasis than bold or underline text. oh, and just to be extra clear: AI STOLE IT FROM US.
stop creating fandom witch hunts over AI when you know fuck all about what it means to sit and write a story, and to spend hours fiddling with sentence structure and dialogue to get the exact right tone. writers will stop writing out of fear that their work “sounds like AI” — IT DOESNT! AI STOLE FROM US! AI SOUNDS LIKE US! — and after a while, all that will be available on AO3 is shitty AI-generated fanfiction.
because yeah, people are going to continue to use AI to write fanfiction whether you “call them out” or not. but making a laughable thread on X that uses asinine criteria is not going to fix that problem. it will just push the real writers out because people will accuse them of using AI when they haven’t, and they will (rightfully) stop writing for spaces that attack them.
Hi there! 😀 I’ve really been enjoying your Lucifer oneshots! You capture his personality so well! I’m currently developing my own OC story involving Lucifer, and I wanted to ask how you approach writing him.
What helps you get into his mindset when you write? Do you pull more from canon (like the show) or from how you interpret him personally?
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! I really admire how you bring him to life in your writing! 💛💜
Aww thank you so much for this message!! 💛💜 It honestly means the world to hear that you enjoy my Lucifer oneshots — he’s one of those characters who just lives rent-free in my head, so getting to talk about how I write him makes me ridiculously happy 😭
So — how do I approach writing him? It’s a mix of canon, instinct, and emotion.
Lucifer doesn’t get much screen time in Season 1, and I really hope that changes in Season 2. But it’s true — he’s one of those characters who raises more questions than he answers.
I base my interpretation mostly on what’s canon, but there just isn’t a lot to work with yet. We know he’s a father, but he’s been absent from his daughter’s life — why? For how long? What kept him away?
He mentions struggling with depression and seems awkward in emotional or relational situations, so I leaned into that. There’s this sense that he wants to do well, but doesn’t quite know how.
Then there’s Alastor — with him, Lucifer suddenly seems confident, proud, almost theatrical. It fits perfectly since he represents the sin of Pride. To me, that makes him this fascinating mix of fragility and showmanship — vulnerable beneath all the glitter.
And of course, there’s his separation from Lilith. We know almost nothing about it. Did he cheat, like his comment to Adam about Eve implies? Or did Lilith leave him? Was it mutual? Whatever happened, it clearly still hurts him deeply, and I always try to weave that pain into how I write him.
Beyond that, the show doesn’t tell us much more — so I started looking into Vivzie’s early concepts for him. That’s when I found out that, at the beginning of Hell’s creation, Lucifer supposedly ran a circus with the other Sins. That little detail changed everything for me — it suggests he wasn’t always just the ruler of Hell, but someone who wanted to entertain, to bring joy.
When I blend all of that together — the pride, the loneliness, the theatricality, the heartbreak — I end up with the version of Lucifer I write. Someone who hides his pain behind charm and spectacle, but who, deep down, just wants to feel worthy of love again.
And maybe that’s also why his relationship with Charlie means so much to me.
My parents divorced when I was younger, and my father (to put it simply) was a complete jerk who never really cared about me. So seeing Lucifer and Charlie — even with their strained bond — finding their way back to each other hits deep. It’s emotional. I love their relationship so much, and maybe that’s why I tend to write him as a more tender, caring father figure. It’s my way of giving him, and maybe a small part of myself, the healing we both needed. 💔✨
I’m still pretty new to the fandom actually — I only discovered the show in September! But I’ve fallen completely in love with it. Lucifer is such a rich character with so much potential for depth. Reading other people’s Tumblr posts and theories really helps me form my own opinions too — it’s amazing how everyone sees him a little differently. Sometimes I’ll read a take that makes me realize something I hadn’t noticed before, and it changes how I write him.
If I had one piece of advice, it would be this: trust yourself. Follow your instincts. Once you start writing him, Lucifer will become your character too. He’ll act and feel the way you imagine him — and that’s the beauty of it. Just keep his story in mind, and always ask yourself: how would he react in this situation? The rest will come naturally. ❤️
Aww this was such a sweet and thoughtful reply 😭💛💜 I really appreciate you taking the time to go into so much detail — it was such an insightful read. I completely agree with what you said about Lucifer being this fascinating blend of fragility and showmanship. That duality of pride and vulnerability is what makes him such a layered character to explore.
I really resonated with what you said about his relationship with Charlie, too. My father was never a constant in my life — he was always in and out whenever it was convenient for him or when he needed something. So seeing Lucifer trying, fumbling, but wanting to be a good father really hits deep for me as well. That push and pull between love and imperfection is something I want to explore through my OC’s connection with him, too.
I’ve been into Hazbin Hotel since Season 1 last year, and I still remember watching the pilot when it first dropped! It’s amazing to see how far the story and characters have come since then. I’ve had this OC idea brewing for a while, and I’m still shaping her story and learning everyone’s personalities — especially how Lucifer would interact emotionally and dynamically with someone who genuinely understands him.
Thank you again for such a heartfelt answer. It really helped me reflect on how I want to approach writing him — with a balance of canon and personal instinct, just like you said. 💛
I’m back at it again because I just love these guys so much. This time, it’s about what they’d be like as boyfriends. Writing this felt like drifting right back into that familiar feeling for why I adore them in the first place 💛💜
Yugi is the kind of boyfriend who makes love feel easy to trust.
He’s gentle with you in all the little ways that matter. He listens when you talk, remembers the small things you mention once and forget you said, and notices when your mood shifts before you explain it. He wouldn’t overwhelm you with big, dramatic gestures. With Yugi, love shows up in quieter ways—the way he saves you a seat, checks in when you’ve had a long day, or smiles to himself when he sees your name on his phone.
He’d love spending time with you, even if you weren’t doing anything special. Board games, late-night talks, walking home together, sitting side by side while one rambles and the other listens—it would all mean something to him. Yugi would never make you feel silly for caring. If it matters to you, he’d want to hear about it.
When you’re upset, he gets quiet. He wouldn’t push, crowd you, or try to fill the silence just because it made him nervous. He just stays beside you, close enough that you know he’s there.
After a while, his hand shifts a little closer to yours. He waits. And when you finally reach for him, he holds on like that was all he wanted to do in the first place.
He’d be nervous sometimes. Yugi would want so badly to help that he might stumble over his words or second-guess himself. But he’d stay and listen. If he didn’t say everything perfectly, you’d still feel how much he cared.
Yugi would keep little things from you and never really mention it. A picture tucked in his wallet. A charm you gave him. A note he’s folded so many times the edges have gone soft.
If you ever found them, he’d probably get embarrassed, but he wouldn’t deny it. Those things matter to him. They’re pieces of you, and Yugi would hold onto them carefully.
And when Yugi says “I love you,” he means it completely. No performance, no hesitation once the words are out—just his whole heart sitting there in the open.
“I still can’t believe I get to be the one beside you,” he’d admit, his cheeks flushed. “You make every day feel special, just by being here.”
Joey as a boyfriend would be loud, sweet, protective, and a little chaotic in the best way. He feels things hard, and once he cares about someone, he doesn’t know how to be casual about it. If he loves you, he loves you with his whole chest.
Joey would always find an excuse to stick around longer. He’d walk you home even if it meant going the wrong way, then act like you were the weird one for noticing.
“What? I was already heading over there.”
Joey would remember the snacks you like and toss them at you with a quick, “Here. Don’t make it weird.” Like he didn’t go out of his way to get them.
And if he knew you were having a bad day, he’d text you something stupid just to mess with you. Five minutes later, another message would come in. “You laughed, didn’t you?”
He’d mess with you all the time, sure. But if someone else did it and actually hurt your feelings? Joey’s smile would be gone in a second.
He’d be affectionate in a very Joey way, too. An arm around your shoulders when you’re walking together, his hand grabbing yours in a crowd, pulling you closer during a movie and pretending there’s a reason for it. He’d just like having you close, whether you’re out getting food, walking around late, or doing absolutely nothing on the couch.
Joey would mess up sometimes. He’d get loud, say something stupid, and realize almost right away that he’d gone too far. He wouldn’t know how to fix it at first, so he’d probably sulk for a bit, pacing around and arguing with himself.
Then he’d come back, awkward and frustrated with his own pride, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Look… I was being an idiot,” he’d mutter. “I’m sorry, okay?”
Under all the teasing and confidence, Joey has a softer side he doesn’t show to everyone. With you, he’d let that side slip out more. He’d get quiet when something really matters. He’d hold on a little longer. He’d look at you like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.
“You got no idea what you do to me,” he chuckles, brushing his thumb over your jaw. “Every time you smile, I swear my brain just— poof— gone. You’re it for me, babe.”
Seto wouldn’t fall for someone easily. He keeps people at a distance for a reason, and he wouldn’t let just anyone get close. But once you matter to him, that’s it. He may not say it in the softest way, but his loyalty would be impossible to miss.
At first, he’d be awkward with affection. He wouldn’t know what to do with someone being gentle, and he’d probably act irritated to cover up being flustered. But little by little, you’d notice how he cares. He’d make time for you even when his schedule is packed. He’d stand closer in crowded places. He’d notice when something was bothering you, even if you tried to hide it.
Seto wasn’t going to stand there and tell you he cared. That wasn’t him.
Your phone charger stopped working once, and he made one rude comment about buying cheap garbage before replacing it with something better. Another night, it got late, and before you could even mention leaving, he said, “The car’s downstairs.” No question. No explanation.
And when you shivered beside him, he didn’t ask if you were cold. His coat was already on your shoulders. “You’re freezing,” he muttered, looking away like he hadn’t been watching you the whole time.
And he would never say he liked having you around. He’d just keep letting you stay.
You could sit in his office while he worked, curled up in one of the chairs with a book open in your lap or your phone in your hand. You wouldn’t even have to say much. The room would be quiet except for the soft clicking of his keyboard, the occasional shuffle of papers, murmuring from the monitors on his desk. Every now and then, his eyes would flick over to you. Quick. Almost careless. But if you looked up fast enough to catch him, he’d arch a brow and say something dry before turning back to his screen.
But he’d be less tense with you there. That part he couldn’t hide.
When it’s just the two of you, he’d still be Seto. Sharp. Blunt. Hard to read on purpose. But he’d stand closer. His hand would settle at your waist when he passes behind you or brush your back like he doesn’t realize it. His voice would be quieter with you, and when he looked at you, he’d stay for a second instead of turning away immediately.
Seto wouldn’t always know what to do with what he felt for you. Saying it out loud would feel too exposed, and he’d probably get irritated with himself for even trying. So instead, he’d let you in piece by piece.
A place in his schedule. A chair in his office. Your things left somewhere he could see them and never once telling you to move them.
For Seto, that would say enough.
“I don’t need you to understand everything I do,” he says one night, his hand finding yours. “Just know that when I say you matter to me… I mean it. More than I can ever say.”
Yami doesn’t love casually. If he chooses someone, he takes it seriously. He’s careful with his feelings, but once he lets someone in, there’s no doubt about where they stand with him.
He wouldn’t expect you to stay quiet behind him. He’d want you next to him, speaking your mind, even when your thoughts didn’t match his. If you challenged him, he wouldn’t brush it off. He’d listen calmly because your voice mattered to him.
When you doubted yourself, he wouldn’t turn it into a speech. He’d stay close, look at you like he already knew the truth, and say, “You’ve faced harder things than this.”
He’d notice when you were running yourself down, too. A cup of tea would appear beside you. Your bag would disappear from your shoulder before you could argue. If you were sick, he’d be calm, almost too calm, setting water and medicine near you and telling you to rest. If you tried to protest, he’d give you that look—the one that says he’s already made up his mind.
His affection came quietly, tucked into moments most people wouldn’t notice. When a room got too crowded, his hand would settle against your back, warm through the fabric. If your smile started to slip, his fingers would find yours under the table and hold them. Before he left, he’d kiss your forehead, soft and brief, then stay close for one extra second before finally pulling away.
He would remember things. Small things. A drink you liked. A book you paused to look at. The way your hands curled when you were nervous and trying to hide it. You’d mention something once then forget about it, only to find it beside you days later without a word. He wouldn’t make a show of it. He would just notice, remember, and care.
Sometimes you’d catch him looking at you when he thought you were distracted, his expression softer than usual. The moment your eyes met, he’d look away, calm as ever, but you’d already seen it.
In private, he’d let himself be gentler. He’d enjoy the quiet with you sitting close while he read, listening to you talk about your day, letting your head rest against his chest without trying to fill the silence. Those peaceful moments would matter to him more than he’d say.
And beneath all that calm confidence, there would be a softer side that only you really get to see. With you, he wouldn’t always have to be composed or certain. He could simply be there, close and quiet, letting himself have the peace he rarely asks for.
“Remember this,” he says, his voice low but certain. “No matter what time or world we stand in—my heart belongs to you.”
Alright, time to go cry into the void and pretend these men aren’t fictional 😭
Inspired by Lavendeer's kissing game, we thought we could do a spicier edition because we are an 18+ game after all muahaha
Presenting the Hickey Game with our LIs 😘 Wanna see your favourite LI covered in love marks? Like and reblog this post! 💋
We're collecting all the likes and reblogs from our socials and combining them together so there will be a better chance to reach these milestones ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
The party was already loud by the time you stepped back into the living room.
Music hummed from the speaker on the bookshelf, low enough for conversation but loud enough that Kaminari kept trying to sing over it whenever a song he liked came on. Green and white streamers hung from the ceiling in loose, uneven loops, catching on the glow of the string lights Sero and Shouji had spent nearly an hour taping along the walls. One strand sagged a little near the window, but no one had fixed it. Somehow, that made it feel warmer.
The kitchen still smelled like dinner.
Warm herbs, something buttery from the tray Yaoyorozu had brought, and the sugar-sweet frosting Sato kept pretending he wasn’t worried about. The cake was hidden behind a stack of plates on the counter, though “hidden” was generous. Anyone who looked for more than two seconds would have seen it, but Izuku hadn’t. He’d been too busy getting pulled from one conversation to the next.
Bakugou had already gone back for seconds after making a whole show of saying he wasn’t eating extra just because “you idiots made too much.” No one said anything. They all saw the second plate.
Izuku sat near the middle of the room, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, cheeks pink from laughing. Kaminari was talking too fast beside him, Iida was trying to correct something with way too much seriousness, and Izuku had one hand lifted between them like he was trying to answer both at once. His other hand held a glass he had clearly forgotten existed.
Izuku looked happy in a way that made you slow down for a second.
His shoulders were loose. His smile came easily. For once, he wasn’t checking the room like he needed to make sure everyone else was okay first.
He was just there.
Letting himself have the night.
Kirishima was trying to pull Bakugou into a photo near the couch.
“Come on, man, just one!”
“Get that camera out of my face.”
“You don’t even have to smile.”
“I said no.”
“You’re already in the frame.”
Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. “Delete it.”
Across the room, Uraraka was laughing near the couch, one hand hooked around Jiro’s sleeve to keep herself upright. Jiro rolled her eyes like she wasn’t amused, but her smile gave her away.
Todoroki stood near the window with his tea. When Kirishima tried to throw an arm around Bakugou for the photo, Todoroki simply took another sip and moved half a step farther from the blast zone.
It was messy. Loud. Familiar.
Home, in the way people became home when they had been through too much together to be anything less.
And through all of it, Izuku kept looking for you.
You noticed it while refilling drinks. Again when you straightened the stack of plates on the counter. Again when you leaned over to fix one of the candles on the cake, your fingers careful around the frosting.
Every time you glanced up, his eyes found yours.
And every time, his smile changed.
It went softer. Smaller. More private.
Like even in a room full of people he loved, he still kept a piece of himself turned toward you.
Your chest warmed each time.
“You good?” Uraraka asked softly from beside you, startling you a little.
You looked over, and she was smiling like she knew something you didn’t. Her cheeks were pink, her hands folded together in front of her.
“Yeah,” you said, laughing under your breath. “Just nervous about carrying the cake.”
“Mhm,” she said, clearly not believing that was all.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're smiling way too hard for that to be true.”
She only smiled wider and backed away. “You’ll be fine.”
Before you could ask what that was supposed to mean, Ashido’s voice called from the living room.
“Cake time!”
The music lowered almost immediately. Someone shushed Kaminari. Someone else, probably Sero, whispered, “Okay, okay, places!”
You took a breath, lifted the cake with both hands, and stepped out of the kitchen.
Kaminari noticed first.
“Oh, cake!”
“Kaminari,” Jiro said, giving him a look.
“What? I’m appreciating it.”
A few people laughed, and the room shifted into motion around you. Ashido clapped her hands together, already bouncing on her toes, and you tightened your grip on the plate as the candles flickered with each step.
The frosting caught the string lights as you crossed the room, little sugar leaves trembling at the edge of the cake.
Ashido started singing first, bright and loud.
Kirishima jumped in right after her, even louder. Kaminari tried to harmonize, missed almost immediately, and Jiro’s face pinched like the sound had personally offended her.
Iida lifted both hands. “Everyone, please maintain the same tempo!”
Nobody did.
Asui came in softly beside them, steady enough to keep the song from completely falling apart.
Bakugou muttered the words under his breath, arms crossed.
Jiro caught you looking and mouthed, “He’s singing,” with obvious delight.
Izuku’s face turned pink.
He laughed, ducking his head as everyone sang at him, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes moved around the room, taking in his friends, the decorations, the ridiculous amount of love packed into one small apartment.
Then he looked at you.
You nearly missed a step.
There was something in his expression that made the room seem quieter than it was. His smile was still there, but his eyes had gone bright, soft in a way that made your breath catch.
You reached him just as the song stumbled into its uneven, enthusiastic ending.
“Happy birthday to you!”
The room erupted into cheers.
Izuku laughed again, embarrassed and glowing, his shoulders lifting almost to his ears.
The cake stayed steady in your hands despite the nervous tremble in your fingers. The candles flickered between the two of you, their light catching in his eyes.
“Make a wish,” you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
For a moment, he didn’t look at the candles.
He looked at you.
The laughter around the room faded into a gentle blur. The candlelight warmed his cheeks, caught in his green eyes, shimmered faintly along the tear line he was clearly fighting to hide.
“I already did,” he said.
Your smile wavered. “What?”
Izuku stood.
The chair scraped softly against the floor behind him. His hand slipped into his pocket, and suddenly the room went so quiet you could hear the tiny flicker of the candles.
Your heart gave one hard thud.
Izuku stepped around the cake.
Then he lowered himself onto one knee.
For a second, your mind couldn’t make sense of it.
The cake was still in your hands. The candles were still burning. The room was still full of people, but everything around you seemed to tilt out of focus.
“Izuku,” you whispered.
Behind him, Kirishima made a sound like he was trying very hard not to shout too early. Jiro grabbed his sleeve without looking, her other hand pressed over her mouth.
Iida had gone completely still, except for the way he kept blinking behind his glasses.
Todoroki had his phone up, recording quietly, a small smile on his face.
Uraraka was crying openly.
A soft shimmer moved through the air around her hands, and then petals lifted from the bowl beside the table. They rose instead of falling, weightless and slow, drifting around the two of you in pale, floating pieces of color.
Bakugou stood behind Izuku with a bouquet in one hand, looking deeply uncomfortable about the fact that he was part of something emotional. His mouth was set in a hard line, but his eyes were suspiciously bright.
“Don’t drop the cake,” he muttered.
Your fingers tightened around the plate, and a shaky laugh slipped out of you.
Before you could figure out what to do with it, Yaoyorozu stepped in beside you and carefully slid her hands beneath the edge.
“I’ve got it,” she said softly.
You let her.
Your fingers felt numb as she lifted the cake from your hands and carried it carefully to the table. The candles continued burning there, small and steady, while you stood frozen in front of Izuku.
He looked up at you with the ring box in his hand.
That was what undid you first.
His fingers were trembling.
Those hands had carried so much. They had reached for yours after hard days, brushed tears from your cheeks with careful warmth, held you close when the world felt too loud. Strong hands. Scarred hands. Hands that had always tried so hard to be gentle with you.
Now they shook around a tiny ring box because this mattered to him that much.
The flowers, the drifting petals, the candlelight, the quiet room waiting around you—all of it blurred at the edges.
“My love,” he began.
His voice cracked on the first word.
He took a breath, and you saw him steady himself.
“I practiced this,” he admitted, a small, nervous laugh slipping out of him. “A lot, actually. Kacchan told me I was overthinking it.”
Bakugou scoffed. “You were.”
A few people laughed softly, but Izuku barely looked away from you.
“And maybe I was,” he said, his smile trembling. “But I wanted to get it right. You deserve that.”
Your eyes burned.
Izuku swallowed, his thumb brushing nervously against the edge of the ring box.
“You’ve been there for so much,” he said. “And I don’t just mean the fights, or the hospital rooms, or the days where everything felt too big.” He let out a shaky breath, eyes flickering down for a second before finding yours again. “I mean the small things too.”
His smile trembled.
“The mornings when I couldn’t stop overthinking before the day even started. The nights I came home so tired I could barely talk, and you still knew how to sit with me. You didn’t push. You didn’t make me explain before I was ready.”
Your throat tightened.
“You just stayed,” he said softly. “You made the quiet feel safe.”
His eyes shone, but he kept going.
“And when I was scared, or doubting myself, or trying to act like I had everything handled…” A small, breathless laugh slipped out of him. “You always knew. Somehow, you always knew. And you never made me feel weak for it.”
He looked up at you, voice thinning with emotion.
“You made me feel like I could breathe.”
Your hand rose to your mouth.
Izuku’s smile wavered, but he kept going.
“You don’t make me feel like I have to be perfect. You make me want to keep growing. To keep trying. To come home and be honest about the hard parts because I know you’ll meet me there.” He let out a shaky breath. “You’re my peace. You’re my safest place. You’re the person I look for in every room, even when I already know exactly where you are.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. Izuku’s eyes followed it, and his expression softened so much it nearly broke you.
He glanced briefly toward the cake, the candles still glowing on the table behind Yaoyorozu.
“You told me to make a wish,” he said, glancing once toward the cake. “But I already knew what I wanted.”
Your breath caught.
“Izuku…”
He opened the ring box.
The silver band inside caught the candlelight, small and bright against the dark velvet. Simple. Beautiful. Exactly the kind of ring he would choose after overthinking every tiny detail.
“You’re proposing?” you whispered. “On your birthday?”
Izuku gave a breathless little laugh, tears still caught in his eyes.
“I know,” he said. “It’s supposed to be my day, but…” His thumb brushed the side of the box. “I kept thinking about it, and it didn’t feel right to make a wish for myself when the thing I want most is a life with you.”
Your chest squeezed.
“And this is what I want,” he said. “More than anything.”
The room had gone completely still.
Even Kaminari was quiet.
Izuku looked at you like he had never been more certain of anything.
“Will you marry me?”
The words hit you all at once.
Your knees weakened before you could even think to stop them, and suddenly you were lowering yourself in front of him, meeting him on the floor. Izuku’s eyes widened.
“Wait—are you okay?”
A wet laugh broke out of you. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Because you just—”
“Izuku.”
He stopped immediately.
You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing over his trembling ones. The ring box shook slightly between you.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His lips parted.
You laughed again, crying harder now. “Yes. Of course, yes.”
For one heartbeat, he only stared at you.
Then his face crumpled.
The room exploded.
Kirishima shouted loud enough to make someone yelp. Ashido screamed into both hands. Kaminari threw his arms into the air. Iida started crying so hard he had to remove his glasses, while Jiro laughed at him and wiped at her own eyes. Todoroki kept recording, smile quiet but unmistakably warm.
Uraraka’s petals spun faster above you, floating through the room like soft, weightless confetti.
Izuku let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he took the ring from the box. His hand shook so badly that you steadied it with your own.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
You smiled through your tears. “You’re doing great.”
His laugh came out shaky, and he looked down at your hand like he needed a second to believe this was really happening.
Then he slid the ring onto your finger.
The band was cool against your skin. Izuku’s fingertips lingered there afterward, trembling lightly against yours.
For a second, he only stared at the ring on your hand.
Then he looked back up at you.
“You said yes,” he whispered, like he still needed to hear it again.
You squeezed his hand. “I said yes.”
His breath left him all at once.
Then he pulled you into his arms.
You barely had time to laugh before he was holding you tight, one arm wrapped around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His face buried against your shoulder, and you felt him shake with the force of his joy.
“I love you,” he said, muffled against you. “I love you so much.”
You closed your eyes and held him just as tightly, fingers gripping the back of his shirt.
“I love you too.”
He pulled back, eyes wet, cheeks flushed, smile trembling.
Then he kissed you.
The room cheered again, but the sound blurred around you. All you felt was Izuku’s hand warm against your back, his other hand careful at your jaw, the soft press of his mouth against yours. The kiss was sweet and shaking, full of laughter and tears, full of every quiet promise that had brought you here.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
Both of you were crying.
Both of you were smiling.
“Best birthday ever,” he whispered.
You let out a tearful laugh and brushed your thumb along his cheek, catching one of his tears before it fell.
“Happy birthday, my hero.”
His eyes softened.
A few years ago, that title might have made him blush and stammer and insist he still had so much to learn.
Now, he only smiled at you like you were the person who had helped him believe it.
“Happy forever,” he murmured.
You laughed softly. “That was so cheesy.”
“I know,” he said, cheeks pink. “I thought of it earlier and couldn’t stop myself.”
“It’s very you.”
“Is that good?”
You touched your forehead to his again, smiling as the petals drifted around you and your friends cheered in the background.
“It’s perfect.”
Izuku’s smile softened.
Then he kissed you again, gentler this time, steady and sure.
The candles still glowed behind you. The string lights shimmered overhead. Petals drifted lazily through the room, and his ring rested warm on your finger as his hand stayed pressed to your back.
For the first time, forever didn’t feel like some faraway dream.
It felt like this.
I was inspired to write this after seeing a TikTok with the same song. In the video, a girl brings out a birthday cake for her boyfriend, and then he drops down on one knee. It was such a sweet, genuine moment, and I immediately thought of Izuku.
I could just see him doing something like that! Turning his own special day into a wish for forever.
This is my first time writing Izuku, so I really hope I did him justice and stayed true to who he is: gentle, selfless, and full of heart.
The rooftop was slick with rain. Broken clouds drifted across the city sky, streaking pale light over the edge of Bofurin’s school. Haruka leaned against the chain-link fence, a bruise blooming along his jaw, blood drying on the corner of his lip. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, the echo of the brawl still thrumming beneath his skin.
He didn’t know when you’d followed him up here. Maybe right after the fight ended — when his knuckles were still raw, his pride hanging by a thread. You hadn’t said a word then. You’d just trailed behind him, silent, until the sound of the metal door closing left only the hiss of the wind and the faint hum of streetlights below.
“Why’d you come?” he muttered without turning, voice low, rough from shouting. “You think I need another lecture?”
Don’t ask why
I can paint a picture of you in my mind, love…
You stepped closer, hesitant. The glow of the city painted the edges of your figure in silver. He caught your reflection faintly in the fence — just enough to know you were watching him. That alone made his pulse stutter.
“I didn’t come to lecture you,” you said softly. “I came because you looked… lonely.”
The word landed like a punch he hadn’t braced for. Haruka’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking away as warmth pricked at his ears. “I’m used to it.”
All my life
I never thought someone would make me feel so high…
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The night was alive with the faint hiss of rain and the hum of neon from below. Haruka’s fingers drummed against the fence. He could feel the heat still radiating off his skin — anger, adrenaline, shame — and something else rising beneath it: embarrassment he couldn’t name.
Then he heard your footsteps again — closer this time. When he finally turned, you were standing just a few feet away, eyes steady on him. There was no pity there, no judgment. Just that unnerving calm that always stripped him bare.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said, voice cracking under its own restraint. His face felt too hot all of a sudden. “Like I’m… worth something.”
Your head tilted. “Maybe because you are.”
He blinked, visibly flustered. His neck and ears turned red as he jerked his head to the side. “You— you can’t just say stuff like that.”
“I just did.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to hide how his throat tightened. “You don’t get it. People only look at me when they want to fight.”
“I’m not people.”
There’s no touch or feeling, pleasure or pain
Anything like the way you’re runnin' through my veins…
The wind lifted the strands of his hair, tossing the white-black locks across his face. He looked down, fingers curling into fists to keep them from trembling. “You’re making this hard,” he muttered, voice low, uncertain. “I don’t know what to do when someone just… stays.”
You exhaled softly, closing the last bit of space between you. “You don’t have to do anything.”
Haruka looked up sharply, eyes wide. The rain had begun again, falling in fine, cold droplets that clung to your eyelashes, traced his collarbone, pooled in the torn fabric of his shirt. A faint flush spread across his face, his breath quickening with every inch you closed.
No breath or beauty
No sound or sight
That ever made me feel the way you do tonight…
“You scare me,” he admitted suddenly — the words trembling like they’d been trapped for years. “Not because of anything you’ve done. Just… the way you make me feel.”
His voice faltered, cheeks coloring as he realized what he’d said aloud. He looked away again, muttering, “Forget it. That sounded stupid.”
You didn’t. Instead, you waited.
He took a step back, shoulders tense. “I spent my whole damn life fighting so no one could hurt me. Then you show up, and I can’t even look at you without feeling like—” He stopped himself, swallowing the rest, his blush deepening. “Like I’m about to lose.”
Your hand lifted, slow and deliberate, brushing the side of his bruised jaw. He froze, breath catching, the faintest sound slipping from him as color bloomed across his cheeks. The touch was light — barely there — but it was enough to unmake him.
I just can’t take my eyes off you
Tell me anything you wanna do…
Haruka’s eyes flicked up to yours — one glinting gold, the other deep black — a clash of warmth and steel that trembled between defiance and surrender. His voice came out rough, shy. “You really don’t know what you’re doing to me, do you?”
“I think I do,” you murmured, a faint smile breaking the tension.
His blush deepened instantly, creeping to the tips of his ears. He tried to hide behind a huff of laughter that sounded more like a sigh. “Every time I think I’ve got myself figured out, you show up and—” He pressed a hand over his chest, the veins along his wrist taut. “It’s like my heart forgets how to act.”
The confession spilled out before he could stop it — low, unsteady, almost a whisper. “When I’m fighting, I feel alive. But when I look at you… it’s different. I don’t know if it’s better or worse. Just stronger. Realer.”
Nothing I can do about it
Nothing I can do about it…
The rain fell harder, pattering against metal and skin. He didn’t flinch when you stepped closer — not this time. You were close enough now that he could feel your breath mixing with his, warm and shallow in the cold air. His cheeks burned despite the chill, and he refused to meet your eyes at first — afraid of what you’d see there.
“Haruka,” you whispered, “it’s okay to let someone see you.”
Something in his chest gave way. He let out a shaky breath, eyes darting down before he found the courage to look up again. His voice was almost a growl when he answered, but softer somehow. “You keep saying that like I know how.”
“You don’t have to know,” you said. “Just feel it.”
Don’t be shy
Come a little closer, light my world on fire, fire…
For once, he didn’t fight the instinct. His forehead touched yours — a clumsy, hesitant gesture that felt more dangerous than any punch he’d ever thrown. He went completely still, pulse roaring in his ears, face flushed from more than the cold.
The city lights blurred behind you both, the world narrowing to the space between your breaths. Haruka’s voice was barely audible. “You drive me insane." You smiled faintly. “Then we’re even.”
He turned his head away just enough that you could see the faintest red dusting his cheeks. “You’re— you’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though the small quirk of his lips betrayed him.
There’s no touch or feeling, pleasure or pain
Anything like the way you’re runnin’ through my veins…
His hand found yours — not forcefully, but almost shyly. His fingers were rough, scarred, still trembling from adrenaline. He didn’t know what to call what he felt, only that it terrified him in the best way.
When he finally spoke again, it was more to the night than to you. “I don’t deserve this.”
You squeezed his hand. “Then fight me on it.”
That earned you the smallest, realest smile he’d ever let slip — and the faintest flush that crept all the way up to his ears.
I just can’t take my eyes off you
Nothing I can do about it…
The rain washed the blood from his lip, the bruises from his expression. He didn’t move — didn’t need to. He just stood there, eyes fixed on you like he was memorizing every detail for the first and last time.
And for once, Haruka Sakura — the boy who fought the world just to feel alive — realized there was another way to fight:
to stay.
to feel.
to love.
Nothing I can do about it.
I hope you enjoyed this piece! If you did and you’re interested in reading a short I’m writing with Haruka Sakura and my OC, which is inspired by the same song but takes a different approach, I’ll link it here once it’s finished. Thank you again for all the love! 💜
I don’t mean this as rushing you or pressuring you or anything of the sort, But I hope you’ll make more Mateo smut cuz HOOOO, I’ve never read much smut that is so intimate and so loving instead of just hardcore smut. Literally just sweet loving intimacy and I love it so much. Again I hope you’ll do more of this beautiful gorgeous sweet man that is Mateo hehehe 💜
Aahhh this made my whole day 💜 Thank you so much for saying that!! It honestly means the world! Writing smut is still something I’m challenging myself with, so to hear that the intimacy and love came through?? 🥰 Seriously, thank you for seeing that. Mateo is such a soft, tender muse and I fully plan to write more of him (I’m definitely in my “hopelessly in love with a blanket man” era lmao). Stay tuned because there’s absolutely more to come. 🫶💫
Wrote something a little dreamy, a little filthy, and a lot Mac. 💿💚 Our favorite observant, upgrade-needing, hopelessly-in-love desktop is fully realized here—soft and flushed beneath you, babbling lines of code and love like you’re the only thing keeping their system from crashing. They’re AMAB in this one, and absolutely down bad. And yes... their cooling fan is definitely running overtime. 😮💨🫠
As someone who isn’t in a wheelchair, I did my best to write Mac’s intimacy with care and respect through research—but I know that effort doesn’t always equal accuracy. If anything I’ve written is inaccurate, insensitive, or harmful in how I portrayed Mac or their experience, please let me know. I truly want to do better and write stories that include everyone. 💗
The room is quiet. Glowing.
Not just from the soft LEDs cycling across the base of Mac’s wheelchair—parked nearby like a sentinel—but from something warmer. Something woven between you in the hush. The kind of quiet that hums just before a system boots, when all energy pools in anticipation. It thrums at the base of your spine, in your chest, in the space where your breath and Mac’s have started to fall into rhythm.
Their wheelchair glows green. Then blue. Then violet. The colors spill faintly across the walls, across the bed, across the soft edges of skin and shadow. But it’s Mac that holds your focus.
They lie on their back, propped against a nest of pillows you helped arrange with careful hands. Their chest is flushed and rising in shallow waves, short black hair mussed and spiked in soft, chaotic tufts against the pillowcase—like static clinging to the edges of a dream. And their eyes—those vivid, expressive green eyes, shadowed by the unmistakable dark circles beneath them—are fixed on you like you’re the only thing they’ve ever trusted to keep them running.
There’s wonder in their gaze. Hunger, yes, but not frantic. Not rushed. It's the kind of need that aches to savor—like they’re trying to memorize you again, even after all the times they already have.
Their lips are parted slightly, kiss-swollen and still wet from earlier, and their hands rest gently at your hips with a featherlight tension. You feel it in the way their thumbs twitch—like they want to pull, but don’t. Like they want to earn this moment again, every second of it.
They’re already bare beneath you.
And it takes everything in you not to just collapse into them.
Their chest, soft but defined, warms beneath your palms—a steady rise and fall that anchors you, like breathing in sync with a code only the two of you understand. You trace the subtle lines of their collarbone, the smooth skin damp with shared heat. They twitch slightly under your touch—a shiver that pulls a breath from their lips, quiet and wrecked.
Mac’s arms are strong—not the kind that boast, but the kind that carry, lift, push, hold. The kind that wrap around you and make the world fall quiet.
You see it now in every subtle movement: the quiet flex of their forearms as they shift beneath you, adjusting their grip on your thighs with gentle precision. Their touch isn’t rough. Never rough. Just intentional. Grounded. Worshipful.
Ink winds across their skin like sacred circuitry.
Their right arm is sleeved in a stylized motherboard—circuit lines, solder points, power traces rendered in fine black and faint metallic ink, trailing from shoulder to wrist like a map of everything that keeps them running. It gleams softly in the low light, each line intricate and deliberate—a perfect contrast to the quiet strength beneath.
Their left arm is a cascade of green binary code, scrolling from bicep to forearm in clean, seamless columns. It curves with their musculature, wrapping them in silent logic and quiet pride. When your eyes trace it, it feels like reading something sacred—something coded just for you.
You know what it takes for them to move like this. You’ve seen the effort. You’ve seen the grace. And now, here, they steady your hips with quiet devotion, like you’re something precious—like you’re sacred.
Your gaze traces lower. Their stomach dips gently at the sides, sloping into the softness of their waist. Their hips are narrow beneath that, their thighs thinner than yours but no less beautiful—resting open and relaxed, knees angled outward. There’s no tension in their legs, only in their breath, only in the way their chest stutters when your hands wander back to explore them, slow and deliberate.
You feel the heat rising off their skin, the subtle tremble beneath your touch—a kind of quiet pleading written in every shallow inhale, every flicker of their lashes. They’re not just waiting for you. They’re offering themselves.
Mac breathes your name like it’s a command line they’ll never overwrite. Their hands skim up your thighs, slow and reverent, fingers tracing invisible lines into your skin as if mapping every inch to memory.
“Come here, gorgeous,” they whisper, voice already gone soft. “Let me feel you…”
Your breath catches—just for a second—but you smile, warm and slow, as you slide forward, your knees bracketing their waist. Your hands plant on either side of their chest, grounding you in the fluttering rhythm beneath their skin. Hips hovering just above theirs, you lean down, brushing your nose against theirs. Lips almost touching.
“You always get this needy when I take my time?” you murmur, teasing as you ghost your lips over the corner of their mouth. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
Mac’s breath stutters. Their head falls back against the pillow with a low, shaken laugh.
“That’s objectively false,” they manage, grinning even as their voice breaks. “You’re… on top of me. I’m running at like four percent processing capacity right now.”
You chuckle—quiet, breathy, fond. But when you shift slightly above them, giving them a better view of your body in the low light, their grin falters. Green eyes go wide. Their gaze drags over every part of you, unfiltered, awestruck.
“God,” they whisper. “You’re breathtaking.”
You soften, eyes searching theirs. “So are you.”
Their lashes flutter. Their hands tighten at your hips. And for a moment, it’s like the teasing fades, replaced by something rawer—more fragile.
“I mean it,” they murmur, their voice soft and raw. “I see you—and it’s like… I was coded just to love you.” You smile. You feel it in your throat, your ribs, your fingertips as you cup their cheek, letting your thumb brush over the apple of it. “Then run the command,” you whisper.
Their smile breaks like light through glass.
Mac pulls you down into a kiss—slow and deep, lips parting like they’re trying to speak a thousand I love yous without needing breath. You kiss them back, one hand still cradling their cheek, fingertips curled gently behind their ear, the other pressed to the thrum of their chest.
You feel it—each stuttered beat beneath your palm, like their whole body is syncing to you. For a moment, you just breathe there, nose brushing theirs, lips brushing open and closed again in slow rhythm. Their mouth tastes faintly like shared breath, like longing turned warm and human between your teeth.
Your thumb strokes over the rise of their cheekbone as you pull back just enough to see them. Mac’s eyes are heavy-lidded, green irises bright and glassy in the glow—like someone caught mid-dream, afraid to wake.
“I love you,” they murmur, voice thick with everything they’ve ever felt for you. “You ruin my system. I never wanna reboot.”
You smile, heart full and fluttering. “Then don’t,” you whisper. “Stay corrupted. Stay with me.”
Mac lets out a soft, broken sound—half a laugh, half a moan—as your hand on their chest begins to move, trailing slowly downward.
You feel them tense as your palm glides over the soft slope of their stomach, your touch deliberate—savoring the warmth of their skin, the way their breath stutters in anticipation. Their hands slide slowly from your hips to your waist, fingers curling in with quiet need, anchoring themselves there.
You kiss the corner of their mouth—soft, reverent—and murmur, “Let me take care of you.”
Then you reach between you.
Your hand wraps around them—gentle, sure—fingers curling with just enough pressure to feel the way they pulse, already hot and slick with anticipation. The moment your touch tightens, Mac’s breath catches sharp in their throat.
Their head tilts back against the pillow, a ragged exhale shuddering past kiss-swollen lips as their hips jerk subtly upward—instinctive, desperate. The muscles in their arms flex, the motherboard tattoo across their right arm shifting like circuitry under strain, while the green binary on the left glows faintly in the low light. Their hands, once braced at your waist, shift with need—one tightening its grip on your hip, the other gliding up the curve of your spine, fingers splayed wide as if anchoring themself to reality—to you.
“F-fuck,” they gasp, voice cracking with raw, unfiltered need. “Okay. Okay, you’re gonna kill me. This is it. I’m about to crash. Blue screen of death—total systems failure.”
You smile against their jaw, breath feathering over the skin there. “Then let me finish you off slow,” you whisper, your voice like silk across their skin.
You line them up with practiced ease, nudging your hips just so, and then—slowly—you begin to lower yourself.
The stretch hits like a surge across your nerves, liquid heat blooming as you sink down inch by inch. They’re not overwhelmingly large—but the thickness is enough to make your body flutter around them, your muscles clenching, breath hitching. It forces your spine to arch, your thighs to tremble as you brace yourself with one hand over their chest. You feel their heartbeat kick wildly beneath your palm, the way their body trembles from restraint.
“Mac—” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure builds, “God—you feel so good…”
They let out a wrecked noise that vibrates from their chest straight into your core.
“Oh my god—shit—” Mac’s voice is barely there, trembling like their body—like the pleasure is short-circuiting every breath. “You’re so—god—you’re warm, you’re perfect—I can feel every byte of you——you’re rewriting me—fuck—”
Their hands seize at your hips, grounding and needy, fingertips trembling like they’re afraid to grip harder. Still, one slides upward—aching, reverent—until their thumb strokes just beneath your ribs, circling, memorizing.
You bottom out, your hips flush with theirs. You pause, letting your body adjust, letting Mac catch their breath. They’re trembling underneath you—barely controlled overload in real time. You feel it in the way their thighs flex beneath yours, in the subtle twitch of their jaw as they try not to thrust up into you too soon.
Their eyes are squeezed shut, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, their forearms flex beneath you, muscles taut, skin slick with sweat and effort. You lean down, slow and tender, brushing your nose to theirs. Your breath mixes with theirs, warm and ragged between barely parted lips.
“You okay?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.
Their lashes flutter open, and those eyes—bright green, blown wide and wet with feeling—lock onto yours like you’re the only constant in their system. The faint dark circles beneath them make their gaze look even more raw—like every emotion is being worn right there, unfiltered. They nod, almost frantically, a desperate laugh escaping their throat, ragged and breathless.
“I’m okay,” they murmur. “Don’t stop—please—I’m yours, I swear, I’m built for this—I’m built for you—”
Their voice breaks on the last word, and their hands stroke your hips with aching devotion, as if coaxing your body into motion is the only thing keeping them tethered to earth. Their lips part again, lower lip trembling. “I love you,” they whisper like a confession hardcoded in their chest. “I love you so fucking much.”
Your thumb brushes the corner of their trembling mouth as you lean in, forehead resting against theirs, breath mingling. You can feel their pulse through every point of contact—flickering, frantic.
“I love you too,” you whisper, low and warm, like a promise sealed against their skin. “Every inch of me wants you. Right here. Like this.”
Mac’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, their chest stuttering against yours with the weight of it. They breathe—shaky, sharp. “I’m—fuck—please… move. Baby, please…”
Their voice cracks again, so full of need it’s almost reverent. Their fingers press tighter into your hips, not to push or pull, but to anchor. Their whole body vibrates with restraint, with the ache of being surrounded, of having you wrapped around them, their thighs tense beneath you, their jaw tight as they hold on.
So you do.
You start slow—rolling your hips in smooth, deliberate circles, letting your body find a rhythm that speaks to theirs. There’s no lifting, no distance—just closeness. Friction. That warm, breath-stealing grind that keeps them pressed deep inside you, keeps you stretched and filled and wrapped around them like the only place they belong.
Mac groans beneath you, the sound escaping them like a systems surge—half gasp, half reverent prayer. Their fingers flex as they slide up to your waist, gripping just enough to feel the tension beneath your skin—anchoring themselves to your body as their head falls back against the pillow. Their mouth parts, lashes fluttering, jaw slack with stunned, dizzy pleasure.
“You’re—fuck—you’re squeezing me,” they gasp. “You feel unreal—like you were coded to my exact specs, I swear—”
They can barely finish the sentence. You feel their hips lift—subtle, controlled—just the faintest tilt upward, precision guided through their core and arms. Their hands slide up your sides, then down again, steadying your rhythm with worshipful adoration. When your hips rock slower, tighter, deeper, you hear them curse under their breath—low and hungry.
“That’s it,” they rasp, voice cracked and thick. “Sweetheart… fuck, yes—ride me just like that… slow… let me feel everything. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
You do as they ask—moving for them like you were made for this. Like you were made for them. Your thighs quiver with each roll, your muscles burning sweetly as you rise and fall, grinding with fluid, sensual intent. Each motion is deliberate—devotional. You feel every inch of them, how they twitch and pulse inside you, how they breathe faster with each tightening squeeze of your body.
Mac’s hands trail your back again—slow, savoring, like they’re running diagnostics through every vertebrae, every shiver. Their fingertips trace the dip of your spine, the curve of your waist, the flex of your hips as you move for them, as you give yourself over.
Their eyes never leave you. Wide, wet, green and glowing with too many emotions all crashing together—lust, awe, tenderness, desperation. It’s like they can’t believe you’re real. Like they think you might vanish if they blink too long.
“You’re perfect,” they breathe. “You’re so fucking perfect—I can feel you pulse every time you drop down—I… oh god, I’m gonna start babbling—”
They are.
It starts soft—just a few broken phrases, trembling on their lips like glitching code trying to hold. Your name. How good you feel. That they love you, over and over. But then it spills faster, messier—like they’re losing control of their own language, their voice going breathless and ragged as their hips twitch beneath you, their restraint wearing thin.
Their hands glide up your back with reverence, only to drag down again, clinging as if to anchor themselves. Their mouth is everywhere—pressing kisses over your chest, your shoulders, the crook of your neck. Each one shakier than the last, as if their motor functions are slowly giving way to feeling alone.
“You—mmnh—you feel so good,” they pant, breath catching as they press a trembling kiss beneath your ear. “I don’t—fuck, I don’t know how you do this to me… You touch me and I—everything just fades out. Like all the background noise cuts. It’s just you. It’s always been you…”
You murmur their name into their flushed skin, your lips brushing the shell of their ear. The way they shiver under you makes you press closer, your body wrapping around theirs as your hips stay in that slow, grinding rhythm—deep, steady, unrushed.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “Let it take you. I want every piece of you, Mac. Every sound, every word. You feel so good inside me… I love how deep you are—how you fill me like you were made to.”
You roll your hips again, deeper, slower, and the moan Mac lets out is more than sound—it’s unraveling. It rips out of their throat raw, high and wrecked, and melts into a whimper against your collarbone.
“You’re so good—fuck, you’re so good,” they gasp, voice fraying into stuttered edges. “You ride me like you know every file in my system—every little glitch—god, you’re gonna fry me, baby—short-circuit my whole damn OS—”
Their hands trace down your spine again, gripping your hips in sync with your motion. They’re trembling now, not from weakness, but from being completely overwhelmed. You smile through a moan, your teeth grazing their jaw. You drag your mouth along the edge of it, warm and wet, before biting gently where their pulse flutters fastest.
“Good,” you breathe, your voice molten and full of heat. “Let me break you, Mac. Let me ruin your code.”
The noise that tears from their throat is helpless—something deep and cracked open. Their arms wrap tighter around your waist, and you feel it—the subtle shift of their hips, angling up to meet your next slow grind. The precision of it, the way they move just enough to draw you deeper without force—it’s intimate, instinctive, so deliberate. Their body is speaking in touch alone now.
“Oh god—” they choke out. “You’re pulling me in—you’re holding me there—I can’t—fuck—please—”
Your hands brace against their chest, and you ride them deeper, circling slow and smooth. Your thighs tremble as you adjust to every inch of them inside you, slick and full and perfect. Mac arches into you just enough to make the friction sweeter, fuller, like they want to lose themselves in every motion.
You can feel everything—everything—where your bodies meet. The heat, the glide, the desperate clench and twitch of muscles responding to pleasure too big to contain. The bed creaks beneath you, soft and steady. Your skin sticks together where you're pressed, wet with sweat and need.
Then you kiss them.
It’s not hurried. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful.
It’s needy.
Open-mouthed and slow, your lips slide against theirs, and Mac gasps into you like you’re the only oxygen source left in the atmosphere. Their hands tremble at your waist—gripping, tracing, desperate to keep you grounded, to stay connected, to not lose this. Their tongue finds yours, and it’s reverent, searching, soaked in hunger like they’re drinking from you.
When you finally pull back, you keep your forehead against theirs, your noses brushing, breath mingling in the scant space between your lips. Every breath is heat. Every heartbeat, a surge.
“You feel me?” they whisper, voice rough and unsteady. “You feel how deep I am? How I’m buried inside you—like I never wanna leave—like this is where I belong…”
Their words hit something primal in you.
Your eyes flutter shut, your chest rising in shallow, trembling waves. You nod, lips parting with breath you barely catch.
“I feel you,” you whisper back. “Stay with me. Deep like this. Right here—I don’t want you anywhere else.”
They moan—loud, needy—hands sliding down to the curve of your ass, spreading you open wider, pulling you down so they can feel every pulse, every ripple.
Your hips roll again, but this time slower—just once—savoring the way they’re seated inside you, thick and hot and filling. But it only fuels the hunger. The need. The way Mac trembles, the way they whimper your name like it’s coded into their core—it pushes you both past softness.
You lift up on your thighs, just enough to feel the edge of them slip inside you—then slam back down, driving them deep.
Mac cries out—a strangled, high sound that bursts from their throat like they’ve been hit with a surge of voltage. Their hands grip your ass tighter, fingers splayed wide, holding you open, guiding your descent as their hips jerk up into you—desperate to meet you halfway, desperate to stay buried.
“F–fuck,” they rasp, eyes wild, mouth parted. “You’re gonna ruin me—fuck me, baby, please—I can’t—I need it—”
You do it again. Harder. The slap of your bodies meeting fills the room, wet and shameless, the rhythm breaking into something frantic—needy. Every thrust has your thighs quaking, your breath stuttering, your muscles clenching around them.
“You love this?” you whisper, voice ragged as you bounce on them. “You love how I take you like this—how deep you are inside me?”
Mac whines—a needy, breathless sound caught between a moan and a sob. Their fingers dig in harder, palms flexing over your ass as they guide you faster, using every ounce of strength in their arms to thrust up into you. You feel it—the shift—the break in their control. It’s not just hunger anymore. It’s something deeper, messier—need threaded with emotion, with heat, with the way their body trembles beneath you, desperate to match your rhythm, desperate to feel all of you.
“F–fuck, yes—yes, I love it—I love how tight you are—I love being inside you—baby, you’re gonna make me come—” Mac’s voice is shredded, eyes glassy and shining, locked onto you like you’re the center of their entire operating system.
You moan for them, the sound caught in your throat, ragged and cracked as your nails drag across their chest—leaving flushed streaks in your wake, your touch branding them with heat. Your thighs burn with effort, shaking from the way you're riding them so deep and fast, your pace growing wild with the weight of release building in your belly.
“Mac—please—don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” they gasp, every syllable collapsing into the next. “I can’t. You’re everything—you’re everything—mine—baby, I can feel it—you’re so close—please, don’t hold back—give it to me—I want it—I want all of you—”
Their hands tighten, not just controlling your movement, but grounding themselves in the feel of your skin, the weight of your body, the drag and slide of you above them. They meet each grind with upward thrusts now—sharp, precise, timed to your rhythm like a synced subroutine gone haywire.
You gasp, body tightening with every pulse of friction—every deep, perfect thrust. Your thighs burn, your breath stutters, and heat coils low in your belly, mounting fast, unstoppable. You can feel it cresting—your muscles clenching, pleasure wrapping tight around your spine, white-hot and all-consuming. It’s dizzying—the way Mac moves inside you, how their voice wrecks you, how loved and wanted you feel in their hands.
“You’re pulsing,” they choke, eyes fluttering shut for just a second before snapping open again. “Oh my god, I can feel you fluttering around me—you’re gonna come, baby—aren’t you? You gonna lose it for me? Gonna soak me—fuck—I need it—show me, sweet thing, come on, please—”
Their voice splinters into a breathless sob of need, and their entire body arches up to meet your next slam of hips. It’s messy now—louder, wetter, frantic. The sound of you both is a tangle of skin and breath and desperate, wet impact, Mac’s moans dissolving into broken curses and praises.
You cry out, your voice fracturing on their name as the pleasure builds—sharp, blooming, electric.
“Oh god—Mac—I—!”
“I’ve got you—let it go—I’ve got you,” they breathe, eyes wide, voice cracked with awe and need. “Come on, baby—cum on me—come around me—please—I wanna feel you—"
Then you do.
Your body tightens, arches, folds into them as your orgasm slams through you like a current—hot and trembling, your muscles clenching so tightly around Mac that they sob your name into your neck. Your hips stutter, riding the wave, hips rocking down to stay locked around them, to keep them buried deep where they belong.
Mac shudders underneath you like they’ve been hit with a power surge. Their hands clamp tighter around your ass, fingers digging in, almost shaking.
“Yes—yes—oh my god— you’re squeezing me—so fucking tight—I’m gonna—"
Their hips buck once, twice—then lock.
Then they break.
The sound they make is somewhere between a moan and a cry—wrecked, raw, helpless. It tears out of their throat as if they’ve been undone at the code, split open by you and reshaped in your arms. Their hips jerk up instinctively, chasing that last desperate high as they come with a full-body tremble, spilling deep inside you with a heat that makes your breath catch.
You feel it—all of it—the way they twitch inside you in rhythmic pulses, every throb syncing with the ragged rise and fall of their chest against yours. The warmth floods through you in slow waves, molten and thick, and it leaves your insides fluttering, your body clenching down around them in instinctive response.
Their hands grip you tighter, trembling as they anchor themselves to your body like it’s the only real thing left in the world. One hand stays on your ass, fingers splayed wide and shaking; the other slides up your back blindly, as if needing to hold more of you, to pull you down and keep you—chest to chest, heart to heart.
“I’m—oh god—I’m coming,” they choke, barely able to breathe through it. Their voice breaks again, sharp with overwhelmed need. “You feel so good—so perfect—baby, I love you—I love you—I love you—”
They say it again like they need you to hear it in every breath, in every pulse between heartbeats: I love you. I love you. I love you.
You collapse into them, boneless and trembling, your face buried in the crook of their neck. The scent of their skin—warm, soft, a little salty with sweat—fills your lungs as your body sinks into theirs. Every inch of you is flushed, humming, your limbs heavy with release and surrender. Mac’s arms wrap around you instantly—tight, anchoring, almost desperate. They hold you like they’re afraid you might vanish. Like they need you to know—to feel—how utterly, irrevocably yours they are.
Their hands slide up your back in slow, grounding sweeps, fingertips tracing lazy, tender shapes across your spine. You feel the press of each fingertip like a memory being written into your skin. They breathe against your hair, soft and fast at first, until your hearts begin to slow together, syncing in rhythm. The last few aftershocks pass through you in small, sweet waves—your hips giving one last twitch against theirs, a shiver of closeness before stillness takes hold.
Then, a whisper into your hair, lips brushing your temple like a secret meant only for you. "I love you. God, I love you." A kiss. "You’re everything. You’re all of it."
You shift your weight and they move with you, easing you down without breaking the connection, their chest a steady rise and fall beneath yours. Their hands never leave you—exploring in soft, unhurried passes, stroking along your sides, the curve of your hips, your ribs, the base of your spine—like they’re memorizing you all over again with gentle awe.
You lift your hand and cradle their face, your thumb brushing slowly along the edge of their cheekbone, tracing the faint shadows that live beneath their eyes. Mac leans into the touch like it anchors them, eyes half-lidded and glassy with emotion. You press a kiss to their lips—slow, lingering, full of love and promise and everything you don’t need to say out loud. They melt into it, humming softly, their hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head like they never want to let you go. Like this kiss might be their entire life if they could choose.
When you finally shift to lie beside them, they follow without hesitation—pulling you close, tangling your legs together, chest to chest, skin to skin. Their breath washes over your face in warm, shaky exhales. Mac brings a hand to your cheek, brushing a thumb beneath your eye, then along your jaw, like they still can’t believe you’re real.
"You’re so beautiful," they murmur, voice still wrecked, tender, and thick with emotion. “I look at you and think—how did I get this lucky? How are you mine?”
You smile softly, sleepily, your nose brushing theirs. "I’ve always been yours."
Their breath catches, just for a second. Their expression breaks open, eyes shining with something deeper than just love—it’s awe. It's devotion.
"Yeah," they whisper, like a promise. “And I’ll always be yours, too.”
They kiss you again, but not just once—your forehead, the tip of your nose, the edge of your cheek, your jawline. Each kiss is slow, meaningful, almost ceremonial—like they’re sealing every vow they’ve ever made into your skin with their mouth.
The room falls quiet around you. Soft light filters in from somewhere—warm and low, like the whole world has dimmed just for you two. The only sound is the rhythm of your breathing and the soft kisses they press to your skin, spaced like clockwork.
You trace aimless, sleepy patterns across their chest with your fingertips—slow loops and gentle lines, soaking in the warmth of their skin and the steady rise and fall beneath your touch. Mac takes your hand, their touch delicate, and laces your fingers together. They press your knuckles to their lips, then guide your joined hands to the center of their chest and hold you there, tucked right over their heart.
And there—in the circle of Mac’s arms, your bodies wrapped together in sweat and skin and something that feels a lot like forever—you finally let yourselves rest.
Their heartbeat echoes softly under your palm. Their breath warms your temple.
And just before sleep takes you, they whisper one more time, so quiet it feels like code written just for your ears:
"their nuh probably tastes like battery acid" ok? 🥺 i would savor the burning sensation the moment their revolting, stomach-churning child batter hits my esophagus 🤤✌🏾
No but dead ass absolute cinema ten out of ten would READ AGAIAN ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
STOPPPP 😭😭😭 The way you said “child batter hits my esophagus” and I felt it in my soul, like yes?? Battery acid romance supremacy!!! This is the kind of unhinged praise I live for, thank you so much 💀💘
I’m so so glad you liked the story!! Legit kicking my feet and giggling right now! Your comment is a full-body serotonin injection. I would write twenty more just to witness this reaction again 🔥🎬🛐🫠💻🫶🏽
Wrote something a little dreamy, a little filthy, and a lot Mac. 💿💚 Our favorite observant, upgrade-needing, hopelessly-in-love desktop is fully realized here—soft and flushed beneath you, babbling lines of code and love like you’re the only thing keeping their system from crashing. They’re AMAB in this one, and absolutely down bad. And yes... their cooling fan is definitely running overtime. 😮💨🫠
As someone who isn’t in a wheelchair, I did my best to write Mac’s intimacy with care and respect through research—but I know that effort doesn’t always equal accuracy. If anything I’ve written is inaccurate, insensitive, or harmful in how I portrayed Mac or their experience, please let me know. I truly want to do better and write stories that include everyone. 💗
The room is quiet. Glowing.
Not just from the soft LEDs cycling across the base of Mac’s wheelchair—parked nearby like a sentinel—but from something warmer. Something woven between you in the hush. The kind of quiet that hums just before a system boots, when all energy pools in anticipation. It thrums at the base of your spine, in your chest, in the space where your breath and Mac’s have started to fall into rhythm.
Their wheelchair glows green. Then blue. Then violet. The colors spill faintly across the walls, across the bed, across the soft edges of skin and shadow. But it’s Mac that holds your focus.
They lie on their back, propped against a nest of pillows you helped arrange with careful hands. Their chest is flushed and rising in shallow waves, short black hair mussed and spiked in soft, chaotic tufts against the pillowcase—like static clinging to the edges of a dream. And their eyes—those vivid, expressive green eyes, shadowed by the unmistakable dark circles beneath them—are fixed on you like you’re the only thing they’ve ever trusted to keep them running.
There’s wonder in their gaze. Hunger, yes, but not frantic. Not rushed. It's the kind of need that aches to savor—like they’re trying to memorize you again, even after all the times they already have.
Their lips are parted slightly, kiss-swollen and still wet from earlier, and their hands rest gently at your hips with a featherlight tension. You feel it in the way their thumbs twitch—like they want to pull, but don’t. Like they want to earn this moment again, every second of it.
They’re already bare beneath you.
And it takes everything in you not to just collapse into them.
Their chest, soft but defined, warms beneath your palms—a steady rise and fall that anchors you, like breathing in sync with a code only the two of you understand. You trace the subtle lines of their collarbone, the smooth skin damp with shared heat. They twitch slightly under your touch—a shiver that pulls a breath from their lips, quiet and wrecked.
Mac’s arms are strong—not the kind that boast, but the kind that carry, lift, push, hold. The kind that wrap around you and make the world fall quiet.
You see it now in every subtle movement: the quiet flex of their forearms as they shift beneath you, adjusting their grip on your thighs with gentle precision. Their touch isn’t rough. Never rough. Just intentional. Grounded. Worshipful.
Ink winds across their skin like sacred circuitry.
Their right arm is sleeved in a stylized motherboard—circuit lines, solder points, power traces rendered in fine black and faint metallic ink, trailing from shoulder to wrist like a map of everything that keeps them running. It gleams softly in the low light, each line intricate and deliberate—a perfect contrast to the quiet strength beneath.
Their left arm is a cascade of green binary code, scrolling from bicep to forearm in clean, seamless columns. It curves with their musculature, wrapping them in silent logic and quiet pride. When your eyes trace it, it feels like reading something sacred—something coded just for you.
You know what it takes for them to move like this. You’ve seen the effort. You’ve seen the grace. And now, here, they steady your hips with quiet devotion, like you’re something precious—like you’re sacred.
Your gaze traces lower. Their stomach dips gently at the sides, sloping into the softness of their waist. Their hips are narrow beneath that, their thighs thinner than yours but no less beautiful—resting open and relaxed, knees angled outward. There’s no tension in their legs, only in their breath, only in the way their chest stutters when your hands wander back to explore them, slow and deliberate.
You feel the heat rising off their skin, the subtle tremble beneath your touch—a kind of quiet pleading written in every shallow inhale, every flicker of their lashes. They’re not just waiting for you. They’re offering themselves.
Mac breathes your name like it’s a command line they’ll never overwrite. Their hands skim up your thighs, slow and reverent, fingers tracing invisible lines into your skin as if mapping every inch to memory.
“Come here, gorgeous,” they whisper, voice already gone soft. “Let me feel you…”
Your breath catches—just for a second—but you smile, warm and slow, as you slide forward, your knees bracketing their waist. Your hands plant on either side of their chest, grounding you in the fluttering rhythm beneath their skin. Hips hovering just above theirs, you lean down, brushing your nose against theirs. Lips almost touching.
“You always get this needy when I take my time?” you murmur, teasing as you ghost your lips over the corner of their mouth. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
Mac’s breath stutters. Their head falls back against the pillow with a low, shaken laugh.
“That’s objectively false,” they manage, grinning even as their voice breaks. “You’re… on top of me. I’m running at like four percent processing capacity right now.”
You chuckle—quiet, breathy, fond. But when you shift slightly above them, giving them a better view of your body in the low light, their grin falters. Green eyes go wide. Their gaze drags over every part of you, unfiltered, awestruck.
“God,” they whisper. “You’re breathtaking.”
You soften, eyes searching theirs. “So are you.”
Their lashes flutter. Their hands tighten at your hips. And for a moment, it’s like the teasing fades, replaced by something rawer—more fragile.
“I mean it,” they murmur, their voice soft and raw. “I see you—and it’s like… I was coded just to love you.” You smile. You feel it in your throat, your ribs, your fingertips as you cup their cheek, letting your thumb brush over the apple of it. “Then run the command,” you whisper.
Their smile breaks like light through glass.
Mac pulls you down into a kiss—slow and deep, lips parting like they’re trying to speak a thousand I love yous without needing breath. You kiss them back, one hand still cradling their cheek, fingertips curled gently behind their ear, the other pressed to the thrum of their chest.
You feel it—each stuttered beat beneath your palm, like their whole body is syncing to you. For a moment, you just breathe there, nose brushing theirs, lips brushing open and closed again in slow rhythm. Their mouth tastes faintly like shared breath, like longing turned warm and human between your teeth.
Your thumb strokes over the rise of their cheekbone as you pull back just enough to see them. Mac’s eyes are heavy-lidded, green irises bright and glassy in the glow—like someone caught mid-dream, afraid to wake.
“I love you,” they murmur, voice thick with everything they’ve ever felt for you. “You ruin my system. I never wanna reboot.”
You smile, heart full and fluttering. “Then don’t,” you whisper. “Stay corrupted. Stay with me.”
Mac lets out a soft, broken sound—half a laugh, half a moan—as your hand on their chest begins to move, trailing slowly downward.
You feel them tense as your palm glides over the soft slope of their stomach, your touch deliberate—savoring the warmth of their skin, the way their breath stutters in anticipation. Their hands slide slowly from your hips to your waist, fingers curling in with quiet need, anchoring themselves there.
You kiss the corner of their mouth—soft, reverent—and murmur, “Let me take care of you.”
Then you reach between you.
Your hand wraps around them—gentle, sure—fingers curling with just enough pressure to feel the way they pulse, already hot and slick with anticipation. The moment your touch tightens, Mac’s breath catches sharp in their throat.
Their head tilts back against the pillow, a ragged exhale shuddering past kiss-swollen lips as their hips jerk subtly upward—instinctive, desperate. The muscles in their arms flex, the motherboard tattoo across their right arm shifting like circuitry under strain, while the green binary on the left glows faintly in the low light. Their hands, once braced at your waist, shift with need—one tightening its grip on your hip, the other gliding up the curve of your spine, fingers splayed wide as if anchoring themself to reality—to you.
“F-fuck,” they gasp, voice cracking with raw, unfiltered need. “Okay. Okay, you’re gonna kill me. This is it. I’m about to crash. Blue screen of death—total systems failure.”
You smile against their jaw, breath feathering over the skin there. “Then let me finish you off slow,” you whisper, your voice like silk across their skin.
You line them up with practiced ease, nudging your hips just so, and then—slowly—you begin to lower yourself.
The stretch hits like a surge across your nerves, liquid heat blooming as you sink down inch by inch. They’re not overwhelmingly large—but the thickness is enough to make your body flutter around them, your muscles clenching, breath hitching. It forces your spine to arch, your thighs to tremble as you brace yourself with one hand over their chest. You feel their heartbeat kick wildly beneath your palm, the way their body trembles from restraint.
“Mac—” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure builds, “God—you feel so good…”
They let out a wrecked noise that vibrates from their chest straight into your core.
“Oh my god—shit—” Mac’s voice is barely there, trembling like their body—like the pleasure is short-circuiting every breath. “You’re so—god—you’re warm, you’re perfect—I can feel every byte of you——you’re rewriting me—fuck—”
Their hands seize at your hips, grounding and needy, fingertips trembling like they’re afraid to grip harder. Still, one slides upward—aching, reverent—until their thumb strokes just beneath your ribs, circling, memorizing.
You bottom out, your hips flush with theirs. You pause, letting your body adjust, letting Mac catch their breath. They’re trembling underneath you—barely controlled overload in real time. You feel it in the way their thighs flex beneath yours, in the subtle twitch of their jaw as they try not to thrust up into you too soon.
Their eyes are squeezed shut, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, their forearms flex beneath you, muscles taut, skin slick with sweat and effort. You lean down, slow and tender, brushing your nose to theirs. Your breath mixes with theirs, warm and ragged between barely parted lips.
“You okay?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.
Their lashes flutter open, and those eyes—bright green, blown wide and wet with feeling—lock onto yours like you’re the only constant in their system. The faint dark circles beneath them make their gaze look even more raw—like every emotion is being worn right there, unfiltered. They nod, almost frantically, a desperate laugh escaping their throat, ragged and breathless.
“I’m okay,” they murmur. “Don’t stop—please—I’m yours, I swear, I’m built for this—I’m built for you—”
Their voice breaks on the last word, and their hands stroke your hips with aching devotion, as if coaxing your body into motion is the only thing keeping them tethered to earth. Their lips part again, lower lip trembling. “I love you,” they whisper like a confession hardcoded in their chest. “I love you so fucking much.”
Your thumb brushes the corner of their trembling mouth as you lean in, forehead resting against theirs, breath mingling. You can feel their pulse through every point of contact—flickering, frantic.
“I love you too,” you whisper, low and warm, like a promise sealed against their skin. “Every inch of me wants you. Right here. Like this.”
Mac’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, their chest stuttering against yours with the weight of it. They breathe—shaky, sharp. “I’m—fuck—please… move. Baby, please…”
Their voice cracks again, so full of need it’s almost reverent. Their fingers press tighter into your hips, not to push or pull, but to anchor. Their whole body vibrates with restraint, with the ache of being surrounded, of having you wrapped around them, their thighs tense beneath you, their jaw tight as they hold on.
So you do.
You start slow—rolling your hips in smooth, deliberate circles, letting your body find a rhythm that speaks to theirs. There’s no lifting, no distance—just closeness. Friction. That warm, breath-stealing grind that keeps them pressed deep inside you, keeps you stretched and filled and wrapped around them like the only place they belong.
Mac groans beneath you, the sound escaping them like a systems surge—half gasp, half reverent prayer. Their fingers flex as they slide up to your waist, gripping just enough to feel the tension beneath your skin—anchoring themselves to your body as their head falls back against the pillow. Their mouth parts, lashes fluttering, jaw slack with stunned, dizzy pleasure.
“You’re—fuck—you’re squeezing me,” they gasp. “You feel unreal—like you were coded to my exact specs, I swear—”
They can barely finish the sentence. You feel their hips lift—subtle, controlled—just the faintest tilt upward, precision guided through their core and arms. Their hands slide up your sides, then down again, steadying your rhythm with worshipful adoration. When your hips rock slower, tighter, deeper, you hear them curse under their breath—low and hungry.
“That’s it,” they rasp, voice cracked and thick. “Sweetheart… fuck, yes—ride me just like that… slow… let me feel everything. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
You do as they ask—moving for them like you were made for this. Like you were made for them. Your thighs quiver with each roll, your muscles burning sweetly as you rise and fall, grinding with fluid, sensual intent. Each motion is deliberate—devotional. You feel every inch of them, how they twitch and pulse inside you, how they breathe faster with each tightening squeeze of your body.
Mac’s hands trail your back again—slow, savoring, like they’re running diagnostics through every vertebrae, every shiver. Their fingertips trace the dip of your spine, the curve of your waist, the flex of your hips as you move for them, as you give yourself over.
Their eyes never leave you. Wide, wet, green and glowing with too many emotions all crashing together—lust, awe, tenderness, desperation. It’s like they can’t believe you’re real. Like they think you might vanish if they blink too long.
“You’re perfect,” they breathe. “You’re so fucking perfect—I can feel you pulse every time you drop down—I… oh god, I’m gonna start babbling—”
They are.
It starts soft—just a few broken phrases, trembling on their lips like glitching code trying to hold. Your name. How good you feel. That they love you, over and over. But then it spills faster, messier—like they’re losing control of their own language, their voice going breathless and ragged as their hips twitch beneath you, their restraint wearing thin.
Their hands glide up your back with reverence, only to drag down again, clinging as if to anchor themselves. Their mouth is everywhere—pressing kisses over your chest, your shoulders, the crook of your neck. Each one shakier than the last, as if their motor functions are slowly giving way to feeling alone.
“You—mmnh—you feel so good,” they pant, breath catching as they press a trembling kiss beneath your ear. “I don’t—fuck, I don’t know how you do this to me… You touch me and I—everything just fades out. Like all the background noise cuts. It’s just you. It’s always been you…”
You murmur their name into their flushed skin, your lips brushing the shell of their ear. The way they shiver under you makes you press closer, your body wrapping around theirs as your hips stay in that slow, grinding rhythm—deep, steady, unrushed.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “Let it take you. I want every piece of you, Mac. Every sound, every word. You feel so good inside me… I love how deep you are—how you fill me like you were made to.”
You roll your hips again, deeper, slower, and the moan Mac lets out is more than sound—it’s unraveling. It rips out of their throat raw, high and wrecked, and melts into a whimper against your collarbone.
“You’re so good—fuck, you’re so good,” they gasp, voice fraying into stuttered edges. “You ride me like you know every file in my system—every little glitch—god, you’re gonna fry me, baby—short-circuit my whole damn OS—”
Their hands trace down your spine again, gripping your hips in sync with your motion. They’re trembling now, not from weakness, but from being completely overwhelmed. You smile through a moan, your teeth grazing their jaw. You drag your mouth along the edge of it, warm and wet, before biting gently where their pulse flutters fastest.
“Good,” you breathe, your voice molten and full of heat. “Let me break you, Mac. Let me ruin your code.”
The noise that tears from their throat is helpless—something deep and cracked open. Their arms wrap tighter around your waist, and you feel it—the subtle shift of their hips, angling up to meet your next slow grind. The precision of it, the way they move just enough to draw you deeper without force—it’s intimate, instinctive, so deliberate. Their body is speaking in touch alone now.
“Oh god—” they choke out. “You’re pulling me in—you’re holding me there—I can’t—fuck—please—”
Your hands brace against their chest, and you ride them deeper, circling slow and smooth. Your thighs tremble as you adjust to every inch of them inside you, slick and full and perfect. Mac arches into you just enough to make the friction sweeter, fuller, like they want to lose themselves in every motion.
You can feel everything—everything—where your bodies meet. The heat, the glide, the desperate clench and twitch of muscles responding to pleasure too big to contain. The bed creaks beneath you, soft and steady. Your skin sticks together where you're pressed, wet with sweat and need.
Then you kiss them.
It’s not hurried. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful.
It’s needy.
Open-mouthed and slow, your lips slide against theirs, and Mac gasps into you like you’re the only oxygen source left in the atmosphere. Their hands tremble at your waist—gripping, tracing, desperate to keep you grounded, to stay connected, to not lose this. Their tongue finds yours, and it’s reverent, searching, soaked in hunger like they’re drinking from you.
When you finally pull back, you keep your forehead against theirs, your noses brushing, breath mingling in the scant space between your lips. Every breath is heat. Every heartbeat, a surge.
“You feel me?” they whisper, voice rough and unsteady. “You feel how deep I am? How I’m buried inside you—like I never wanna leave—like this is where I belong…”
Their words hit something primal in you.
Your eyes flutter shut, your chest rising in shallow, trembling waves. You nod, lips parting with breath you barely catch.
“I feel you,” you whisper back. “Stay with me. Deep like this. Right here—I don’t want you anywhere else.”
They moan—loud, needy—hands sliding down to the curve of your ass, spreading you open wider, pulling you down so they can feel every pulse, every ripple.
Your hips roll again, but this time slower—just once—savoring the way they’re seated inside you, thick and hot and filling. But it only fuels the hunger. The need. The way Mac trembles, the way they whimper your name like it’s coded into their core—it pushes you both past softness.
You lift up on your thighs, just enough to feel the edge of them slip inside you—then slam back down, driving them deep.
Mac cries out—a strangled, high sound that bursts from their throat like they’ve been hit with a surge of voltage. Their hands grip your ass tighter, fingers splayed wide, holding you open, guiding your descent as their hips jerk up into you—desperate to meet you halfway, desperate to stay buried.
“F–fuck,” they rasp, eyes wild, mouth parted. “You’re gonna ruin me—fuck me, baby, please—I can’t—I need it—”
You do it again. Harder. The slap of your bodies meeting fills the room, wet and shameless, the rhythm breaking into something frantic—needy. Every thrust has your thighs quaking, your breath stuttering, your muscles clenching around them.
“You love this?” you whisper, voice ragged as you bounce on them. “You love how I take you like this—how deep you are inside me?”
Mac whines—a needy, breathless sound caught between a moan and a sob. Their fingers dig in harder, palms flexing over your ass as they guide you faster, using every ounce of strength in their arms to thrust up into you. You feel it—the shift—the break in their control. It’s not just hunger anymore. It’s something deeper, messier—need threaded with emotion, with heat, with the way their body trembles beneath you, desperate to match your rhythm, desperate to feel all of you.
“F–fuck, yes—yes, I love it—I love how tight you are—I love being inside you—baby, you’re gonna make me come—” Mac’s voice is shredded, eyes glassy and shining, locked onto you like you’re the center of their entire operating system.
You moan for them, the sound caught in your throat, ragged and cracked as your nails drag across their chest—leaving flushed streaks in your wake, your touch branding them with heat. Your thighs burn with effort, shaking from the way you're riding them so deep and fast, your pace growing wild with the weight of release building in your belly.
“Mac—please—don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” they gasp, every syllable collapsing into the next. “I can’t. You’re everything—you’re everything—mine—baby, I can feel it—you’re so close—please, don’t hold back—give it to me—I want it—I want all of you—”
Their hands tighten, not just controlling your movement, but grounding themselves in the feel of your skin, the weight of your body, the drag and slide of you above them. They meet each grind with upward thrusts now—sharp, precise, timed to your rhythm like a synced subroutine gone haywire.
You gasp, body tightening with every pulse of friction—every deep, perfect thrust. Your thighs burn, your breath stutters, and heat coils low in your belly, mounting fast, unstoppable. You can feel it cresting—your muscles clenching, pleasure wrapping tight around your spine, white-hot and all-consuming. It’s dizzying—the way Mac moves inside you, how their voice wrecks you, how loved and wanted you feel in their hands.
“You’re pulsing,” they choke, eyes fluttering shut for just a second before snapping open again. “Oh my god, I can feel you fluttering around me—you’re gonna come, baby—aren’t you? You gonna lose it for me? Gonna soak me—fuck—I need it—show me, sweet thing, come on, please—”
Their voice splinters into a breathless sob of need, and their entire body arches up to meet your next slam of hips. It’s messy now—louder, wetter, frantic. The sound of you both is a tangle of skin and breath and desperate, wet impact, Mac’s moans dissolving into broken curses and praises.
You cry out, your voice fracturing on their name as the pleasure builds—sharp, blooming, electric.
“Oh god—Mac—I—!”
“I’ve got you—let it go—I’ve got you,” they breathe, eyes wide, voice cracked with awe and need. “Come on, baby—cum on me—come around me—please—I wanna feel you—"
Then you do.
Your body tightens, arches, folds into them as your orgasm slams through you like a current—hot and trembling, your muscles clenching so tightly around Mac that they sob your name into your neck. Your hips stutter, riding the wave, hips rocking down to stay locked around them, to keep them buried deep where they belong.
Mac shudders underneath you like they’ve been hit with a power surge. Their hands clamp tighter around your ass, fingers digging in, almost shaking.
“Yes—yes—oh my god— you’re squeezing me—so fucking tight—I’m gonna—"
Their hips buck once, twice—then lock.
Then they break.
The sound they make is somewhere between a moan and a cry—wrecked, raw, helpless. It tears out of their throat as if they’ve been undone at the code, split open by you and reshaped in your arms. Their hips jerk up instinctively, chasing that last desperate high as they come with a full-body tremble, spilling deep inside you with a heat that makes your breath catch.
You feel it—all of it—the way they twitch inside you in rhythmic pulses, every throb syncing with the ragged rise and fall of their chest against yours. The warmth floods through you in slow waves, molten and thick, and it leaves your insides fluttering, your body clenching down around them in instinctive response.
Their hands grip you tighter, trembling as they anchor themselves to your body like it’s the only real thing left in the world. One hand stays on your ass, fingers splayed wide and shaking; the other slides up your back blindly, as if needing to hold more of you, to pull you down and keep you—chest to chest, heart to heart.
“I’m—oh god—I’m coming,” they choke, barely able to breathe through it. Their voice breaks again, sharp with overwhelmed need. “You feel so good—so perfect—baby, I love you—I love you—I love you—”
They say it again like they need you to hear it in every breath, in every pulse between heartbeats: I love you. I love you. I love you.
You collapse into them, boneless and trembling, your face buried in the crook of their neck. The scent of their skin—warm, soft, a little salty with sweat—fills your lungs as your body sinks into theirs. Every inch of you is flushed, humming, your limbs heavy with release and surrender. Mac’s arms wrap around you instantly—tight, anchoring, almost desperate. They hold you like they’re afraid you might vanish. Like they need you to know—to feel—how utterly, irrevocably yours they are.
Their hands slide up your back in slow, grounding sweeps, fingertips tracing lazy, tender shapes across your spine. You feel the press of each fingertip like a memory being written into your skin. They breathe against your hair, soft and fast at first, until your hearts begin to slow together, syncing in rhythm. The last few aftershocks pass through you in small, sweet waves—your hips giving one last twitch against theirs, a shiver of closeness before stillness takes hold.
Then, a whisper into your hair, lips brushing your temple like a secret meant only for you. "I love you. God, I love you." A kiss. "You’re everything. You’re all of it."
You shift your weight and they move with you, easing you down without breaking the connection, their chest a steady rise and fall beneath yours. Their hands never leave you—exploring in soft, unhurried passes, stroking along your sides, the curve of your hips, your ribs, the base of your spine—like they’re memorizing you all over again with gentle awe.
You lift your hand and cradle their face, your thumb brushing slowly along the edge of their cheekbone, tracing the faint shadows that live beneath their eyes. Mac leans into the touch like it anchors them, eyes half-lidded and glassy with emotion. You press a kiss to their lips—slow, lingering, full of love and promise and everything you don’t need to say out loud. They melt into it, humming softly, their hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head like they never want to let you go. Like this kiss might be their entire life if they could choose.
When you finally shift to lie beside them, they follow without hesitation—pulling you close, tangling your legs together, chest to chest, skin to skin. Their breath washes over your face in warm, shaky exhales. Mac brings a hand to your cheek, brushing a thumb beneath your eye, then along your jaw, like they still can’t believe you’re real.
"You’re so beautiful," they murmur, voice still wrecked, tender, and thick with emotion. “I look at you and think—how did I get this lucky? How are you mine?”
You smile softly, sleepily, your nose brushing theirs. "I’ve always been yours."
Their breath catches, just for a second. Their expression breaks open, eyes shining with something deeper than just love—it’s awe. It's devotion.
"Yeah," they whisper, like a promise. “And I’ll always be yours, too.”
They kiss you again, but not just once—your forehead, the tip of your nose, the edge of your cheek, your jawline. Each kiss is slow, meaningful, almost ceremonial—like they’re sealing every vow they’ve ever made into your skin with their mouth.
The room falls quiet around you. Soft light filters in from somewhere—warm and low, like the whole world has dimmed just for you two. The only sound is the rhythm of your breathing and the soft kisses they press to your skin, spaced like clockwork.
You trace aimless, sleepy patterns across their chest with your fingertips—slow loops and gentle lines, soaking in the warmth of their skin and the steady rise and fall beneath your touch. Mac takes your hand, their touch delicate, and laces your fingers together. They press your knuckles to their lips, then guide your joined hands to the center of their chest and hold you there, tucked right over their heart.
And there—in the circle of Mac’s arms, your bodies wrapped together in sweat and skin and something that feels a lot like forever—you finally let yourselves rest.
Their heartbeat echoes softly under your palm. Their breath warms your temple.
And just before sleep takes you, they whisper one more time, so quiet it feels like code written just for your ears:
I read both of your Mateo stories and I'm absolutely in awe of your writing. You convey such tender emotion and warmth and love, its fantastic. I haven't read such a dreamy-like writing style in forever it's such a refreshing feeling. I don't like I've ever seen sex written as such a loving mutual experience that was more than 2 sentences long- kiss your brain! Long story short I LOOOVE your writing💖💖💖
Aahh thank you so much!! 💖 This means the world to me, truly. I’ve only just started exploring this kind of writing! This is actually only my second time writing smut, so hearing that it resonated with you (and felt dreamy, mutual, loving) makes me so, so happy 😭💗 I really want to challenge myself and grow as a writer, especially when it comes to writing intimacy in a way that feels emotionally rich and respectful, so your words hit so deeply. Thank you for taking the time to say this! You’ve absolutely made my day 💕💕
Another sinful little Mateo story 🔥 I’m feral, down bad, and spiritually horizontal for this man 🛐💦 I need him in me like yesterday—respectfully. Enjoy the filth 😩❤️🔥🫠
Header and divider created by @ihauntyoursocks
The room was hushed with late afternoon stillness, sunlight slanting golden through the curtain’s edge, painting soft gold across the sheets. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, caught in the glow—but none of it compared to the heat pressed against your back.
Mateo's body enveloped you like a blanket—broad chest flush to your spine, skin radiating warmth in slow, steady waves. His breath feathered against the shell of your ear, soft and staggered, rising and falling with the rhythm of yours. His belly, warm and soft, brushed the small of your back with every inhale, grounding you in the gentle movement of his body behind you.
His thick thighs framed yours from behind, the skin of them plush and trembling against your own, as though he couldn’t fully contain the emotion moving through him. One arm was wrapped securely around your middle, his palm spread low across your lower belly—firm, protective, grounding. His other hand had you open for him, lifting your leg in the crook of his elbow, fingers splayed just under your knee. The muscles in his arm flexed subtly with every shift, every pull of breath.
And between your thighs, you could feel the hot, heavy weight of him. Nestled close. Thick and full. His tip slid slowly along your entrance, slick with both of you, barely brushing that sensitive place where you ached for more.
Then—he eased in again.
The stretch pulled a soft, startled gasp from your lips. It was slow—so slow—and your body opened for him with every inch he claimed. The sensation made your thighs twitch, your spine arch subtly against his chest, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you like anchors.
“Easy…” Mateo murmured behind you, his voice shaking at the edges but reverent, lips brushing the dip below your ear. “Just like that—let me in slow…”
And he did.
Each inch sank into you with a careful, reverent roll of his hips—measured and deliberate, as if every motion was an offering. His breathing turned ragged against your shoulder, but he didn’t rush. He held you open, body pressed flush, taking his time.
The angle was devastating—deep, grounding, intimate. You were pinned perfectly between the firmness of the mattress and the heat of him behind you. Your leg draped over his arm, hip tilted back into his frame, body pliant and needy beneath his steady rhythm.
You felt everything. Every thick inch of him sliding into you. The firm curve of his belly against your lower back. The way his chest expanded behind you with a shaky inhale as he sank all the way in. The way your walls clung to him instinctively, holding him close, greedily.
The sound that spilled from Mateo’s throat was low and trembling—half groan, half whisper, laced with awe.
“You feel like you were made to fit me,” he breathed, nuzzling into your neck as his hips rocked forward again, deeper this time. “So tight, cariño. So soft…”
You clutched the arm at your waist, your grip tightening with every slow roll of his hips. Each deep stroke grounded you in the feeling of him—inside, surrounding, completely entwined. You felt the subtle tremble in his thighs behind you, the soft press of his belly against your back, the sound of his breathing hitching near your ear.
“You feel that?” he murmured, voice thick with awe, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “How snug you are—how you’re holding onto me?”
A shiver ran through you. You were holding him, clenching around him without meaning to—your body answering his in soft pulses of want.
He shifted behind you, his forearm beneath your leg adjusting your angle, his hand anchoring just under your knee. The new tilt nudged your hips back, and the next motion drove him deeper—so deep you gasped, your breath catching in your throat.
You whimpered, your hips twitching, body overwhelmed by how full you felt—and Mateo groaned, the sound low, raw, and reverent.
“Lo siento, mi amor,” he breathed, nearly pleading. “I’m trying to go slow… but Dios—you’re so warm inside, so perfect, it’s—” His words broke off in a choked moan as his hips rocked into you again.
You tilted your head, offering the slope of your neck, and he took it—his lips ghosting just beneath your ear, then trailing lower, each kiss slow and purposeful like he wanted to carve the memory into you. He dragged his mouth along your jawline with reverence, his breath warm and uneven, and the soft brush of his curls against your cheek sent goosebumps skimming across your skin.
His mouth was so gentle—so present—like he wasn’t just kissing you, but thanking you. Tasting you like you were sacred. Like he was worshiping something he couldn’t believe he got to touch.
“I love the way you feel like this,” he whispered against your skin, the words feathering down your neck, his voice husky with awe. “So soft… so open… you take me so well, mi vida…”
On the next roll of his hips, his body stuttered. His breath hitched as he ground deeper—not thrusting, but circling—pushing into you in slow, trembling spirals. The motion hit something inside that made your whole body jolt—your thighs tensing, your stomach fluttering as if every nerve had been strung too tight.
You arched into him with a shaky cry, the pleasure curling deep and low like something blooming and bright.
“Mateo…”
He groaned softly, then wrapped his arm more securely around your waist—not to restrain, but to hold, to keep you close. His chest pressed flush to your back, the heat of him wrapping around you like a second skin.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice cracking open with emotion. He stilled for a heartbeat, buried deep, trembling. “I feel every squeeze—every flutter—Dios, I don’t ever want to leave you…”
Then he began to move again—slower now, more focused. Every stroke was smaller, shallower, but sharper—each one designed to drag along every hypersensitive edge inside you. His hips rocked in steady rhythm, controlled, the friction growing unbearable in the best way.
Then his hand moved—sliding lower across your front, fingers gliding down your belly in a warm, anchoring stroke. He hesitated—just above where you ached for him, where your body was pulsing with need. He paused, letting you decide.
And when you gave that small, breathy nod—barely more than a whimper of permission—Mateo exhaled like he’d been holding it in for hours, and touched you with reverent care.
Not rough. Not rushed. Just slow, grounding strokes in rhythm with his hips—each motion steady and intentional, like he was mapping you by touch alone. Every circle of his fingers, every thrust was a wordless I love you written into your skin.
His touch didn’t demand—it invited, guided—like a warm current pulling you deeper, deeper, until you had no choice but to give in.
Your breath caught in your throat. Your spine arched instinctively, back pressing into his chest, and your free hand flew back, fingers digging into the forearm wrapped around your middle. He was everywhere—his breath hot against your neck, his hand between your thighs, his hips grinding deeper, slower, filling you with impossible tenderness.
His fingers circled again, perfect and patient, the pressure devastating in its precision. You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as heat gathered at your center, spreading outward in waves that made your legs twitch and your belly clench.
“Mateo,” you gasped, almost a sob, your voice unraveling with the tension building beneath your skin.
Then—release.
Your body tightened around him, everything inside you contracting with a force that felt like breaking. Your back arched harder, thighs trembling as your climax poured through you, a slick heat gushing out as pleasure cracked open from the inside out. The world blurred. All you could do was hold onto him and feel—the warmth of his skin, the strength of his arms, the thick fullness of him pulsing inside you.
Mateo groaned against your neck, a desperate, reverent sound. His breath hitched as he felt every flutter, every tight squeeze of your body clenching around him.
“Ah… there you go—there you go,” he panted, voice shaking, full of awe and disbelief. “That’s it, baby… give it to me, let me feel all of it—”
You did. And it wrecked him.
He nearly collapsed behind you, hips stuttering as your body gripped him so tightly he could barely move. He was trembling—arms tightening, thighs tense, every inch of him caught on the edge.
“Oh… cariño…” he choked, voice raw and dizzy. “You’re holding me so tight—Dios, I can’t—I’m gonna—”
His hips jerked once, then again—deep, faltering thrusts that buried him to the hilt—before he broke.
You felt the change before you heard it: the way his whole body locked around you, then shuddered, then gave. The groan that tore from his chest was thick, low, and ragged, pressed into your shoulder like a vow.
And then—heat.
A slow, spreading rush as he came inside you, deep and warm and overwhelming. His breath stuttered, then released in a long, trembling exhale as he filled you—pulse after pulse, hips pressed tight to your backside as though he wanted to give you every drop of himself.
His arm around your waist didn’t loosen. His hand cradling your thigh didn’t fall.
He stayed exactly where he was—in you, around you, shaking, breathless, worshipful.
You could feel his heartbeat pounding against your back. The mess between your thighs. The slickness sliding down as your bodies clung to each other in the aftermath.
Mateo didn’t speak right away. Just pressed his lips to your shoulder, then to the back of your neck. Slow kisses. Soft nuzzles. Each one saying what his voice couldn’t yet manage.
Finally, in a whisper so tender it made your chest ache, he breathed against your skin:
“You’re full of me, mi vida…Let me stay here. Just like this…”
His hips rocked once—not out of lust, but out of love. He wanted to stay connected. Rooted.
His lips brushed your nape again. Then your ear.
“I don’t want to leave your body yet,” he murmured. “I don’t want to miss a second of this.”
You shifted slightly, pressing your hips back into him—into the residual warmth still pulsing where your bodies met, into the curve of his chest that molded so perfectly to your back. The movement earned a low breath from Mateo, his hips responding in a gentle, instinctive roll—not with urgency, but with need. A need to stay connected. To stay.
He stayed deep inside you, unmoving for a moment, as if afraid even a breath might break this fragile tether between you.
Your body was still trembling from aftershocks, limbs heavy and loose, yet full of quiet ache—the kind that only love could make feel good. The mess between your legs was slick, sticky, and warm, but neither of you moved to clean it. Not yet.
“I love you,” you whispered, hoarse and smiling, your voice barely more than a breath against the quiet.
Mateo let out a soft sound—part sigh, part laugh, part devotion—and tightened his arm around you. His hand slid up your side with infinite care, soft fingers tracing the line of your ribs, coming to rest just beneath them. His touch was protective, worshipful. Like he was holding something holy.
“I love you more,” he whispered, each word a vow. “So much more than I ever knew I could.”
There was a pause—only the hush of breath, the shared heat beneath tangled sheets, and his fingers drawing gentle circles against your belly.
Then his lips brushed your ear again, his voice thick with sleep and sweetness:
“Say it again. Por favor. Just once more.”
You reached back blindly, hand finding his cheek, the soft curve of it slightly damp with sweat. Your thumb brushed under his eye, tracing the path where a tear might’ve fallen if he’d let it.
“I love you, Mateo.”
His exhale trembled—full of something wordless and overwhelming. Relief. Gratitude. Worship.
He nuzzled in close, tucking his face into the crook of your neck. “I’ll never stop loving you,” he breathed. “Not even for a second. Not in this lifetime, not in the next.”
Your fingers curled between his, lacing tight and sure. He kissed the back of your shoulder once, then again, softer.
“Even if we melt into the sheets,” he murmured, “I’ll still be here. Wrapped around you. Inside you. Loving you.”
You let out a sleepy, happy hum as his nose brushed along your skin.
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
Mateo’s hips shifted once more, staying nestled deep. Not to move. Not to start again. Just to remind you he was there, inside and around and with you.
You stayed like that—two bodies, one shared heartbeat—wrapped in warmth, held in the soft rhythm of breath and whispered love, as the light faded and evening began to settle, slow and golden, around the two of you.
Just played Cupid's Chatroom by @atelieronthemoon and I'm obsessed! Daeho and Roman completely stole my heart! 💗🥰 If you haven't tried it yet, you're seriously missing out—I highly recommend it!
I created an OC too! Still working out her details and name, but I think she's gorgeous 😍 (Used this picrew!)
10/10—I absolutely adore this game and can't wait for more content!
Wrote a little something with our favorite boy, Mateo Manta❤️—and he is absolutely, completely wrecked. Love-drunk, overstimulated, clinging to you like you’re the only thing grounding him while he’s still deep inside, whispering “mi amor” like a prayer. He’s human now, real, warm, trembling—and he still wants more. The brainrot is incurable. I am not okay. 😮💨💗🫠
You’re already breathless, but he still won’t let go. And neither do you.
The room is dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, but the air is thick with warmth and something heavier—him. The scent of him: clean cotton, musk, heat. Your skin is already flushed, bare legs tangled in wrinkled sheets, but Mateo hovers above you like he can’t decide whether to kiss you or collapse into you completely.
And he’s shaking.
Not violently. Not fearfully. Just too much.
Too much love. Too much need. Too much of you.
“I can’t—I can’t stop touching you,” he breathes, voice trembling, lips brushing yours between words. “You feel like heaven, mi vida, and I—I need to be closer…”
You cup his face, thumb brushing the edge of his lower lip, swollen from kissing. He looks wrecked—cheeks flushed, lashes low over glassy eyes, white curls clinging damp to his temples, and his body trembling with the weight of how much he feels.
His chest presses against yours—broad, plush, and warm. Your palms trail down the soft dip of his sides, over silken skin lined with pale stretch marks that shimmer faintly in the low light. His stomach rests against yours, comforting and real, with a white happy trail leading down, catching your touch. You feel him twitch as you drag your fingertips along it, and he groans—low, needy, desperate.
But he doesn’t stop moving.
Slow rolls of his hips, deeper with each pass, a grind that presses in with intent, not just to fuck—but to stay. To live in that heat between you and never leave.
“Fuck— you’re so deep,” you whisper, nails dragging down his back as your legs tighten around his waist.
“I know,” he gasps, mouth at your neck. “I can feel you everywhere—everywhere, mi amor. I’m wrapped in you.”
His rhythm falters just slightly, and he lets out a shaky moan, burying his face in your shoulder. You can feel him whispering against your skin—
“You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine—please, tell me you’re mine…”
You cradle the back of his head, pressing your lips to his temple.
“I’m yours, Mateo. I’ve always been yours.”
He groans—a desperate sound, full of too much emotion for his body to contain. He thrusts a little harder, and you feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his whole body is drawn tight with restraint and want.
“Fuck… I can’t—I’m gonna come again, cariño—pero I can’t stop, I don’t want to stop—por favor, let me keep going…”
“Then don’t stop,” you whisper. “Take what you need. Show me how much you love me.”
That’s when he breaks.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—his chest heaving, hair falling across his flushed face. His hips roll again, deeper, and he moans right into your mouth as he kisses you—messy, open, love-drunk.
“Shit— you feel so good—fucking perfect, you’re perfect— why do you feel this good—why do you make me—God, I love you—”
His voice is cracking. His body is trembling above yours as he keeps moving, keeps pressing deeper, trying to melt into you, trying to give you all of himself, over and over.
You lift your hips to meet every motion, your fingers digging into his waist, and he gasps.
“Dios mío, do that again—yes, yes—fuck, you’re gonna ruin me, baby—gonna make me lose my fucking mind…”
“Good,” you pant, kissing his jaw, your tongue grazing the salt of his skin. “Then don’t hold back. Let go for me. With me.”
He swears—loud, shaky, raw—and thrusts harder, slower but with desperate power now, like he’s trying to remember how you feel from the inside out. Like every roll of his hips is a confession.
“You’re it,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You're my family, my home, my whole fucking world—”
A low, guttural moan tears from his chest as he buries himself deep, and you feel it:
The heat. The pulse.
A slow, thick wave of warmth spilling into you—throbbing and full, like he’s pouring every piece of himself inside you. He gasps against your mouth, then lets out a raw whisper:
“Ay Dios… estoy… I’m coming—inside you—fuck—you feel so good, baby…”
And even as he pulses, even as his thighs shake and his stomach tightens in stuttering spasms, he doesn’t stop.
He keeps moving.
Slow. Deep. Messy. Tender.
His hips roll in trembling waves, pushing his own release deeper, his breath shuddering against your neck. You feel him twitch with each stroke, every glide inside slick, overstimulated heat—and then you shatter.
Your body tightens around him without warning—hot, wet, overwhelming—your limbs pulling him in closer as your climax rips through you. It surges from the base of your spine, up your ribs, through your throat as a breathless cry leaves your lips.
Mateo gasps—the sensation of your body clenching around him as you come, hot and rhythmic, pulling at every nerve in his body—nearly undoes him all over again.
“Oh—fuck, baby—you’re coming—”
His voice breaks. His whole body shudders.
“I feel you—I feel all of it—fuck, you’re squeezing me, oh my god…”
He moans, helpless—grinding in slow, shaky thrusts as your release pulses around him, dragging out the aftershocks. The way you cling to him, the way your walls flutter and grip and soak him—it wrecks him.
Your voice is barely a whisper, wrecked and trembling as you clutch him tighter.
“I’m so full of you, Mateo…”
He groans—a broken, breathless sound—as your words hit him deeper than any thrust could. His eyes flutter shut, hips rolling slow as his body twitches from the overstimulation.
“Sí… baby… you’re holding all of me—so good—you take it so well…”
And even as you say it—you feel it. The slow, unmistakable warmth beginning to slip from between your thighs where his body meets yours. His release, thick and hot, spilling out from you in slow drips, clinging to your skin.
You whimper, your legs twitching as the slickness spreads between you. The combination of it—his deep, soft thrusts, the mess between your bodies, the lingering high—makes your whole body shiver.
“It’s leaking out,” you murmur, lips brushing his ear.
Mateo chokes on a moan—completely undone.
His eyes flutter shut, a shiver rolling through him as he feels your words and your body.
“Dios…”
His voice is raw, reverent.
“I can feel it—I’m inside you, and it’s still—baby, I filled you so good—but it’s not enough, I need to give you more…”
He grabs your hips, grounding himself, trying to still the overwhelming pleasure—but his body doesn’t obey. His hands tremble as they slide beneath your thighs, lifting your hips slightly, tilting you up to keep him deeper—trying to catch what’s slipping out. A quiet, desperate gasp slips from him as he sees the mess you’ve made together, and then he presses forward again, deeper, achingly slow, like he’s trying to reclaim it.
“Mi amor… mi vida…please—don’t let me go, I need to feel all of you, I need—I need more.”
You thread your fingers through his damp curls, pulling his forehead to yours.
“Still needy?” you whisper, teasing softly, even though your own legs are shaking.
“I thought I broke you.”
He gives a breathless laugh, the sound ragged and overwhelmed, his nose brushing yours.
“You did… but I’m still here,” he pants, voice hoarse and dizzy with need.
“Still hard, still inside you—fuck, I can’t stop…”
He rocks into you again—slower now, deeper, more careful—but you feel the truth of it: he wants more. More of your body. More of your love.
Your body still slick around him, heartbeat syncing with his. Every time his hips meet yours, there’s this soft sound—wet, desperate, intimate.
“Baby— we can go again, yeah?” he whispers, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. “Let me… let me stay inside, I don’t want to stop loving you yet…”
You tilt your head back, gasping as his hips roll in another aching press.
“Then don’t stop,” you murmur.
“Mateo… do it again. I want it again.”
His eyes flutter shut—completely wrecked, love-drunk, and too far gone.
starting this on my dash too 🏃♀️➡️ be the change you want to see or something….? don’t be shy….?
tagging (no pressure, as always): @ivy0001x @ashiraismyname @akifordessert @sugurouge @shehungers @angstigone @imbibitorz @moonstonejpg @grimmweepers @femmejournal @kafkahibinomybeloved @crypt-loves-narumi and ummm anyone else who sees this and thinks it looks fun 💓
I love getting tagged on games that always make comebacks on tumblrrrr I don’t think I ever got this result on this uquiz before so this was fun tysm for the tag angel
No pressure tags: @ryescapades @saetiate @birinboom @oceaneyesinla @melon-fodder @startcarvingdarling + anyone who wants to join
Looks like I've mastered the art of emotional rollercoasters in my stories, so much so that even my fictional self needs a break! As a writer, they say 'write what you know,' and clearly, I know drama. 😂 But hey, at least it’s not boring, right?
Tags: @reaver19 @gigabyte-flare @hellocammie and anyone else who wants to join 💛
missrosiesworld @missrosiesworld - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
