I Wish I Could Get Him Pregnant☹️☹️☹️

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

i say i like boys & girls but by that i mean i like matt, chris, & nick, and then girls. and that’s it.

i’m done i can’t do this anymore

has anyone else seen this i’m dying laughing bcs is she dead ass😭 why is this girl crying

I LOVE THIS

You better lock your phone

and look at me when you're alone

Billie Eilish x reader

The low hum of your phone vibrates in your palm, thumb idly scrolling. Blue light flickers in the otherwise dim room, the only other glow coming from Billie’s screen across from you. She’s curled in her desk chair, legs pulled up loosely, chin tucked into her knee. But she’s not scrolling. Hasn’t been for minutes.

She’s watching you.

Her gaze is steady, almost too steady, quietly intense in the way only Billie can be. A slow, deliberate stare that feels like a hand around your throat even from across the room. You feel it before you see it, a shift in the air. A weight. Her silence speaks in volumes: look at me.

You don’t. You keep scrolling, pretending not to notice the simmering heat between you.

The chair creaks as she shifts. You glance up. Just for a second.

Her lips twitch in a barely-there smirk.

Then she gets up.

She walks slowly, barefoot on hardwood, her steps purposeful but casual. Her tank top hangs low, loose around her ribs, the thin strap threatening to slip off one shoulder. When she climbs into bed beside you, she doesn’t say a word. She just lets her fingers ghost along your arm, slow strokes up and down like she’s not doing anything at all.

Still, you don’t look up.

She leans in, close to your ear, her breath warm and sweet. “You better lock your phone…”

Her voice is honeyed sin, low and smooth, each word a drag. You shiver.

“…and look at me when you’re alone.”

Your screen goes dark.

She climbs over your lap, slow and deliberate, straddling your hips and pulling your phone from your hand, dropping it somewhere off the bed. You finally look up at her, and fuck—her pupils are blown, lips parted, cheeks flushed already from anticipation alone. Her arms drape over your shoulders, her body warm and soft against yours.

“You ignoring me?” she asks, like it’s not obvious what she’s doing, like her voice isn’t already fraying at the edges.

You lean back into the pillows, letting her settle fully on your lap, hands gripping her thighs. “Maybe.”

That’s when she really moves. She tilts your chin up, eyes locked with yours, and grinds, slow, deep, deliberate. You groan, head falling back, but she grabs your jaw, forces you to keep looking at her.

“No,” she whispers. “You watch.”

She rides your thigh lazily at first, just enough pressure to make her sigh, her body melting into yours. Your hands trail up her waist, her ribs, feeling her tremble. She kisses you slow, tasting like need and patience running out. Every time she moves her hips, you feel it in your whole body, heat pooling in your core like it’s yours, like you’re the one being touched.

She rolls her hips again, this time moaning into your mouth, and that’s it. You’re gone.

You push her back gently, let her fall into the pillows, and then you’re between her thighs. Her tank top rides up, panties already damp. You kiss up her thighs, slow, teasing, and she writhes beneath you, desperate. Her hands reach for your hair, guiding you closer.

“Please,” she whispers, and it’s breathless. Almost wrecked already.

You pull her panties to the side and bury your face between her legs.

She gasps, sharp, high-pitched, and you groan into her like you’ve been starving for this, like every soft whimper she makes is the only thing you’ll ever need again. Your tongue moves slow, languid, just how she likes it. You feel her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling, trembling, trying to ground herself.

She starts grinding up against your face, rhythm messy, and you let her. You want her to. You’re drunk on the way she tastes, the way she moans your name like she’s confessing something holy.

“Fuck, don’t stop...don’t stop, please—”

You don’t. You moan into her, let her come undone, your hands holding her thighs apart as she arches, writhes, loses control. Her voice is hoarse now, broken little cries that make your whole body throb. She comes hard, loud and shaking, and you don’t stop until she pushes at your head, overstimulated, twitching.

You kiss your way up her body, face flushed and soaked, eyes wild with hunger.

She looks at you like you just gave her the world.

And all you can do is smile, dazed and hungry, and say, “Next time, don’t make me wait so long to put my phone down.”

raw in paris. next question

I have nothing appropriate to say

Off Camera

Drew Starkey x actress!reader

summary: you're a little nervous for your upcoming sex scene with your boyfriend

a/n: idk if this is even good but here!

The words of your script came out as mere mumbles as you prepped for the upcoming scene. You were pulled out of your thoughts when Drew took a seat in his designated chair. Even the crew knew how much he couldn’t stay away from you, to the point that they always placed your chairs next to each other. Fiddling with the belt of your fluffy blue robe, you felt the cool metal of your boyfriend's rings as his hand intertwined with yours. Drew brought your hand to his lips, giving it a gentle kiss. 

“Hi,” you mumbled quietly. 

“You feeling alright about our scene, baby?” Drew asked, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your hand. 

Finally tearing your eyes away from the paper, you looked at the blonde. “Just a little nervous.” 

“It’ll be great. You’ve got this,” he soothed. “You always do. Plus, we’re not doing anything we haven’t done for real before.” His grin widened at the blush spreading across your cheeks. 

You couldn’t help but giggle, playfully smacking his arm. “Drew!” 

“I’m just telling the truth here, babe.” He smirked at your mortified expression. “We’ve done scenes like this since season one. Why’s it bothering you now?” he asked, his tone softening. 

“It’s just that we’re public now, y’know? So everyone is gonna have their eyes on us,” you answered shyly. 

“We—you—have got this,” he assured you with a grin, adding, “I love you, and the fans love you.” 

Taking a deep breath, you said, “I love you so much,” grounding yourself with the words.

A PA called you and Drew to set, giving you both a brief overview of the scene, which involved a secret meeting between your character and Rafe, away from the other Pogues. The set, meant to be Rafe’s room at Tannyhill, felt familiar and convincingly like a real guy’s bedroom. 

You two sat on the bed, still in your robes, as the director explained his vision, using words like “intimate,” “restrained,” and “crossing a line.” Drew squeezed your hand, keeping your mind from wandering anxiously.

As a courtesy, the intimacy coordinator reviewed the blocking—where hands would go, how close you’d be, and the exact choreography of the scene. 

Finally shedding your robe, you were left in black lace panties and one of Drew’s—well, Rafe’s tees. Drew mirrored your actions, shrugging off his robe to reveal his shirtless torso and a pair of gingham boxers. 

You watched as your boyfriend laid back against the pillows, propping himself against the headboard. Crawling into his lap, you straddled his long body, nervously biting your lip. 

As soon as your eyes met those familiar cerulean ones, you felt safe in the scene, the weight of all the eyes around you fading. 

The director called, “ACTION!” and Drew’s eyes darkened as he transformed into Rafe.

Rafe, as per the script, was zoned out, a prop joint between his fingers, not paying attention to your character. Plucking the blunt from his hands, you took a fake drag, your hands roaming his abs. 

“What’re you thinking about?” you asked Rafe, putting out the joint in his bedside ashtray. He muttered an absentminded, “Nothing,” clearly deep in thought. 

You tugged at the hem of his dark blue tee, tossing it aside in an attempt to get his attention. Still, his mind remained clouded, and your lace covered body went unacknowledged by the blonde.

“Y’know I didn’t have to sneak away from my friends jus’ for you to ignore me,” you muttered, annoyed, as you reached for the discarded tee to get up. 

Snapping out of his haze, Rafe—Drew’s hands gripped your hips, holding you in place. “M’sorry, baby. Lemme make it up to you.”

As instructed by the coordinator, he reached behind your back and unclasped your bra, dragging the dark fabric down your arms and tossing it to the floor. On camera, it appeared you were bare, but Drew’s eyes met the sticky bra preserving your modesty. 

His large hand reached for your face, pulling you down for a kiss. The kiss was rough and desperate, typical Rafe fashion, and your hands instinctively cupped his face as you kissed him back feverishly. 

The cameras panned out as Drew held you steady, flipping you in one fluid motion, so Rafe was on top, between your legs, never breaking the kiss. Practically chest to chest, he muttered, “That fuckin’ shut you up real quick.” 

Before your character could retort, Rafe—Drew began kissing down your neck, leaving you—more than your character—panting and moaning. 

“Rafe—oh my,” you “fake” moaned, feeling his lips brush against that sensitive spot just below your ear. Unable to help yourself, you quietly murmured, “Drew,” so softly that no one would notice. 

His hand slipped beneath your thigh, hiking your leg around his waist as the camera lingered on the tangle of limbs beneath the sheets. The way the sheets pooled at his waist made the shot more raunchy than ever.

The director called, “CUT!” and you were promptly handed your robes while being told the take was perfect. 

As Drew muttered something about how well the scene went, you couldn’t help but grab his hand and drag him to your trailer to spend your lunch break together, after all it was his fault that you were all hot and bothered.

Months later, when the new season dropped, a Twitter clip of the scene went viral. The background music had been stripped, leaving only your dialogue and... your moans. Fans were quick to notice the slip—a quiet “Drew” instead of “Rafe.” The teasing was relentless, from Madelyn’s playful jabs to the endless fan edits.

Every time it was brought up, you turned beet red, begging to change the topic while your boyfriend would send a cocky smirk to the camera.

graphics creds: @graphicsbymouse

I will never get over this trio I would pay to know everything that happens between them NO JOKE😔😔😔

it’s one of these nights😍