#‘All that beauty outside… but inside… nothing!!’

[prael]

Positions

Le Sserafim Kazuha x male reader

words: 5.6k Masterlist

Distrust is a funny thing because it should be fairly easy to hide, yet everyone always knows when you're looking at them with it.

He's giving you that look. It's written all over his face. In big, black, bold letters. And yet he hasn't said anything. Betrayal has left him more like a scolded puppy than a vengeful husband.

He doesn't even watch her get out of the car and approach your studio, just looks on at you like it's all your fault, and he's not the one to blame. No one is blameless here - that's for certain. Then he suffers the humiliation for all three of you, though. You don't feel much shame - and she obviously doesn't feel any. So he has to take the brunt of it. That's his penance to bear, and it's why he scowls so hard.

She doesn't even glance his way. Her focus is solely on you. There is something so wrong with that. It's sick - how you can feel like you've broken a man without ever even meeting him.

"Morning, Zuha," you speak as you bow and let her inside your studio. She is a sight, as she is in her usual garb: tight, stretchy pants, and a top which clings to her body, showing off her figure. Today's ensemble is light blue, top and bottom. It complements her skin tone and the deep, dark wave of hair, which, for once, isn't up in a ponytail. It flows over her shoulders, past them, to mid-back, and you wonder why she bothers tying it back if it looks so beautiful when loose.

She's wearing a wide smile, in complete contrast to the man she leaves outside. There is nothing to suggest that this is a day where she does anything other than go about her regular routine of exercise and self-care, but there are a lot of lies here. Her lies. His too.

She's quiet as she walks past. You close the door, shutting out her external ties to the real world, and turning to her. Eyes - warm and inviting - scan your appearance, taking in your casual clothing. It isn't like her to not say anything when she comes in, and it isn't like you to just let her stand in the middle of the studio without a word of instruction. Today, though, today isn't about the usual.

"Kazuha," you begin to say, which she immediately interrupts.

"I've been practising," she informs you, her tone more excited than you have heard it in a while, which, in itself, isn't a surprise to you.

"Maybe you'd like to show me how you're getting on," you reply, but you don't even need to finish speaking to have her nod in agreement and begin to take her position. She faces the mirror at the far side of the studio. You stand behind her. You watch her, and she watches herself. She likes to look at her own body as she stretches it to its limits.

You would be the first to say it's an impressive sight to witness.

She lifts both hands, then bends over and places the flats of both palms on the ground. She's doubled over, her ass in the air. Her legs are stretched taut, straight and firm, and she holds the position.

"I have to ask," you say, taking a step closer to her. "Is this going to be a lesson or a performance?"

She looks up at you from between her legs, head upside down, "Just watch."

She crawls her hands forward and slides her feet outwards. Her legs get wider and her ass begins to sink towards the ground - it's pulled so taut. Round and firm, even though you know it's a soft cushion from personal experience. You watch her legs spread full as she completes the splits. She leans forward and places her chest flat on the ground. Her back is as tense as her thighs and legs, but there's much less fabric there to hide the definition. You watch the way she arches her spine and her shoulders flex to pull herself off the ground, pushing herself back upwards, hands flat to the floor, her legs straight and stretched as far as possible.

She looks over her shoulder at you, and she has the most beautiful of smiles. It's a wide grin complemented by the slight blush on her cheeks and the sparkle of mischief in her eyes. It's a look she has given you many a time - a look you know well. A look that has been etched into your memory for many months. The unforgettable kind.

She knows exactly what you're looking at and she lets out the breathiest of laughs before she speaks, "How's my form?" And she knows it's good. You know she's not asking for your professional opinion on how she's getting along with the splits, she wants you to tell her that her ass looks amazing, which you do.

"It's perfect."

"I can go further, remember, just lift my legs up into the air," she reminds you.

"Yeah, I remember." She had been a natural from the start. Her legs had no trouble with the stretches. They had no issue being forced apart and being suspended at all. "I think we should work on that now, actually."

"And why's that?" she asks with a coy look as she brings her outstretched legs around in front of her and then pushes herself back to her feet.

"Well," you say, as you walk over to her. You take her hand, and then you lead her towards the mirrored wall with the bar for support. "You want the honest answer or the professional one?"

She laughs again. It's a delightful sound, her laugh. It makes your chest tight. "Both."

"Well, professionally," you begin, releasing her hand so she can hold the rail and look at herself in the mirror. You stand behind her, with your hands on her waist and speak into her ear. "Professionally, it's a challenge to your body's strength, balance, and mobility." Your hand travels along the smooth curve of her hip.

"Is that so?" she says with a hint of amusement, as her breathing grows more laboured.

"Mhm," you reply, as your fingers caress down the back of her thigh. You hold her leg in your palm, fingers settling on her inner thigh, ready to guide her into position.

"And the other thing?" She asks, breathless.

"The honest thing?" You ask, but she doesn't reply. "The honest thing is, I like seeing your body pushed to the limit."

"Oh," is all she says, in some pseudo-agreeing and nonchalant tone before she starts to raise her leg. She holds the rail, and you guide her leg up, past the horizontal and all the way to the vertical. It's straight and high, and her standing leg is stable, even with her bare feet. "Like this?"

"Yes. Like that. How's your balance?"

"It's fine. I've got a strong core, you know that."

"All too well," you say as you slip your hand along her inner thigh. No longer supporting, you encroach on the thin barrier between you and the apex of her thighs. Your fingers press against her. The material is tight and thin. You can feel her warmth, even through the layers of fabric.

"You know my husband is right outside." Her tone isn't accusatory, not at all. If anything, she sounds excited. Thrilled even. Her words seem to encourage you, and your hand presses firmer into her crotch, the fabric rubbing against her.

"I know," you say as you look at the reflection, meeting her eyes by peering through the space between her head and her foot. You look at her and see the way she is watching your every move. You glance at the way her leg is up in the air. She's so stable, even as you rub her cunt. Your fingers press in, feeling for the folds beneath her pants, and then you slip a little lower and press your fingertip against her clit.

"Oh, fuck," she exhales with a low groan. You smirk at her reaction.

"Hold the pose," you tell her as your finger rubs in small circles. "Don't move."

She's biting her lip and her chest rises with each deep breath, as if trying to keep herself stable and standing. Her leg trembles, just slightly, and you can't help but laugh as you feel the muscles tense under your touch.

"Stay still," you whisper to her.

"You're making that difficult," she says with a short huff of a laugh.

"You want me to stop?"

"No." It comes out quick and firm.

You smirk, and you keep on rubbing her pussy through the thin, tight material of her pants. You press your hand in harder, as you look her body over. She looks divine. Her body is so tight, with her legs and thighs being pushed to their absolute limits. You watch the muscles of her neck flex and the tension in her shoulders as she holds herself stable, her head up to look in the mirror. She watches you, and watches her leg up in the air, as she tries to focus on anything other than the heat which floods between her thighs.

Her mouth opens slightly, her eyes close and her brow creases, but the moment her breath sounds more like a moan, she clamps her mouth closed and lets out a deep breath through her nose. It makes you smile. Her cheeks are glowing red. Her breath is heavy, and she's trying to be so quiet.

"How long do we have? How long will he wait out there?" you ask as you lean in closer. Her body shudders at the proximity. Your breath hits the exposed skin on her neck, making her tremble.

"As long as I need him to."

"Do you think you'll be able to hold the position while I make you cum?"

Her eyes open again, and she looks at your reflection. She's smiling. She nods, just slightly.

"You think you'll be able to stay balanced while you have my fingers in you?"

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and her breath leaves her in a short, sharp gasp. You know how to get to her. Her smile grows.

"I'd love to rip these open, but I can't send you home in ruined clothes," you whisper. It makes her giggle, a soft and amused noise. You pull her leg back down, and she stands there, hand on the railing, with a slight bend in her hips and a slight arch in her back. It pushes her ass out, and she does it with a purpose. She knows what she's doing. She knows exactly how she looks. "Never get tired of that ass," you comment as you grab it. A quick, firm squeeze. It's so pliable in your hand. She laughs.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her blue yoga pants, pulling them down slowly. You expose the expanse of her back, the curve of her spine, the dimples just above her cheeks. And then, finally, her ass is bare. There's nothing underneath her pants but toned curves and soft flesh. Your eyes drink in the sight. It's not new to you, but it's always exciting.

She steps out of her pants, and as you toss the clothing aside, you watch her. The muscles of her thighs and legs are tense and tight, and her skin is so smooth. You run a hand up her calf, past the back of her knee, along her inner thigh. She burns under your touch. Your eyes wander over her. You can see her arousal; the shine on the lips of her cunt, the slight pink hue to her flesh. Your fingers brush over her. The wet sound is unmistakable. She moans at the sensation and the noise.

You stand, and she raises her leg again without being asked or instructed. She's watching you, her eyes on yours as her leg rises higher and higher. Your eyes wander down, along her leg, down to the place you can't help but be fixated on. It's a beautiful sight. Your hand comes down to caress her cunt, and you feel her lips and the wetness which seeps from between her thighs.

Your eyes rise to meet hers in the reflection, and she's smiling as you press two fingers inside of her.

"Fuck," she exhales in a short, breathy word. You can feel her pussy squeeze your fingers.

"You're soaked," you say as you watch her in the mirror.

"Been thinking about you all morning," she confesses as her head falls backwards and her hand grips the bar. Her fingers flex and tighten. Her body trembles.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"He ever got you this wet?" You can't help yourself. It slips from your mouth in a low, almost growl of a tone. You press your fingers in and pull them back out. You repeat it a few times, fucking your fingers in and out of her wet hole. She's so hot, her body trembling and tense.

"No," is all she says, her voice soft, her eyes opening again. She's watching you. "Not anymore," she adds with the slightest shake of her head. Her eyes close, and her lips open. Her mouth forms a perfect circle as you fuck your fingers in and out of her.

"He doesn't make you cum, does he, Zuha?" Your voice is a low rumble as you speak to her, watching her face contort and twist in the reflection. You look down, at the sight of her pussy wrapped around your two digits, the wet lips spread open as you fingerfuck her. She looks divine. Her legs are trembling, and she's so tense. You have to push in firmer to keep her stable.

"Only when he leaves me alone," she replies, breathlessly laughing.

"Only when he leaves you to think of me," you say with a grin as you curl your fingers inside her. Her hips buck, her body sways, and she lets out the softest whine. You press your thumb to her clit as your fingers rub inside of her. You feel her squeeze around them. She has to grab her leg, she can't keep it there on her own.

"Oh, god," she whines.

"Careful. Don't lose it now." She nods, her lip between her teeth, as her eyes screw shut. "You're nearly there," you say, in a soft tone as she writhes in front of you.

"So close," she whispers, hot and panting. Trembling and tense. You can feel it all; the way she tightens and flexes, her muscles clenching. It's a struggle for her to stay standing. She can't balance, even though her hand grips her leg and the other the railing, hard enough to make her knuckles turn white.

Her eyes fall closed. Her mouth hangs open slightly. Kazuha holds her breath.

She's cumming all over your fingers - a muted cry, muffled whines and whimpers, the tightening of her pussy and the spasming of her muscles, the tremor in her body and the gush of fluids which seeps from her. She's making a mess, though, from the waist up, you wouldn't know it. She's so elegant, even now, as she's being fingered in the dance studio with her husband outside. The only thing that betrays her calm appearance is her face, contorted and twisted with pleasure. She has her lip bitten, her brow creased and her jaw tense.

Finally, she relaxes, standing on two feet again as you pull your hand away and take a step back. She leans forward, forehead pressing against the cool, soothing glass. There's that same slight bend at the hips, that same arch in her back and the protrusion of her ass. Only this time, her cum seeps down her inner thigh.

You step against her again, your hands settling on her waist. She looks up at your reflection, smiling that satisfied, lazy grin.

"How's my balance? My composure?" she asks, amusement dancing in her tone.

"You're flawless."

"As are you," she compliments as you press a kiss to the back of her shoulder. "But..."

"But?" you repeat, lightly planting your hand against her butt, which she finds hilarious, as she laughs and shakes her head at you.

"But time's running out. It's only a one-hour session."

"Can't keep him waiting?" you tease. You already know that she doesn't care how long she leaves him waiting outside, but it is funny to watch her try to act like she does. She shrugs and gives a little non-committal sound. "We can still take our time, enjoy it." You kiss her neck. "There's still so much I want to see from you."

"What do you want to see?"

"You're a dancer. And dancing is all about the hips. You can move those things so beautifully."

She smirks and looks away, down at her own body, at her lower abdomen and the place where your hands are caressing her. She nods her head slowly as she bites her lip. "You wanna watch my ass shake, don't you?" She asks, still biting that bottom lip. She laughs as she watches you nod. She's right. So you nod, and she tells you: "Get on the floor then."

You don't even need a moment to process what she said to you. You get down, knees hitting the wooden boards. You sit back on your legs, and look up at her - she's standing in front of the mirrored wall. She looks over her shoulder. "Enjoying the view?" She asks, a teasing hint in her voice as she looks down at you. You look up, nodding and smirking.

"Immeasurably," you reply. You watch as her hips move, the muscles of her thighs flex, and the soft flesh of her backside shakes. She's hypnotic, her body swaying and her hips moving in slow circles. You reach up to grab her, hands on the back of her thighs as you watch the way she moves. She laughs at the way your fingers sink into the flesh. She's so warm under your palms.

"You can lie down if you'd like," she says as you watch the slow, rhythmic motion. "I'll put on a show." Your hands drop away, and you lower your back onto the floor. You watch as she looks at herself in the mirror and rolls her body. Each time, she sinks a little lower, bends at the knees, and her thighs flex. Her body rolls and she laughs, and you lie there and watch her move. Her hips shake, and her ass jiggles. "You won't need those pants."

It's a thinly-veiled instruction, and she knows it, but she still says it in the form of a statement, as if it isn't a command for you to undress. You pull them down and off, and then you toss the garment aside. As you do it, she steps over you. A barefoot on either side of your hips. She looks down, over her shoulder, and you barely see her smile. "I was wondering where that was," she says. Her tone is so casual, it's like you aren't naked on the floor in a studio, and her husband isn't waiting for her in the car park.

Kazuha lowers herself into a split, one foot on either side of you. Her legs are stretched out wide and her ass is right over your cock. You get to see her muscles flex, and you watch as she moves herself up and down, grinding herself against you. Your cock slips between her pussy lips and you feel her arousal soaking your length.

"I can feel you getting harder. You're enjoying the view, huh?" she asks as she leans forward. She puts a hand on the floor between your legs. You watch her, the arch of her back and the way her legs are spread wide. She grinds her cunt over the shaft of your cock and she lets out the softest, low moans.

"Never seen a body quite like yours, Zuha," you say as your hands run up her thighs and to her ass.

"That's why I'm doing these classes - keeping in shape, keeping myself limber," she replies as she pushes herself back up and then slides back down, her cunt grinding over your dick. You groan and watch as your cock throbs against her. She reaches under, to grab your cock, guiding it to her opening. "I like the look of you, too. You look good down there, like you belong beneath me."

Your hands are on her cheeks, thumbs rubbing her soft skin. She sinks, her cunt swallowing the first inch of your dick. It's a warm, slick sensation as she takes the tip inside. She's so tight. She stops. You're barely inside her, and she starts to bounce those hips. She's just taking the tip, in and out, shaking her ass over your cock. Flesh ripples as the tight heat squeezes around your tip. Your hands squeeze, your fingers sink in, and your thumbs pull her cheeks apart.

Her hips shake, and she takes you in a little further. It's just two or three inches, nothing more, but she rides that part of your cock like she wants nothing else. You watch as your tip disappears between her lips and reappears again as she rides your dick in slow, steady motions.

"God, I can't wait for you to fill me," she says in a breathy tone. You look up at her reflection in the mirror, watching the way her chest heaves with each deep breath and the slight flush to her face.

"Why wait?" you ask, and you watch as her head rolls back. She's grinning, and she laughs as she sinks herself down your full length. Her ass presses against your pelvis. Her body stills with your cock throbbing inside her.

"Oh, that feels so good," she groans, throwing her head further back. Her back arches more, and in the mirror, you can see the way she stretches her tight abs. That tight top rides up. It still caresses her little tits, but her belly is on show. You can even see her ribs when she's fully stretched.

She's running her hands up her body, fingers splaying on her stomach, and then she cups her chest. You watch in the reflection, seeing the way her body is contorted, and her cunt squeezes around you.

"You're stunning," you say, breathless and panting.

"You're so big," she replies as she runs her palms over her covered tits. Her thumbs trace over the top of the material. The tight fabric clings to her chest, but you want to see her without it.

She starts to ride. Her ass bounces over your hips, and you feel her pussy tighten with each movement. You can only admire the strength it must take to ride you in full splits, with her body contorted and her muscles stretched taut. But she does it, her body rolling in a smooth motion and her thighs tensing with each rise and fall of her ass.

Your hands are on her butt. Fingers sinking in, you guide her to a slower pace, and she moans as your dick slides inside her. She's watching in the mirror, seeing the way she takes all of you in. You watch it, too.

And then she does the most insane thing. She reaches back, leaning over you, and you take her hands to support her. As she arches further and further, stretching her core and her thighs - everything - you see it. Your cock bulges under her skin. The outline of your cock in her stomach as her skin pulls tight. She moans as she leans, arching her body and contorting it in the most insane of ways, and your eyes fix on her abdomen. You watch it as you start to thrust your cock inside her.

"Can you see that?" She asks. You nod, and she laughs as her eyes close and her head rolls. "That's so hot," she says, as her fingers flex in yours. She's squeezing tight. She's panting. She's stuck suspended over you, her body contorted in ways that would make most women - and men - very jealous.

You hold her like that and begin to thrust up into her. You feel her clench around you and you watch the outline of your dick in her stomach. Your eyes wander over her chest and the slight jiggle of her breasts beneath her top, and her legs outstretched. She's so flexible, and you take advantage of that. Your hands support hers as you fuck up into her.

"Oh god," she pants, her body writhing and twisting in your grasp. "I'm not going to last long," she warns you.

"I can feel that." It isn't hard to see that she's enjoying herself, but the physical reaction is just as apparent. You feel her tighten and squeeze, and you know it's only a matter of time.

You move a little faster, buck a little harder, and she can't stifle the strained moans anymore. She cries out, head back, moaning like a woman possessed, but she holds the pose and you hold her, as you feel her body shake and her cunt clench. She cums - cums hard. She gushes and her body quakes in your grasp, but she never falters, even though she is whining and whimpering in pleasure.

"Good, Zuha, so fucking good," you whisper to her, still moving your hips. She's panting and her eyes flutter as she tries to catch a breath and stay in the same position. "Look at yourself, taking all of my cock, even like that."

You keep bulging her stomach, the shape of your dick pushing outwards. You can feel yourself throbbing inside her, and you're close, so close, and you can feel the heat and pleasure pooling between your hips. You have to stop, or else you'll finish too. Her legs can't hold the split anymore, coming to a close on either side of your own body. You lower her gently against your chest. Her back to your front, your dick still throbbing inside her cunt.

She's panting and laughing and shaking. "You didn't finish." It's a question and a statement.

"No."

"I want you to."

"Not like this." You wrap your arms around her slender frame. Just lying there with her atop your chest feels wonderful, and with the added sensation of your dick inside her, it feels incredible.

"Tell me how," she says. Her head is resting on your shoulder, and she looks up at the ceiling. Her breathing is heavy, and her chest is still rising and falling rapidly.

"Against the wall. With your ankles over my shoulders." Her lips curl into a wide, amused smile.

"I think you just like my flexibility more than you like me," she jokes.

"Nah," you reply, as your hand runs up her body and to the tight material over her chest. You feel her nipples under the material, and as your fingertips run over the peaks of them, she shudders. Her cunt clenches in reaction to your touch and you let out a short laugh. "I like everything about you."

"Yeah?" she breathes the word out as you run your fingers over her hard nipple. You roll the peak under the material, pinching it between two fingers as she squirms against you.

"I'd list it all, but that would be quite the task, and your husband's waiting," you tell her. Your hand is sliding over the material of her top. You're feeling her tits under the fabric. You cup the small handful, and she's so soft in your palms. Your fingers squeeze her chest, feeling her warm flesh beneath your touch, even if the fabric is still covering her. You roll her nipple again and you feel her arch her back and her ass push down on your lap.

You pull up her top, enough to see the underside of her breasts, the slight curve of the lower part of each mound. It exposes her enough for you to slip your hand beneath the material and feel her naked breast in the palm of your hand. Her body trembles as your fingers rub over the stiff peak of her nipple.

"Come on," you whisper, and you slip out of her, and she pushes herself off you.

A few moments later, she's got her back to the wall. You're standing between her open legs and kissing her. Your tongues dance in each other's mouths, and she's pulling you in by your neck. Her hands are in your hair and your hands are on her body - her thighs, her ass.

"Gonna fuck me now?" She asks with her eyes closed and her head back against the mirrored wall.

"Gonna make a mess outta you, Zuha."

She laughs and looks down, watching as you lift her legs up, carrying her with the help of the wall and your arms under her knees. She's holding on to your neck. Her legs spread open. "Do your best," she says, before pulling you into a kiss. She has her fingers in your hair, and her thighs against your chest as you thrust into her. She lets out the softest gasp against your mouth.

It's the perfect angle, the perfect position. You can't get enough. You start to fuck into her in hard and fast thrusts of your cock, filling her tight cunt, and you can feel the pressure of her body against yours as her cunt clenches around you. She moans against your mouth. Her thighs shake.

You've got her pinned against the wall, pressed to the cool, smooth mirror, her thighs held in the crook of your arms, her calves dangling over your shoulders as you fuck her. You pull your mouth from hers and you watch the way her body moves, you push up her shirt to watch her cute little tits move with each hard, rough thrust. She looks up at you and smiles that lazy smile. She looks blissful, and content. Her eyes close, and her mouth opens. You watch as she lets out soft, breathy noises with each motion.

She has one hand on the mirror and one in your hair, her nails are scraping at the back of your scalp as you fuck her. Her thighs are tight, pressed against your chest and tensing. Her toes are curled. And her body, her slender, taut body, is moving in a smooth rhythm against the mirror.

It's mesmerising. She's folded in half, suspended in the air with the wall behind her and your body holding her up. You're pounding her into it, and she's letting out such filthy, sweet noises. At this point, she's a toy. A vessel to fuck. She looks beautiful. Her hair is loose and hanging down over her face. The colour is in her cheeks, the pink of arousal, and she's biting her lip.

She doesn't need any help, you know that. You're giving her what she wants. The way her cunt tightens around you tells you as much, and the sounds which fall from her lips are all the encouragement you need. "Harder," she tells you. You give her harder. She cries out in pleasure, head back, and eyes screwed closed. "Harder!" she repeats. So, again, you give her harder.

It's rough, but she can take it. Her body can take the pounding. Her pussy can take the fucking. She's cumming again, with her fingers clawing at the mirror and at your hair, with her legs tensed and her toes curled. You don't stop fucking her through the spasming and squeezing of her body. She writhes, her mouth open and moans tumbling forth from her throat, her eyes closing, and her cunt tightening.

"Please cum," she whimpers, as she trembles. You can see the tears of ecstasy in her eyes, and you know you've fucked her well and properly, but there's only one thing missing. "Fill me."

And you do, you slam your hips forward, burying yourself as far in as possible and you cum deep in her cunt, spurting inside of her, filling her. She's panting, smiling that wide grin. "Yes," is all she says, in a breathless moan, as your body shivers against hers and your seed spurts deep in her pussy. She's clenching her thighs, tensing them and squeezing her cunt around your cock.

You keep cumming until you can't anymore until the pleasure fades to oversensitivity. Her hands are stroking your neck, your chest. She's panting and her eyes are closed, and you just stay there, with your forehead resting against hers. You breathe in the scent of sweat, of her, and the smell of sex in the air. It's an incredible aroma, all of it. And she's an incredible woman.

"I have to get in that car, full of your cum," she laughs, as she kisses your mouth, her hands cupping your face.

"That's so dirty. So wrong." You laugh as you speak, and you feel her smile.

"So dirty, and so good."

You slowly let her legs down. She holds you for support. Kazuha slips her top back over her chest and you pull out of her, letting your dick slip from her warm, wet pussy. Her thighs tremble, and she has to steady herself.

"I should clean up, I might leak your cum on his leather seats," she laughs loudly. She's so full of life and joy, it's wonderful. "And that's a bit too much, even for me."

"One day he's going to walk in here, you know that?"

She nods. Her smile doesn't falter. "Probably. And when he does, he can see what I look like when I'm not faking it."

[skzstarl0ver]

ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴏʙᴇʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ

Lee Felix x reader / best friends to lovers / smut → angst / drunk!Felix

**involves!!** alcohol, drunken actions, sex, make out

enjoy xx (open for request)

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

The party was still echoing in your ears, even as you half-carried Felix through the quiet dorm hallways.

He was warm and heavy against your side, one arm slung around your shoulder, head lolling just slightly as he muttered nonsense under his breath. Every few steps, he giggled — at nothing in particular, just the kind of laughter that only came from a few too many drinks and a head full of stars.

"You good?" you asked, adjusting his arm as you passed the stairwell.

"Mhm," he hummed. "You're warm."

"You’re wasted," you replied, trying not to laugh, even as your heart did a weird little flutter thing. He always did that to you — without even trying.

Felix and you had been best friends for what felt like forever. He was the kind of constant in your life that never needed defining. Always there. Always close. Maybe too close, according to everyone else. “You guys are basically married,” Chan had said once. You'd laughed. Felix hadn’t.

You reached his door, fishing for his keys in his hoodie pocket. He rested his chin on your shoulder, exhaling softly.

"You smell good," he murmured.

"Felix—"

"I love you, you know... so much."

You froze.

His voice was suddenly quiet, too clear. Too real.

When you turned, he was already staring at you. His smile had faded, replaced by something softer, deeper. Glassy eyes. Barely-there breath. The air between you shifted — like the moment before a storm or a kiss.

"Felix, you're drunk," you said, but it came out like a whisper. Like a lie.

Then he kissed you.

Messy. Sweet. Desperate.

His hands were in your hair, on your waist, pulling you closer like he’d been waiting his whole life to do this. And you—God—you kissed him back.

Because maybe you’d been waiting too.

The keys slipped from your hand, clinking to the floor unnoticed. You barely made it inside the dorm before he was pressing you against the door, lips hot and searching, breath shaky like he couldn’t get enough of you. His hands wandered — greedy and clumsy — under your shirt, along your waist, up your spine.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed, his forehead pressed against yours, voice wrecked.

You didn’t.

You grabbed his hoodie, pulled it over his head, kissed him like you needed him to understand something words couldn’t say.

He made this sound — low and raw in the back of his throat — and then he was everywhere. Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing skin, tongue warm as he kissed down to your collarbone. His hands slipped under the waistband of your jeans like he couldn’t wait another second, and you let him.

You wanted him.

You always had.

His room was dim, lit only by the streetlamp outside. Clothes hit the floor in between kisses and gasps and stumbling laughter, the kind that only came when you wanted someone so badly it scared you.

When your back hit the mattress, he paused — just long enough to look at you. Really look at you.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, almost to himself.

And then his mouth was on your chest, his hands sliding down your thighs, spreading you open with a reverence that didn’t match how drunk he was. Like his body remembered even if his mind was foggy. Like he knew exactly what you needed.

“Felix—” you moaned, hands threading through his hair.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbled against your skin, lips moving lower, slower, dragging heat with them.

“You.”

That was all it took.

He pulled you to the edge of the bed, lined himself up with shaking hands. Pressed in slow. Inch by inch. His head dropped to your shoulder, a shudder rolling through him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and you felt it too — the stretch, the fullness, the way he held you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

And then he moved.

Sloppy at first. Like he couldn’t control himself. Deep, slow thrusts, building into something frantic. His name fell from your lips over and over. And he just kept saying yours — like a prayer, like a secret, like he was scared to forget it.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and breathless and urgent.

But it felt like everything.

And when he came — face buried in your neck, body trembling, voice breaking — it sounded like love.

_

The sunlight was soft when you woke up — too soft. It filtered through the half-open blinds in stripes across the sheets, warm against your bare skin. The room smelled like Felix’s cologne and sweat and sleep. Familiar, but changed.

You didn’t open your eyes at first. You just… lay there. Listening to the quiet. The ache between your legs a dull reminder that it hadn’t been a dream.

Last night happened.

The kisses, the way he said I love you, the way he held you — like he needed you, like he meant every desperate whisper. The way your name spilled from his lips when he came, like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

You’d never felt so wanted.

You’d never wanted anything more.

And then— A rustle. The creak of the bed. Movement.

Your eyes blinked open, slow, adjusting to the light.

Felix was sitting on the edge of the mattress, pulling a shirt over his head, back turned to you. His hair was still a little messy. There were faint red marks on his neck — from you. You traced one with your gaze and your chest squeezed.

He didn’t look back.

“You’re up,” you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”

You glanced at your phone on the floor. “Almost nine.”

He turned around then — halfway — and gave you a crooked smile. “Damn. I drank way too much last night.”

You waited. Just waited.

“Did I… do anything stupid?” he asked, tone light, almost teasing.

And just like that — You felt it. The shift. The drop.

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “No.”

He didn’t notice. Just let out a breath of relief. “Good. I blacked out a little, I think. Last thing I remember is you helping me get my keys.”

Your whole body stilled.

That was hours before he kissed you. Before he said I love you. Before he pulled you into his bed and whispered your name like it was a confession.

He didn’t remember.

He didn’t remember any of it.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Yeah. You were pretty out of it.”

Felix stood up, stretching with a groan. “Ugh. I need water. And maybe to never drink again.”

You nodded. Watched him walk to the kitchen area in his boxers, humming a song like the floor hadn’t just dropped out from under you.

It was stupid to expect more. He was drunk. He didn’t mean it. He forgot.

But you didn’t.

You remembered everything.

The way he kissed you like you were more than just a friend. The way he touched you like he knew your body already. The way he held you afterward — tight, gentle, lips at your temple.

It wasn’t just sex. Not to you.

And now, you were stuck.

You could tell him. Admit it meant something. That it meant everything to you.

Or—

You could pretend it never happened.

Pretend you didn’t feel all the things he doesn’t even remember.

You pulled the blanket around yourself and stared at the ceiling.

Your heart whispered one thing. Your pride whispered another.

And Felix? He was laughing softly to himself in the kitchen, pouring cereal. Still yours. Still not yours.

_

You didn’t mean to avoid him. Not really.

It just… happened.

At first, it was small stuff. Delayed texts. One-word replies. Saying you were “busy” when you weren’t. You skipped lunch. Left a group hang early. And every time he asked what was up, you dodged it with a joke or a shrug or nothing at all.

You didn’t know what to say. Hey, remember when we had drunk sex and you told me you loved me, and then woke up with zero memory of it? Yeah, that kinda messed me up lol.

It was easier to act normal. Even when normal didn’t feel normal anymore.

Even when you kept thinking about the way he touched you that night — like it wasn’t his first time doing it in his head.

Even when you still remembered the exact way he whispered “I love you,” like it was a truth trying to claw its way out of his chest.

And now?

Now you couldn’t look at him without wondering how much of that was real.

It had been almost a week.

You were curled up in your hoodie on the couch, scrolling aimlessly, when your phone lit up.

felix [10:04pm] hey. can we talk? i’ll come to you. just tell me if you’re home.

You stared at the screen for a while. Thumb hovering. Considering.

Then: you [10:06pm] sure.. i’m home.

You didn’t expect him to show up so fast.

A knock on your door barely five minutes later. You opened it mid-sigh, like you were bracing for something bigger than it was — and there he was. Felix. Hoodie, beanie, nervous hands in his pockets. Cheeks a little pink from the cold.

He gave you a small, awkward smile.

“Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in.

He stood in your living room like it was unfamiliar, even though he’d crashed here a hundred times before. Slept on your couch. Hogged your blankets. Used your charger like it was his.

Now? He looked like he didn’t know where to stand.

You watched him scratch the back of his neck. “I know you’ve been weird with me all week.”

You gave him a look. “Wow. Subtle.”

He laughed — soft, sheepish. “Okay, yeah, I mean. It’s kinda obvious.”

You sat on the edge of the couch, pulling your knees up under you. “So what are you here for?”

“I… don’t really know.” He looked at you, then down at his shoes. “I’ve just been thinking. A lot. About that night.”

Your heart did a weird skip thing.

He wasn’t drunk now. His voice was steady. Careful. Which somehow made it worse.

“What about it?” you asked.

He sat down — not next to you, but across from you, on the armchair. Like there was some unspoken rule now. A line he wasn’t sure he could cross again.

“I didn’t remember anything the next morning,” he said slowly. “And I didn’t wanna make it worse by guessing. I didn’t wanna be that guy who’s like, ‘Did we…?’ you know?”

You just nodded.

“So I played it off like I didn’t know anything,” he said. “Because I was scared. And I thought maybe you wanted to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I didn’t,” you said quickly. “Well—I didn’t know what you wanted. And I wasn’t gonna be the idiot who brings it up just to be like, ‘Hey, by the way, I think I caught feelings while you were blackout making out with me.’”

He let out a breath. Something between a laugh and a sigh.

“I didn’t mean to forget,” he said. “And I definitely didn’t mean to make you feel forgotten.”

You glanced at him. “But you do remember now?”

He nodded. “Bits and pieces. Enough. You in my lap. Your shirt coming off. You looking at me like…”

“Like what?” you asked, quieter now.

“Like I wasn’t just your best friend anymore.”

That shut you up for a second.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Was I wrong?”

You didn’t know how to answer that. Because no, he wasn’t wrong. But this wasn’t exactly how you imagined this moment would go. You weren’t supposed to be in your oldest sweatpants with a bag of chips between you and zero clue what to say.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “I don’t know what it was supposed to mean.”

He tilted his head. “What did it mean to you?”

You hesitated. “That I trust you. That I care about you. And that maybe I was hoping you meant what you said.”

“I did,” he said quickly. “I just… said it at the worst possible time.”

You gave him a look. “You think?”

He smiled, almost shy. “I’m serious. I’ve probably been in love with you longer than I’ve realized. That night just ripped the bandaid off.”

There was a long, awkward beat.

Then he added, “You know, in a very sexy, very emotionally chaotic way.”

You snorted — actual laughter slipping out. The first real one all week.

He grinned. “There she is.”

You sighed, burying your face in your hands for a second. “This is so dumb.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’d still rather be dumb with you.”

You peeked up at him. “So what now?”

He shrugged. “We could stop avoiding each other. Maybe hang out again. Maybe kiss when I’m not drunk this time?”

You raised a brow. “You sure you can handle that?”

He smirked. “You’re the one who jumped me last time.”

“I did not—” you started, throwing a pillow at him, and he caught it, laughing.

And just like that, the air shifted.

Still uncertain. Still complicated.

But not broken.

Not anymore.

[cinnamqns]

Arranged husband gojo x soft reader (fem or gender neutral you choose)where reader slowly falls in love with toru but for some misunderstanding she thinks gojo has a secret lover she doesn't knows about and cries :( angst to fluff pwease:( add smut if you want and make the reader virgin 😝

Here you go!!

“Behind Closed Doors”

Satoru Gojo x Soft Fem!Reader – NSFW – Angsty Misunderstanding → Fluff → Smut, praise and lots of sweet holding and talking through.

You stood at the threshold of your new home—your arranged marriage to Satoru Gojo hardly more than a name on paper when last you saw him. Now, every day you woke to the sound of his footsteps in the halls, every evening you shared the same table and the same bed. Yet you felt as if you’d never truly met him.

From the start, Gojo was… inscrutable. Charming in a way that made your heart flutter, his silver hair catching every candle’s light as he bowed deeply each morning and greeted you as “my dear wife.” But his eyes—those piercing, wayward eyes—always seemed to be looking past you, as if they were searching for someone else.

So you kept your distance. You spent your mornings tending the garden, your afternoons sweeping the veranda, your evenings seated politely beside him over tea. You were careful to hide your nervousness—your fingers often shook, your lips trembled—but Gojo was always gentle. A soft “Are you well?” would follow every moment you nearly dropped your teacup. Small kindnesses he never intended as kindness, but they punctured your heart.

Over weeks, you began to smile when he did. You noticed the way he draped his coat over your shoulders on cold dawns, the way he folded stray hairs from your cheek with a single dainty hand. You found yourself humming as you worked—hum that would become a soft token of happiness deep in your chest.

And then came the misunderstanding.

You returned one afternoon from the market, basket heavy with fruit. As you approached your room, you heard laughter—soft and male—drifting through the open door. Your breath caught. You pressed yourself against the cool wall outside, heart pounding so hard it seemed to knock against your ribs.

Inside, you saw him: Gojo, leaning forward in an armchair, head thrown back in mirth. Across from him, a tall woman with bronze hair laughed, head tipped back, silhouette noble and familiar—your sister’s best friend, Sara. Your chest tightened. You’d heard them speak behind closed doors, but you’d never seen them together. You’d never even met Sara properly since wedding arrangements kept you separate.

Your mind spun. Perhaps they’d been lovers all this time. Perhaps this entire marriage was a lie to cover his secret affection for her. Tears pricked your eyes. You backed away, basket slipping from numb fingers, fruit tumbling to the floor.

Sara looked up at the sound. Gojo’s laughter died instantly. His eyes—those beautiful, endless eyes—flew to the door, narrowing in concern. But you were gone before he could move. You fled, tears blinding you, until you reached the garden where you’d first found solace. You sank among the blossoms, burying your face in your hands, gasping for breath as sorrow and jealousy raged through you.

That evening, Gojo found you in the jasmine grove. He knelt before you, cloak swirling around his knees. His expression was uncharacteristically serious.

“My love,” he began—his voice gentle—“I know you overheard. I can explain.”

You raised tear-streaked eyes. “Explain why you laugh with her. Why you looked at me as if I were nothing.” Your words trembled: half hurt, half defiance.

Gojo’s shoulders sagged. “Sara is my sister’s dearest friend. When her betrothed left—” he paused, throat tightening “—she returned home. I have taken care of her. I——”

He reached for your hand. You flinched, but let him hold your fingers. His skin was warm.

“I see now how it looked,” he continued. “But I promise you: my only love has been you since the moment I first bowed and spoke your name.”

His silver hair brushed your cheek as he leaned in. “Please, believe me.”

Your tears spilled anew, but this time at the warmth in his voice. “I… I don’t want to lose you.”

“You never will,” he whispered, brushing your tears away. Then, gently, he tilted your chin up. His lips pressed yours in a kiss so tender it stole the sting from your sorrow and replaced it with blossoming hope.

Later, in the privacy of your shared chamber, Gojo guided you to the soft, silken sheets. “May I?” he asked quietly, voice husky.

You nodded, heart pounding. He helped you out of your robe, skin trembling at the unfamiliar feel of his gaze roaming your curves as though memorizing them for the first time. You were a virgin—your arranged marriage the only touch you’d ever known—and now you felt exposed beneath his intense, caring scrutiny.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, hands gentle at your shoulders.

You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I want you.”

He smiled, a shy, genuine smile, and kissed you again. His hands traveled lower, skirting your hips until he found the clasp of your undergarment. With infinite care, he freed you until you lay bare beneath his eyes. Then he paused, meeting your gaze.

“Are you certain?” he asked, concern and desire mingling in his tone.

You nodded, chest tight with longing. “I want this. I want you.”

That was all the invitation he needed. He moved on you with reverence—kissing every sensitive curve, whispering praise: “You’re so beautiful… so precious.”

When at last he entered you, it was slow and gentle, and tears of pleasure welled in your eyes. Gojo held you, cradled you, guiding every movement until your breath caught in your throat. Your first time was not frightening but sacred—imbued with his tenderness and fueled by the fierce passion born from your jealousy and his reassurance.

You clung to him, whispered his name, and he answered by burying you in his arms and rocking you through the flood of bliss.

Afterward, you lay together, tangled in sheets and limbs, your heart lighter than it had ever been.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He brushed your hair back. “And I love you. Always.”

Outside, the moon rose full—and in its silver light, two souls bound by duty, misunderstanding, and finally, true understanding, found that love could be summoned in the most unexpected ways—and that, at the end of every storm, there was the gentle promise of dew-kissed dawn.

[zvmbitegirl]

OUTSIDE | wc : 3900+

princess reader x knight sevika! PART ONE!

before u read! nothing happens between reader and sevika.. oops , readers a bit spoiled/kinda a brat..!!! left on a cliffhanger reader is in early twenties!

“mother, its too.. tight!” you wheezed as your mother tightened the laces of the corset that hugged your ribs. Small pants exited your mouth as you tried to breathe through the pain (nothing was helping unfortunately)

“we can’t have it too loose, can we, dear?” She hummed. Tying the white lace into a bow. “I do not understand why you must.. throw a fit every morning.” Your mother complained. Already annoyed with your antics today. A sigh left your mouth. Mentally preparing yourself for the earful you were about to receive.

Luckily for you, you managed to tune her grating voice out.

All you could focus on today was the people you saw, the way they were allowed to be theirselves, wearing whatever clothes they preferred. Bet they didn’t have to wear a tight corset everyday! your mother never allowed you to go outside alone. It was a mystery why, but you gave up asking since she never gave a full answer.

You would give your life up for a day like that. No corset, nobody bossing you around.. Freedom. That’s what you desired.

“Are you even listening to me?!” Your mother exclaimed, making you quickly snap out your thoughts. Giving your mother a nervous smile as you took in her furious expression.

today was gonna be tough.

Fidgeting with your fingers, pinching and pulling at the gloves, careful enough to not make a tear. Taking deep breaths — trying to calm down your racing heart. You’ve never done this before, never sneaked out before. You’ve always been a good girl.

Bunching up the white gown tightly in your hands. Taking a few deep breaths before quickly walking down the long hallway filled with picture frames of your relatives you never got the chance of meeting since they passed — but their eyes.. it felt as if they were judging you for doing such a reckless thing! You refused to stop though, this was the only chance you got at seeing the world.

You weren’t going out for too long! Maybe just an hour. An hour of being in the sun. Seeing the real world. Seeing the beauty it had to offer!

Staring up at the heavy doors standing tall in front of you. With a sigh, you began pulling at the doors. As soon as you were tugging on them, the doors scraped across the castles floor loudly. You cringed on the inside, immediately stopping yourself and began praying to the lord. Hoping nobody heard.

You only got the door open to a pinch where the sunlight shined through. You squeezed through the little crack. (which tore your dress a bit) Hiding behind one of the pillars, peeking your head out making sure the knights guarding the castle weren’t around. After seeing you were in the clear, you took in the scenery. The trees, the smell of pollen, the green, freshly cut grass, the gorgeous lake near the castle. The gate — keeping you away from the world.

Scoffing to yourself, you walked towards the gate. The dirt got on the rim of your gown, the squishy mud under your shoes making you groan in disgust, your eyes focused the gate. Obviously it was locked. Right. Only the knights (and your mother of course) had the key. Ugh!

“My lady, you shouldnt be out here.“ a stern voice spoke out to you. Their eyes piercing through the back of your skull. A shiver ran down your spine, you could feel your muscles tensing up.

‘god damn it.’

You already knew who it was by their voice. It was the rookie. Sevika. The new knight, someone you never cared too much about. She wasn’t very important to you before.

..but maybe she can be useful to you now?

Gathering all the courage in your body, turning around and facing the woman. Trying to sound stern. “Hey! You!” You called. Sevikas shoulders slumped before walking up to your direction. Her heavy metal armor clanking as she approached you. “Return back to the castl-” she began but you interrupted her.

“Open the gate for me. Now.” You demanded the woman. Craning your neck up to meet her eyes. That was useless — you couldn’t see her face due to the helmet covering her face. You could hear her sigh quietly. “No can do.” She told you. “Your mother wants you inside. Please. Return back to the castle.” Sevika added. You could hear the annoyance in her ‘please’. Making you more frustrated.

“No, you listen to me. I’m the princess.” You yelled at her. Sevika only stared at you. Half bewildered by the way you were acting. Her eyes flicked down to your gown, staring at the dirt that definitely wasn’t wasn’t gonna come out with just a few washes. Sevika stared at you for a few seconds which felt like hours. The only things breaking the silence was the leaves rustling. “Your dress is ruined.” She stated the obvious. Taking your hand before you could reply to her statement, walking you back towards the castle. Her thumb rubbing circles around your knuckle in hopes of you being quiet.

Your heart began speeding up. Beating so hard, it felt as if it was gonna fall out. Your eyes flicked on the nature for the last time before it grew smaller as you got tugged deeper into the castle.

You hoped sevika would keep her mouth shut about you sneaking out .. she didn’t. Your mother was furious with you, obviously. Keeping a close eye on you (also commanding sevika to watch over you too.)

It was so annoying. Sevika took her job a little too seriously. She stayed inside the castle for the rest of the day, just to watch you. No matter how much times you begged her to leave you alone. She didn’t budge.

“I’m gonna be in my room for the rest of the day, okay? Promise.” You lied through your teeth. Giving the knight a smile but it didn’t work. “Your promises mean nothing to me. Ma’am.” That smile of yours quickly dropped. A frown forming instead. Turning around and retreating back to your room.

You faced your body length mirror, trying to carefully untie the lace wrapped into a bow on your corset.

Luckily, your mother didn’t notice your dirty gown (or the small tear). It wasn’t too bad! But someone like your mother? She’d have a heart attack. you don’t know how she didn’t see it, but you kept your mouth shut about it.

At least sevika didn’t tell her. you owe her at least that.

Taking a deep breath. Relaxing in your bloomers before putting your robe on. A sigh of relief left your body. finally. Something loose on your body and not tight like that awful corset.

second times the charm.

The window was high! you had to get on top of your bed before climbing through it. Pushing through it. You went head first, like a fool. Making you fall down. Slamming hard into the ground. Mud got all over you! You could taste it in your mouth..

Gagging loudly in disgust. Spitting it out. You regret not wearing shoes.. or a helmet for that matter. You could feel your head throbbing. Oh dear .. what if you had a concussion?! oh no! this was a huge mistake.. a foolish thing to do. You’d do anything to climb back into your warm bed.

but it was too late. can only go forward now.

Standing up, making a mental note to take a LONG bath in the morning. Going back over to the gate, wrapping your hands around the cold black bars. Pushing yourself up with all your strength.

“Get off. You’re making a fool out of yourself.” Her voice surprised you. making you yelp and quickly let go of the bars. turning around, taking in the sight of the knight walking up to you.

“Why are you out here? Do you not trust—” you began, but sevika was quick to interrupt you. Your eyes squinting at her.

“You’re a mess.”

you couldn’t even defend yourself. It was true. You were a mess. Embarrassment filled your body, you were a princess for gods sake.. and you were acting like this. A brat.

Her hand reached out to take yours, you had no choice but to let her. But your feet didn’t move an inch. Your eyes focused on the ground before looking up at her. Sevika was confused, but she didn’t dare drag you — you’d yell at her. Not that she cared, she just didn’t want your mother waking.

You stared at the helmet she wore — you couldn’t see even a fraction of her face, making your brows pinch, creating a wrinkle in between. “Take that off.” you ordered, half expecting her to not follow your orders. You were surprised as she mumbled to herself before pulling off her helmet.

you could feel your heart rate spike up like it did before.

sevika was a sight to take in. And you did exactly that. Not saying a word. Only admiring the tall woman.

“something on my face?” she grinned down at you . you could see the gap in between her two front teeth.

“no.”

sevikas brows quickly raised before chuckling quietly to herself. a deep rumble. you wanted to lay your head on her chest.. and fall asleep to her laugh—

“lets get you back inside and cleaned up, hm?”

[i7nn8a]

satorucat! x readercat!

In my human’s apartment, there’s a hole in the wall. It has a transparent barrier that stops me from going out—or at least makes my human think it does. Every time I wake up early, the sunlight comes through the hole, and I just lie there. The light warms me. It's my one true lazy moment of the day. My belly up, my paws stretched out. The only bad part is the light shining straight into my blue eyes, blinding me for a while. I stay there until my human puts my food, Pedigree, into my blue bowl.

After she gives me my food and strokes my white fur, she goes back to her corner and leaves me alone for a while. Usually, during this time, I hear that idiot Jogo, the neighbor’s mutt. I hear that flea-ridden thing sniffing under the door. He always does that. Stretching my spine and stepping carefully, I raise my claws and jab his filthy nose, and I can feel him jump back, startled. It happens every time, and yet the fool keeps doing it every single day.

After that, I go back to eating while my human gets ready to leave. She changes her clothes, eats something disgusting, puts on her shoes, grabs her keys, and strokes me again. I enjoy the affection, but now, I just want her to go. She picks up her things and leaves for a place I’ve never known—and honestly, I never cared. All I know is she only comes back when the sky is dark.

I go over to the hole in the wall. It has some cloths that block the light sometimes, but my human only closes them at night. There’s a silver latch right below the hole, but with a push of my paw, it opens. The barrier comes loose, and it just takes a nudge to get through. In no time, I’m outside. It’s high up, but there’s a staircase in front that I always climb. I go up, higher and higher, until I can see the whole city. Then I leap onto the rooftop. I walk along the edge until I spot another staircase I can reach with a jump. I go down and enter an alley full of trash, with a bunch of strays rummaging through it. Disgusting.

I pass by them, and they just stare. They recognize me. The name Satoru is known on these streets. None of them would ever dare mess with me. Animals know who’s superior. Cats are kings. A law that’s lasted through the ages. Unlike those weak canines who get carried away by every little instinct, cats think. Cats have the mind for it.

I keep walking until I cross the alley and reach a fairly busy street. Humans of every kind—tired, happy, sad, excited, busy. All of them on their way to do something. All of them too worried about what they still have to do. These years living among them have taught me one thing: none of them knows how to live. At least, not like a cat does.

It took a while, a long way, but finally, I could see it. A tall wall with blades on top, well known around here. Leaning against the wall was a dumpster, easy to climb. One paw here, another there, and done. The dumpster helped me scale the rest of the wall. But the real challenge was the blades. If I got hurt, my human would notice I’d gone out and find a way to lock me up for good inside that place.

So I went carefully. I slipped my paw between the sharp blades, made my way to the other side—and then I saw her. The most beautiful cat my eyes have ever crossed. That rare brown fur, those dark brown eyes, and a soul that makes me want to spend all seven of my lives just feeling it. And there she was, waiting for me. Leaning on the wall’s edge, with a little ribbon tied behind her head. Unlike my current scruffy state, she was perfect. Her fur perfectly aligned, sitting like a princess.

When I got closer, she noticed me and looked at me. She’s never meowed her name, and neither have I. She’s never meowed who she is, and neither have I. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, because as I got closer and she stepped nearer, I knew that no cat, dog, or human would ever really know how to live life. Because life was staring right back at me in that moment.

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

WRITING / ART TRADE FOR THE EVER SO AMAZING @somnolenthour

Never done something like this before, but I do think it's important to : a ) keep up my end of the trade with the skills I got b ) learn about other OC's and get into other writer's / artist's minds I hope you like it, and that I did your OC right! If I didn't do tell me so I can fix it! plot : Loretta Moss is haunted by Remmick. ( I did mention some Southern terms for ghosts and customs for getting rid of them in this. ) word count : 1,000+

Loretta Moss, was many things. She was kind, the kind of kind that most parents would scold their children and tell them to strive to be. She was a special one, truly, one that didn’t come around that often. But, the kind that couldn’t help but draw you in and want to stay around for a little longer, the kind that words didn’t do justice for. Most of all, she was beautiful. Inside and out. A kind soul, with the sweetest smile that made her eyes crinkle up and cheeks flush. If you were to ask most folks in town about her, you’d hear plenty of opinions on her. 

“Who? Loretta? What can I say but, she’s the kind of girl that’ll kill ya’ Mama with that sweet Southern charm. Make her pester you to snatch that girl up before another does.” 

“Oh, you mean, Miss Moss. What can I say but, she’s the kind of girl that you’d be happy with your son marrying. Make one mighty fine wife.”

“Oh, the girl from the hotel. What can I say but, she’s kind enough, pretty.” 

“Oh, no, you mean em’ strange one, who doesn’t attend church every Sunday. What can I say but, she’s the kind of girl who wears her skirt too high and her tongue too loose.”

The words didn’t bother her, people talked. Always did, always would. It was bound to happen when you lived in the middle of fuck knows where and had nothing interesting happening like those big old cities. If she lived in Chicago, or New York, someplace grand like Ruth did. She’d be a nobody, just another face that passed by in the rumbling streets. Never known. Never talked of.

She’d be able to rot away in peace in her bed, let her thoughts consume her until she wilted like a flower. Or maybe, it was just that small town madness that was putting those thoughts in her head. Making her overthink so much that she couldn’t tell what was the truth and what was fake.

Fuck. It wasn’t hard to be envious that Ruth got out of their shithole of a small town, out of the pitch black hole that consumed their minds⎯that made them so often question if this was a nightmare or a premonition of what was to come from some other worldly beings. Ruth got out. She got away. She got away.

She was probably working as a seamstress, making fancy gowns for those rich women in those fancy shops like in the magazines. Or maybe she was married, had a baby on the way. Or maybe she was no better than she was, stuck. Stuck in the past. Stuck in a small town. Stuck in the middle of fuck knows where. Wondering what was real and what was a trick of her mind.

Laying curled up in the wrinkled bed sheets, she digs her nails into the cotton, feeling the sweat that seeped into it. Her mind goes haywire, focusing on every little detail that it could sense. From the clicking of the clock downstairs, to the low chirping of crickets outside. From the way she could feel the old house groaning, old wood moving with the slight breeze in the air. From the way her vision adjusted to the darkness of her room, zoning in on the Spanish moss that blew just enough for it to tap her window. It was silent. It was peaceful. But, not for her. Not after what she dreamt of.

A man in the shadows, in the woods, in the marsh, in the swamps, everywhere. He was tall, bloody, eyes glowing a crimson red in the shadows that blurred his features. He smelt of something rotten, of something old, like the smell that the old crypts have after it rained. He sounded old too, not like he was dying, but rather a dying language flowed off his tongue as he spoke to her. It wasn’t Southern. It wasn’t from the States. Hell, it wasn’t from this time. No, it was older. It was dying, broken and rotten like him, like he had forgotten how to speak it. 

“Let me in..” He whispered, “into your heart.” 

She didn’t, her gut told her not to. Or maybe it was Meemaw's voice who told her not to let dark spirits in. They come wearing the face of men, get you dancing with them before they follow you home and never let you go. That’s what he was doing, trying to follow her home.

“Let me in.” He croaks, “Let me into your heart.”

“Let..me..in..”

“Let. Me. In.”

“Let me in, Loretta.”

“Let me in!”

It was a chant, a call. He was calling for her, like a wounded animal. Like the way stray dogs do for their pack. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to throw something at him. She wanted him gone. But, he was persistent. Like a stubborn haint with unfinished business. She’d have to burn some sage, or paint some haint blue on her windows and door to get rid of him in the morning. For now, she’d have to endure. Endure him. Endure the crippling fear that kept her firmly planted in bed. Endure the countdown until sunrise. 

“Let me in.” He whispers, “I can save you, Loretta.” 

“You ain’t real.” She whispers, trying to block him out. 

“Sure, I am, suga’. I am just as real as you are.” He chuckles, making her flinch at the sound. 

“You ain’t real, just another nightmare.” She whispers, fingers tangling into her hair.  

She wanted to believe it. This was just another one of those nightmares. But, it felt so real. Too real to just be a dream. To just be something that her brain had come up with. There was too much realism. He had too much realism. Shifting her gaze onto the window to try to ignore him, he steps into the moonlight, clearly not liking being ignored. His boot clicked against the floorboards, before the scuffle of the dragging of a chair against the floor makes her cringe. 

“Nightmare? Na, I’m as real as em’ premonitions.” He chuckles, leaning back in the rocking chair. 

“You ain’t fuckin’ real.” She argues, shaking her head. 

“Suga’, I’m as real as you make me to be.”

"You ain't real." She whimpers, nails digging into her scalp.

Real, not real. Real, or not real. Pulling at strands of her hair, she could feel the tears bubbling up, exhaustion making her bottom lip tremble. She was just so tired. She wanted to sleep in peace, to dream of Ruth and the kind of life she was living. Not of him. Not of this.

Trying to remember what Meemaw has said years ago, she stares at him, teary eyes glimmering in the moonlight. Do not let dark spirits in. They come wearing the face of men, get you dancing with them before they follow you home and never let you go. That’s what he was doing, trying to follow her home.

“You ain’t welcome here.” She whispers, watching his rocking halt. 

"Say again." He hums, chuckling.

“You ain’t welcome here.” She repeats, her voice a little more firm this time.

He leans forward slowly in the chair, face becoming more and more clearer. Rugged features that once could be considered handsome, hidden by a thick layer of blood and peeling skin. Fangs in where normal teeth should be. He was a true monster. 

“Oh, I soon will be. Just you wait, suga’. Just you wait.” He cracks a bloody smile, tilting his head to the side. 

---

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

Tainted

Cult-Geto x FemReader. Dark themed. Mature. Explicit

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Nine.

The sun filtered through the paper screens of the main house, casting warm light over the tatami floors. You stood beside Geto Suguru, dressed in a more modest travel kimono, your heart fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird. This was it—the final morning at your childhood home. The last time you'd walk these familiar halls not as a daughter of the clan, but as someone else's wife.

Your mother stood before you, calm and composed as always. She looked at you with quiet pride, brushing a stray hair from your face before whispering, "You did well. You’ve fulfilled your duty with grace. A wife brings honor through devotion."

Your father offered a solemn nod. “Geto-dono has done much for our family. We owe him more than words can repay. Go with him. Serve him well.”

You bowed deeply, hiding the twist of uncertainty in your chest. Geto bowed as well, offering words of gratitude, but you could feel something else just beneath his smile—a quiet triumph. He had their blessing. Their trust. Their full approval.

The attendants moved quietly, efficiently gathering your belongings into the car that had been prepared for your departure. The clan had spared no effort. Silk cushions lined the seats, and every item you owned had been packed with care. But the deeper meaning was clear: your ties to your old life were being sealed and sent off, boxed and delivered into his domain.

You stepped into the car, your breath catching as the door closed with a soft click. The world outside your clan’s gate slowly disappeared behind tinted glass.

Geto sat beside you, looking completely at ease, his presence dominating the space even in silence. You kept your hands folded in your lap, but his found your thigh with ease, the weight of his palm warm and firm through your layered dress. His fingers moved in slow, careful strokes—not indecent, but intimate enough to claim.

He could feel it—the tension in your muscles, the way your breath caught in your throat.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, turning his head toward you. “Is it fear, little wife?” His tone was gentle, almost amused, but there was something sharper behind it. “Don’t be. You have me now. That’s all you’ll ever need.”

Then he pulled you into his side, his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulder, anchoring you there. You didn’t resist.

“I know it’s a lot,” he added in a low voice, brushing his lips against your temple. “But it’ll be beautiful. Peaceful. Just the two of us… always.”

You tried to believe him. You tried to find comfort in his warmth, in his certainty. But deep inside, something unsettled stirred. This was your first time leaving the safety of your clan’s walls—the only world you had ever known. And the man taking you away from it all? He was both your protector and your captor.

Geto smiled as the car rolled deeper into the forest roads, as the city began to vanish into trees and shadows.

In his mind, this was perfect.

With every mile, you were pulled further from your family, your clan, your old identity. And soon, there would be nothing left to cling to—no safety net, no ties. Only him.

Just as he wanted.

The car pulled to a soft stop, and as the doors opened, your breath caught in your throat.

The mansion that stood before you was nothing like the estate of your childhood. Nestled deep within a forest clearing, it was grand, serene, almost ethereal. A sprawling structure of dark wood and curved eaves, surrounded by blooming trees and delicate lanterns that swayed in the breeze. At its heart was a towering shrine, glowing softly beneath the fading sunlight.

Your eyes widened in wonder. “It’s… beautiful.”

Geto stepped beside you, his arm steady at your back. “I’m glad you like it,” he said with quiet pride. “The people in the nearby villages come here when they feel something is wrong—sickness, strange dreams, misfortune. They offer prayers, donations. And I… cleanse what lingers.”

He smiled, but there was something in his voice—a curl of amusement that suggested there was more to it. Something you didn’t understand.

You nodded slowly. “I didn’t know people could live like this. I’ve never been beyond the clan walls until now.”

“I know,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against yours, coaxing your hand into his. “But that’s over now. This is your home. With me.”

Attendants came to greet you, bowing low with practiced reverence. “Welcome, Madame,” one said, her voice light, respectful.

Your heart skipped. Madame.

The title made you stiffen, made your cheeks flush with something you couldn’t name. You barely managed to nod as your luggage was taken inside, your feet hesitant until Geto lifted your hand and brought it to his lips.

He kissed your knuckles slowly—deliberately. His mouth lingered, soft but claiming.

That single touch ignited the memory of his lips on far more delicate places. The heat of it bloomed down your spine. You gasped softly, and Geto didn’t miss it. He never did.

His dark eyes fixed on yours, watching the shiver of remembrance roll through your frame. “You’re so easy to read, little wife,” he said under his breath, low enough that only you could hear. “One kiss, and you remember everything I did to you.”

Your breath hitched. Your hand trembled slightly in his grip.

And yet—you didn’t pull away.

Geto smiled at that. Not with sweetness, but with something darker. Something satisfied. He could see it happening—your slow unraveling. The way you had begun to move toward him not out of duty, but want. He knew how to draw it out of you, piece by piece. And he would. Completely. Until you couldn’t remember a version of yourself that didn’t belong to him.

He would make you his. In body, in mind, in soul.

You didn’t know the full extent of it—his plans, his hunger, the shadowed thoughts behind that calm expression. All you knew was that his fingers laced with yours as he led you into the mansion.

You stepped over the threshold, not knowing it was the last line you’d ever cross of your own will.

And once you were inside, the door shut behind you with a soft click—like the sealing of a fate you couldn’t yet see.

Geto’s hand gently pushed open the tall double doors, revealing the room that would now be yours. Your eyes widened, breath catching softly.

The room was a vision of elegance and power—walls trimmed in dark lacquered wood, gold-accented shelves lining one side, and at its heart stood a magnificent bed. Four grand posters framed it, hung with sheer black curtains that shimmered like liquid shadow under the warm glow of lanterns. Gold thread traced the fabric, catching every flicker of light. Everything about it whispered quiet opulence… and something far more intimate. It was too personal. Too deliberate.

You stepped inside, almost reverently, your fingertips brushing over the polished surface of a desk, then the armrest of a carved chair. Everything was ornate and yet untouched—waiting for its purpose to be fulfilled.

Then your eyes landed on the bed, and your breath hitched.

You felt Geto’s eyes on your back before you even turned.

He didn’t approach. Not yet. He just stood at the threshold, watching. Possessive and composed.

Then, in a voice like velvet pulled taut, he said, “This is our room. And that… is our bed.”

His words echoed in the stillness, sinking deep into your bones.

You turned slowly, heart thudding, face burning. Heat curled up your neck and bloomed over your cheeks as your gaze darted toward the bed again. The implications wrapped around you like invisible chains, binding you tighter than any rope could.

Geto chuckled, low and rich. “My beautiful wife is still so shy,” he mused as he stepped forward, every movement fluid, measured, as though savoring your discomfort—your innocence.

He reached out, running his knuckles slowly along your bare arm. You shivered beneath the touch. It wasn’t cold in the room, and yet your skin trembled.

“You’re trembling again,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “I haven’t even touched you properly… and yet you react like this.”

You gasped when his lips grazed yours—not quite a kiss, just a whisper of warmth, a threat of what could come. Your fingers clutched the fabric of your dress tightly, anchoring yourself as an unfamiliar heat curled low in your belly.

Your heart beat so loudly, you feared he could hear it.

“Suguru, I don’t… I can’t…” you whispered without thinking, voice barely audible.

Geto leaned in closer, his mouth just beside your ear, and his breath made your skin tingle.

“Hush, my little one. I know. That feeling…” he said slowly, “is desire. Yours. For me.” He let the words drip into you like ink into paper—indelible, permanent. “You don’t need to fight it.”

His arms wrapped around your waist, firm yet gentle, as he pulled you flush against his chest. “This is your home now,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your temple, “with me. No one else. Just us.”

And despite the storm of nerves in your chest, despite not knowing what to do or what came next—your body didn’t resist him. It leaned in. Trusted. Ached quietly for something you didn’t yet have the name for.

And Geto knew it.

He would teach you everything—in his own time, in his own way.

[peaches2217]

There were protesters outside of Planned Parenthood yesterday (two upper-middle-aged women wearing anti-abortion signs), which was strange, because it was 1:30 on a Wednesday, not exactly when you normally see them. But hey, I guess facing down protesters who don’t believe you should be alive and that you don’t have the right to exist is sort of a right of passage for anyone seeking care at PP; I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner. 😅

They approached me as I got out of my car and told me I deserved so much better than Planned Parenthood. I asked if they were aware this particular clinic doesn’t and never HAS performed abortions. They said it doesn’t matter; they’re all instruments of death for children and instigators of transgender mutilation (or some shit like that, I was surviving purely on cold medicine and caffeine just to survive the commute up there and back so details are kinda fuzzy). I said something like “Ah! Well I’m trans, so that’s good!” and went on inside.

There’s a two-door system in place for the staff’s safety: after entering the first door, you tap into an intercom and give details about your appointment and personal info in order to be buzzed into the second set of doors.

So while I was waiting to be buzzed in, those two ladies were pounding on the door behind me, telling me that God loves me and made me perfect just the way I am, and I shouldn’t try to change His divine plan. I could still hear them going even after getting into the office proper.

When I left about an hour later, one of the ladies was still standing outside (I guess the other one was on lunch or something?). She immediately told me that God made me a beautiful woman for a reason, and that, if only I’d submit myself to His will, He would call me to something far greater — such as birthing my own children and being a mother!

As shitty as these people are, I try not to be rude, because that only makes them indignant, but holy fuck I was trying so hard not to laugh. Easily the worst sales pitch I’ve heard in my life.

As I got back into my car, she finally asked why I felt I had to change my gender to be happy. I told her that I simply AM happy, and that, being a staunch Christian myself, I felt it was part of God’s plan for me. She tried saying something else, but I just shut the door, waved to her, and drove off.

I don’t think I made much of an impact, but I still pray that, however small, my comment might get her thinking. I can hope, right?

The rest of my visit was uneventful. I met my mom for lunch, and she started crying because she hates my facial hair so much, so I held her hand and promised her it’s okay, I know it’s hard for her, don’t worry. She reaffirmed that she wants nothing to do with my surgery; I assured her my hotel’s already been paid for and I’m padding my savings to make up for the time I won’t be able to work, and she seemed satisfied with that.

Then my actual appointment was very celebratory. My team was so excited to hear about my surgery!! My provider actually started tearing up. When I went to make my next appointment, I had to schedule it an extra month out, because otherwise it would overlap with my surgery date. Like… it’s real. It’s all really happening. I’m still scared to be happy and excited because What If™️, but at the same time, I’m actually letting myself look forward to the future. I’m really happy. 🥹

[daydreamerdrew]

Tales of Suspense (1959) #52-53 and #60 and The Avengers (1963) #29 and Black Widow: Deadly Origin (2010) #2

[echoes-lighthouse]

A personal (beige???) flag:

I will stop on walks to rizz up birds regularly. I simply have a psychological need to stop and say 'ooooo you're so pretty! hello beautiful!!!' when I see a bird that is looking pretty in the sunshine

Today I was narrating this pretty little black and white bird being like 'hey gorgeous look at you walking over there!! oh you look so nice! look at those legs for days!!!!'

and I didn't realize there was someone behind me and I probably would have toned it down a little if I'd known it was a middle-aged man, because he looked very confused.

[steelycunt]

blushing over the compliments my dentist gave me on my brushwork...words like fantastic were thrown around..i love 2 get a good grade in dentist <3

[rescuefield-a]

this is totally unrelated but i was thinking about the fact that claire's growth into a relatively masculine environment and how her style was pretty much tomboyish since forever, how generally you'll never see her be extremely feminine clothing wise and how she hangs on that red leather jacket for dear life every season of the year since it's basically like her armour. i was also thinking about piers' email ( as one does ) and how she's depicted as this gorgeous gorgeous woman who makes everybody's head turn unexpectedly ( the fact that they thought she looked like chris in a skirt sends me because i think in DI you can finally see it very clearly that they do share similar features lol ) which probably surprises claire a lot since the reason she's mostly known for attracting all the attention in every room is actually her temperament

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

You sit beside Xavier on the bench in the park, watching people pass by as golden afternoon light filters through the leaves. The air smells of fresh-cut grass and distant food carts. A stylish couple walks past, the woman’s laughter musical, her confidence evident in every step.

“I wish I was pretty like her,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, your fingers absently tracing patterns on the wooden bench.

Xavier turns to you, his expression shifting to one of genuine confusion. His brows furrow deeply, eyes widening just a fraction.

“What... did you say?” he asks, his tone remaining even despite the clear puzzlement in his eyes. He shifts his body toward you, giving you his full attention.

“Nothing, just...” you gesture vaguely toward the retreating couple. “Sometimes I don’t feel very attractive. Especially around people like that.”

Xavier stares at you for a long moment, looking genuinely bewildered. The silence stretches between you, broken only by distant children’s laughter and birdsong.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says.

You start to explain, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his unwavering gaze, but he gently places his hand over yours, the warmth of his palm surprising against your skin.

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head slightly. “I mean I don’t understand why you would think that. It doesn’t make sense.” His thumb traces a small circle on the back of your hand. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he states matter-of-factly. “I’ve always thought so.”

Coming from Xavier, the sincerity in his voice makes your heart skip.

“You don’t have to say that,” you protest weakly, looking down at where his hand covers yours.

Xavier shakes his head, leaning closer. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I don’t...” he pauses, carefully selecting his words, “understand how you can’t see what I see.”

His fingers tighten around yours, the pressure gentle but grounding. “Every time I look at you, I...” He struggles with the words, clearly moving outside his comfort zone. A faint color touches his usually pale cheeks. “From a purely objective standpoint, the way you look—” He stops, frustrated with himself, and takes a deep breath.

“That’s not what I meant to say.” He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, there’s a rare vulnerability there. “What I mean is that you’re beautiful. In every way that matters. Your smile when you’re excited about something. The way your eyes light up when you talk about things you care about. How your whole face changes when you’re lost in thought.”

He reaches up with his free hand, hesitating just shy of touching your face. “I’ve remembered every expression you make. I’ve studied them all.” He looks away, embarrassed by his own earnestness. “You’re beautiful. Please, don’t think otherwise.”

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, as if relieved to have expressed something he’s held inside for too long. He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the afternoon.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

You’re helping Zayne organize his medical journals in his office as late afternoon shadows stretch across the polished floors. The pristine space feels both clinical and comforting—much like the man himself.

As you reach up to place a heavy volume on the top shelf, you catch your reflection in the large window overlooking the city. The bright lighting does you no favors.

“Ugh,” you mutter, tugging self-consciously at your clothes. “I look awful today.”

Zayne glances up from his desk where he’s been meticulously updating patient files. He sets down his pen, the soft click audible in the sudden silence. His eyes, usually so focused on his work, now study you with that penetrating gaze that seems to see beneath surfaces.

“What brought this on?” he asks, his voice filling the room.

“Nothing specific,” you say, turning away from your reflection. “Just... some days I don’t feel pretty, that’s all.”

Zayne stands. He gestures to the leather chair beside his own. “Sit.”

You comply, watching as he leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest. The setting sun through the windows casts half his face in shadow, highlighting the sharp angles of his features.

“Are you overthinking again?” he asks directly, but there’s no judgment in his tone. “Or did someone say something to you today?”

“Just overthinking, I guess,” you admit, fidgeting under his steady gaze.

He nods once, as if confirming a diagnosis. “I see.” He’s silent for a moment.

“Beauty is subjective,” he begins. “But if you’re asking for my opinion...” The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be the ghost of a smile. “You’re more than perfect. Inside and out.”

When you start to protest, he raises a hand to stop you.

“I don’t make observations lightly. You know that.” His eyes hold yours. “I’ve studied human anatomy for years. I’ve seen thousands of faces.” He leans forward slightly. “None of them affect me the way yours does.”

The admission seems to surprise even him, a rare moment of vulnerability from someone so carefully composed.

Suddenly, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a small chocolate wrapped in gold foil. It’s from the exclusive chocolatier across town—the one he pretends not to favor.

He places it in your palm, his fingers lingering against yours longer than necessary. “Here,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Sweet for the sweet.”

Before you can respond, he leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead. The momentary closeness allows you to catch the subtle scent of his aftershave mingled with antiseptic.

“Now,” he says, straightening himself, “wait for me to finish organizing these journals so we can go home. I’m thinking of dinner at that place you like on Fifth Street.” He turns back to his desk, but not before adding, “And no more nonsense about not being pretty. I won’t have the person I care for most questioning their worth.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

You’re sitting on the private beach adjoining Rafayel’s seaside studio, watching him add final touches to a vibrant seascape painting. The ocean stretches endlessly before you, waves crashing rhythmically against the shore. The air tastes of salt and fresh breeze. Seagulls circle overhead, their calls mingling with the gentle lapping of water against sand.

Rafayel stands before his painting, completely absorbed in his work. Paint splatters decorate his rolled-up sleeves and there’s a smudge of blue across his cheekbone. The wind tousles his already disheveled hair as he captures the dance of light on water.

A group of beautiful people laugh further down the beach, their perfect silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. You glance down at yourself, then back at them, feeling suddenly out of place in this picturesque setting.

“I don’t think I’m pretty enough for this place,” you whisper, the breeze carrying your words away—or so you think.

Rafayel’s hand freezes. He turns to you slowly, paint-speckled fingers stilling on the canvas, his expression transforming from focus to complete disbelief.

“What did you just say?” His usually playful voice has an edge to it now, sharp as broken glass.

“Nothing, just thinking out loud,” you reply, regretting having spoken at all.

“No, no, no,” he sets his palette down with a clatter on the small table beside him. “You don’t get to say things like that and dismiss them as ’nothing.’” In an instant, he takes a seat on your side. “Did someone say something to you?” he demands, looking around the empty beach as if searching for culprits. “Which human do I need to have a word with?”

“No one said anything, Rafayel. It’s just how I feel sometimes,” you admit.

“That’s even worse! Your own mind betraying you like this?” He runs his fingers through his hair. “This is an emergency. A catastrophe of the highest order!”

He grabs your shoulders. “You are an absolute masterpiece. Do you understand? A masterpiece. I know art. I create art. I live and breathe beauty in all its forms. And you—” he pokes your cheek lightly, leaving a tiny dot of turquoise paint, “—are the finest creation I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

When you try to look away, embarrassed by his intensity, he gently tilts your chin back. The setting sun reflects in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold. “The ocean is jealous of your depths. The stars envy your brilliance.” His voice softens, becoming almost reverent. “And I would swim across every sea before I let you believe you’re anything less than stunning.”

He wraps his arms around you suddenly, clinging like a child. “Now don’t say such ridiculous things again. It offends my artistic sensibilities.”

He then stands, pulling you up with him. “Come on. We’re going to watch the sunset together. I’ll show you how I see you.” He places a brush in your hand, his fingers lingering. “And maybe then you’ll understand why I can’t look away.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

You stand before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows in Sylus’s penthouse suite, overlooking the sprawling N109 Zone from stories up. The city stretches below like a circuit board of neon and shadow, vehicles and people reduced to tiny moving points of light. The luxurious room behind you is bathed in the soft glow of artfully placed lamps illuminating his collection of rarities—collections plucked from across time and space.

Catching your reflection in the darkened glass, superimposed over the glittering cityscape, you murmur without thinking, “I don’t know why you keep me around. I’m not even pretty.”

The room falls silent. You hear Sylus set down whatever gem he was examining, the soft clink of crystal against metal followed by his steady steps as he approaches.

“What an odd thing to say,” he remarks, his voice silky yet sharp as a blade, “because you’re entirely incorrect.”

You turn to find him watching you, head slightly tilted.

“Did I hear you questioning your beauty?” A smirk plays on his lips, but his eyes remain serious, almost stern. “After all this time with me, you should know very well that I have exceptional taste.”

He closes the distance between you. He places his hands on your waist, positioning you both so your reflections are visible in the window. His gaze in the reflection holds nothing but admiration.

“Do you think I surround myself with anything less than perfection?” He gestures to the rare treasures adorning his collection shelf—items worth more than most people earn in a lifetime. “Do you imagine I would waste my time on someone who didn’t captivate me entirely?”

His fingers trace your jawline, feather-light. “Hundreds of rare gems, ancient artifacts, priceless paintings—I collect only the extraordinary, the unique.” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “And yet, not one of these treasures compares to your presence and beauty.”

When you start to protest, he places a finger gently against your lips. “I don’t tolerate self-deprecation from the one person in this universe I genuinely cherish.”

He turns you to face him fully now, both hands cupping your face with surprising tenderness from someone so powerful, so used to taking what he wants. Your disbelief must show on your face because he chuckles softly.

“Your beauty is not up for debate, not even by you. Challenge me on anything else if you wish, demand whatever your heart desires—but on this matter, I will not yield.”

He steps back after brushing a kiss against your forehead, apparently considering the matter settled. “Now come here and tell me what you want instead of what you think you lack. That’s much more productive, don’t you agree?”

He gestures to the plush sofa. “Sit down and tell me about your day today. I haven’t heard you talking about it.” His expression softens further. “Let’s talk about that instead.”

As you join him, he casually drapes an arm around you, pulling you closer. “And tomorrow,” he murmurs against your hair, “I’ll show you exactly how beautiful you are to me. I have something special planned—something worthy of you.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

You’re absently scrolling through your phone as you accompany Caleb while he sorts through Fleet reports in his home office. The space reflects his dual nature—military precision in the organized shelves and structured workspace, but touches of warmth in the photographs and mementos from his DAA days. The soft glow of multiple screens illuminates the room as rain patters against the windows, creating a cozy atmosphere.

Caleb sits at his desk, brow furrowed in concentration as he reviews security protocols. His uniform jacket hangs on the back of his chair, sleeves of his standard-issue shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms. Despite the late hour, his posture remains perfect—the Colonel, always on duty.

Glancing up, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflective surface of a dormant monitor. The unflattering blue light highlights every perceived imperfection.

“Ugh,” you mutter under your breath, running a self-conscious hand through your hair. “I look terrible today.”

Caleb’s head snaps up from his work. “What did you just say?” There’s a sudden alertness in his posture, as if responding to a threat.

“Just that I’m not looking my best,” you shrug, trying to downplay it, surprised by his intense reaction. 

Caleb stands, his chair rolling backward. His eyes narrow as he scans the room like he’s searching for enemies in a combat zone. “Who put that idea in your head?”

The protective edge in his voice takes you by surprise.

“No one, Caleb. It’s just how I feel sometimes.” You set down your phone, touched by his concern even as you try to ease it.

His expression darkens for a moment before he walks towards you. “Hey,” he says, crouching beside where you’re seated and taking your hands in his. “Look at me.”

When you meet his eyes, they’re filled with the same warmth they held when you were both kids, before the Fleet, before the incident—before everything changed.

“I’ve watched you grow more beautiful every single day since we were kids,” he says, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The calluses on his palms catch slightly against your skin. “Sometimes I still can’t believe I get to be with you.”

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. Rain continues to drum against the windows, creating a private world just for the two of you.

“You’ve always been the prettiest person in any room to me. Always will be. Nothing compares to coming home to you.”

His smile returns. “And trust me, I’ve had plenty of people try to catch my eye over the years. None of them even came close. It’s just not possible when my mind can only think of you.”

He presses a soft kiss onto your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. “So no more of this ‘not pretty’ talk, okay? Or I’ll have to issue an official declaration about how gorgeous you are, and that would be really embarrassing for everyone involved.”

Based on this request.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Part 3 of ‘Bird Watching’ aka hot construction worker Simon x single mom reader

He thinks your favourite colour must be yellow

It’s the first thing he notices when he walks into your flat, or rather, the first thing his brain registers as existing around you, because in actuality he’s unable to let his eyes stray from your form for even a second

From the corner of his eye, he spots a yellow rain jacket hung up by the front door as he kicks his boots off, sees yellow mugs drying next to the empty baby bottles by the sink, notices yellow pillows and blankets laid out across the couch next to a laundry basket, tiny onesies and burp cloths left half folded inside, notices an arrangement of drooping yellow tulips in a vase that have seen better days, and in the midst of all the sunshine scattered across a flat evidently well lived in, well loved, is you

You, in a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt that definitely doesn’t have dried spit up on it, bags beneath your eyes betraying the exhaustion that your smile refuses to divulge, and with a tiny baby cradled against your soft chest, you’re nothing short of a vision Simon feels unworthy to be bearing witness to, the epitome of everything he thought he would never have, would never deserve, pure and unabashed domesticity at its finest

He thinks you’re the most beautiful sight he’ll ever see

As privileged as he feels to have been invited inside your flat, inside your home, invited to take a glimpse into the four walls that keep you and your baby bird sheltered from the outside world where things aren’t all sunshine, another part of him wishes you’d never extended the invitation in the first place

When you’d answered the phone last night, he could tell immediately that he had called at an inopportune time

The sound of a baby’s displeased shrieking in the background was impossible to ignore, even over the sound of your sweet ‘Hello?’ coming through the line, but how was he meant to ask if this was a bad time, when you let out the most delighted, tantalizing little gasp when he’d said it was Simon calling

“Oh, Simon! It’s so nice to hear from you! How are you?” You’d asked him, voice sweet as a candy and addictive as a drug. How was he? Well when you said things like that, he felt like he was on the verge of either a heart attack or a relapse into something he was sure would leave him feeling high for the rest of his days, but he managed instead to tell you that he was fine, not that you’d heard his reply

Talking on the phone while holding a newborn who demanded her mum’s undivided attention proved to be a feat easier said than done

“Sorry, could you say that again?”

“Asked how you girls were holdin’ up?” He’d repeated for you, voice a little louder for you to understand over the noise

“We’re alright. Better now that you’ve called, we’ve been lookin’ forward to hearin’ from you. I mean- I don’t mean to get ahead of myself here but, I’m guessing you’ve called with good news? I hope?”

Simon couldn’t help but let the small chuckle that built in his chest and slipped past his lips, knowing that there wasn’t a single alternate reality out there where he’d allow himself to ever give you anything other than good news, give you any reason other than to smile

“It is good news.” He confirmed, smile widening when he could practically hear you grinning on the other end of the phone. “Though there are a few uh- kinks we might have to sort out.”

Whatever reply you might have given, Simon was unable to hear over the sound of tiny cries on the other end growing louder, more insistent

“Sorry, I think she’s ready for another feeding.” You’d explained to him after the interruption, unaware that the mental image you’d just painted in Simon’s mind, of your aching breasts being suckled on while you spoke to him over the line, had his heart skip a beat, shaking his head and willing himself to stay focused. “Feels like the little lady never stops eating.”

“Would it be easier if I met you somewhere? Might be able to give you all the details tha’ way.” He thought about how he’d have to thank your baby bird one day, for giving him an easy excuse to see you in person again

“Think you might be right.” You’d giggled softly through the phone, a deep blush creeping up Simon’s neck up to the tips of his ears at the sound

Now, Simon wasn’t overly thrilled at how easily you offered him your home address, in spite of him offering to meet you at a cafe, or a park, anywhere that’d be convenient for you, you’d explained to him that getting yourself and a newborn out of the house was more time consuming than the actual outing, and that you’d be happy to offer him a cup of tea for his troubles

As infatuated as he’d become with you since your last conversation, and as much as he’d hoped there was a sliver of a chance you’d been thinking of him too, he wasn’t keen on you so willingly giving your address to someone who was still more or a less a stranger, even if the stranger was doing you a monumental favour

But Simon couldn’t fault you for being sweet, for being kind, for being so trusting, for still looking at the world and seeing good where others saw nothing, for finding the sunshine in the darkness

On top of that, he could tell how exhausted you were, despite your cheery disposition over the phone, the sleep deprivation was clear as day, certainly playing a part in your willingness to invite a stranger into your home, no questions asked

And that had Simon’s heart aching the entire drive over to your flat, thinking about how you were taking care of this new little life, so dependent on you for everything, but who was taking care of you? Who was making sure you were looked after? You’d mentioned how it felt like she never stopped eating, but who was there to remind you to eat enough too?

That train of thought led to a small pit stop along the way, sweet and savoury treats sat in the display case of the bakery reminded him of how little he knew about you, how we wasn’t sure which ones you’d prefer, until finally he was walking out with a box tucked under his arm filled with one of everything

As he’d knocked on the door to the flat, part of him had even wondered if he should’ve gotten some groceries for you as well, remembering how you’d said getting out of the house was especially tricky now, but he had to reign himself in, not wanting to overwhelm you too early, to come on too strong. You’d soon enough discover how willing he was to help, it would only be a matter of time until everything settled into place, for now he would have to pace himself

For now, he could allow himself to enjoy the sight of you licking your lips as you pull a chocolate croissant out of the to-go box, let himself appreciate the comfortable silence of a meal shared between two- as you’d insisted he had to have something to eat as well- two mugs of steaming tea sat cooling on the table as the tiny bird snuggled in her wrap sleeps peacefully against your chest

He hadn’t been able to get much of a glimpse at her last time, tucked away under layers of blankets in her pram, and granted her mum had been holding most of his attention. But now he’s able to get a slightly better look at her as she snoozes on you, her body as tiny as he remembers his nephew having been once. She’s got her mouth open in a slight ‘o’, her petite little hand curled up against the top of your cleavage, she slumbers without a care in the world, knowing she’s in the safest spot she could ever be, listening to her mum’s heartbeat beneath her ear

And you, every time your hand rubs gently against her back or softly pats her little bottom, eyes glancing down to check on her and eyes beaming with intangible love and devotion, well, you appear to quite literally glow before him. The two of you look like a perfect puzzle, the pieces fitting together seamlessly to reveal a most beautiful image

Simon only hopes that there’s perhaps room for a third puzzle piece in the mix, a chance to discover an even more complete picture, one that maybe includes him

“Part of me wants to insist again that you didn’t have to do this, but I think I actually really needed it.” You say, wiping crumbs off the corner of your mouth with a finger, Simon’s gaze inevitably locked on the movement, mind wandering towards thoughts of licking chocolate remnants off your lips with his own tongue. “So I’ll say thank you instead. Again.”

“You’re welcome.” He replies with a soft chuckle reverberating through his chest, shoulders unconsciously straightening with the pride he feels swell within him, knowing that such a simple gesture could so easily please you. “Really, no need to thank me.”

“I just um-” you add, shifting slightly in your seat, fidgeting with your fingers as you avoid his gaze and look at the box of sweets instead. “I just would feel bad taking all of these if someone’s waiting on you at home that would like them too. Should we save some for ‘em?”

You’re cute, Simon thinks to himself, trying to get an answer to a question you don’t want to ask directly, tip toeing around it

“There ain’t no one at home, love.” He confirms, the term of endearment slipping out intentionally this time, feeling emboldened by being in your home, in your orbit, in your gaze, and apparently being on your mind too. “They’re all yours.”

The treats are all yours, yes, but what he doesn’t dare say yet is that so is his time, his attention, his focus, they’re all yours now birdie, if you’ll allow him to give them to, that is

The blush that creeps up your cheeks has his own blood rushing south, your shy smile imprinting itself to the front of his brain for safekeeping. You’re as sweet as any of the goods they made in that bakery today, and so he decides he’ll let you in on the other question you’ve been dancing around since you’ve been sitting here chatting

“So is the nursery spot. It’s yours, I mean. Or, rather hers I suppose.” He adds, jutting his chin towards the bundle laid across your bosom, noticing how your face stills at his words for a second, before blooming into the brightest expression he’s seen on you thus far

“Really? Oh my gosh, are you serious? I- okay hold on, let me try and lay her down in her crib. I’m too excited, I’m gonna wake her up.” You say, the pure joy evident in your voice as you slowly rise from your seat, a palm cradled against the back of her head as you excuse yourself down the hall towards what must be your bedroom, Simon’s eyes following your every move until your mismatched socked feet are padding back towards him a few minutes alter

“Simon, you- you really mean it? What did- how did you- what’s- just tell me everything!” You laugh, pulling your kitchen chair closer towards his side of the round table, sliding your mug across the wood towards you as you settle in, beaming eyes locked on his

He has to fight to reign in the grin threatening to stretch across his face as well, your excitement contagious as he angles his body towards you, not missing the way your eyes flit towards the flexing muscle of his arms for a split second, before returning to his face

Now, Simon’s had ample time between meeting the daycare’s director and walking into your flat, and each second has been spent wondering how he would go about this… situation he’s put himself into, considering what he should do about the little white lie he didn’t correct when the owner presumed Simon was inquiring about a spot for his child, a child she presumed he shared with his wife, rather than the woman he’d started falling for only days earlier

And yet with all that time, and as skilled as Simon once was at making life or death decision in the blink of an eye, not having had the luxury to consider actions and consequences when in the heat of the moment in what feels like a lifetime ago, he hasn’t been able to bring himself to a decision, hasn’t been able to convince himself that it’s worth bringing up at all, so long as no one tugs too hard on the loose string and unravels everything he’s working to seam together

After all, if Simon has it his way, the owner’s assumption won’t be wrong for too much longer, and so as he sits across from you, waiting for his answer, he decides that no one is being hurt if he omits the truth just a little while longer

“Easy ‘nough to find the owner, after all.” Not entirely true. “Turns out she’s a friend of a friend, who would’ve known?” Not true at all. “Told her I needed a favour, and she was happy to oblige.” A lie. “They had exactly one infant spot left open, and it’s yours now.”

“Oh, Simon, I- I don’t even know what to say! I was only expecting you to find me a phone number, or a name, or- I can’t believe you would do all of that.” You practically gush, pulling your knees up so you’re facing him entirely now. “I thought I was going to have to beg whoever was in charge for a chance, no one in the city is accepting infants right now. I just- Simon I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I am, truly. But, why would you even do all of this? Even if you’re down playing it, it sounds like you went through a lot of trouble for us.”

Simon decides he’ll try a little honesty for a change

“The truth?” He asks softly, and you nod up at him, gaze wholly enraptured by whatever reply he’s about to offer you. “Haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ ‘bout you. Either of you. But, you especially.”

“R-really?” You practically whisper, the blush on your cheeks as dark as ever, though your smile is anything but shy this time. He would dare say you look almost relieved at his words, a sentiment that has his heart skipping another beat.

“O’ course.” He answers easily, wondering how he’s gone all his life without this feeling stirring in his chest, the rush of chemicals to his brain addictive to say the least, wondering why he’s denied himself this joy for so long. But then again, it was you he was waiting on all this time, wasn’t it? “The director would like to meet you first though, she said there’s enrolment details to sort through or something, and she wants to meet- erm-” He trails off, motioning in the direction of the hall where you’ve laid the baby bird to rest

“Rosie. Oh my gosh, I can’t believe how rude I am, you’ve done all this for us and I haven’t even introduced you to her properly!” You say, a hand unconsciously smoothing over your stomach where she once grew, as though that would always be the place you considered her first home, as being within you. “Her name’s Rose, but she’s my little Rosie.”

“Tha’s beautiful.” He says, following your gaze as you look lovingly down the hall towards her, as though you could both see her through the walls.

“Thank you. I had no idea what I was going to name her, all throughout my pregnancy. I was literally in the hospital bed pushing her out and still unsure what I’d call her.” You reminisce with a small laugh, Simon hanging onto your every word as you offer him a glimpse into your reality a few months prior, the time before you’d turned his world upside down, a time when the foundation of your own world was being rocked.

“I was uh- I was by myself for it. Didn’t have anyone there, and this one nurse was so kind to me. She made me feel like I wasn’t alone, stayed with me for all of it, even after I’d delivered. Afterwards everyone kept pressuring me to come up with a name for her already, one doctor even told me I should’ve been able to look at her and just know. That mothers are supposed to know these things when they look at their baby. But there was so much happening- I just couldn’t decide, nothing felt right for her. Anyways, a few hours after I’d given birth the nurse came into my room and she’d gotten me flowers, probably from their gift shop. But it was a bouquet of roses, it was- it was the nicest thing anyone had done for me in a long time and I knew right away, that my girl was going to be a Rose.”

Simon can’t help but to sit in comfortably silence for a moment, letting that information sink in. You’d told him in your first meeting that it was just you and the baby, that much he knew. And walking into your flat, it was evident that there wasn’t a trace of a man living here with you. But to hear this, to know that you were alone as you gave birth, the fucker who’d had the downright honour of putting a baby into you nowhere to be found, has Simon’s blood boiling. He’s seeing red, but he steels himself with a deep breath and files that information away for another time.

“Rose is perfect. Just like she is.” He says without hesitation, watching the far off look in your eye as you told your story change instantly into one of pride, your eyes meeting his again with gratitude brewing behind them.

“Thank you.” You whisper, a timid hand slowly reaching to rest on his forearm for a moment, the small gesture having Simon’s heart beat so rapidly he’s worried you’ll be able to hear it. “Anyways uh- you said she wants to meet us?”

“Right, just details she needs to iron out, nothin’ for you to worry ‘bout. The spot’s yours love, I made sure of it.” He affirms, knowing that he’ll be replaying this moment in his mind constantly as he shows up early to work in the mornings and leaves entirely too late at night in order to finish the job he’s promised would be completed early, all for you. “I think it’d be best if I went you girls, to the meeting. Don’t think anyone would give you a hard time but, just want to be there to be sure.” He also wants to be there to filter any questions that might arise about your relationship to one another, keep the thread from being pulled

“Oh, of course, okay.” You say, pulling your hand back as you go to reach for you phone, pulling up your calendar. “Do you know when she was hoping to meet? We’ve got an appointment with the paediatrician on Wednesday morning, but if she gives us enough time we could be on the tube and there by-”

“You’ve been takin’ the tube with her?” Simon cuts you off, more abruptly than he meant to, but the image of you and your baby bird stuffed into the tube with all the delinquents and criminals that frequent London’s underground instantly has the hairs on the back of his neck raising

“Well, yeah of course. Used to have a car but, selling it made more sense when- well you know.” You shrug, clearly not wanting to linger on your dwindling financial situation since bringing a baby into this world

“I’ll pick you girls up.” He declares without hesitation

“Oh, Simon you really don’t have to! Seriously, you’ve already done so much for us. I can’t ask that much of you.” You try to reason, though Simon can tell there’s not much fight behind those words, a mothers instinct to protect her baby stronger than your need to insist on independence at this moment, especially if it means not having to navigate a pram through the tube

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, love. Like I said last time, I want to, so I will.” He replies simply, because to him it really is that simple. Give him the chance to prove himself, and he’ll give you everything, anything you need

“Well, if you’re sure.” You smile softly at him, placing your phone back on the table, worries dissipating already.

“I’ll reach out to ‘er and confirm a date and time.” He tells you, pulling his own phone out this time, preparing to shoot off a text to the owner right away, though your next words have him stilling, certain that his heart is going to give out soon

“Great. Then it’s a date.”

He’ll be sure to bring you yellow roses next time

But first, he’s got an infant car seat to go buy for his truck

Ladies and gentleman, part 3 of Bird Watching 😇😇😇

I am having entirely too much fun writing this series, and it really does mean the world to me that you all have been so into this story as well!!! Hope part 3 lived up to your expectations! Simon’s lies surely aren’t going to catch up to him, right?

- M 🫶🏻

Tag List:

@puppydollgstar @strawberrygato @heletsmelovehim @404creep @just-lilita @desiretolive @marigold-morelli @robinfeldt98 @gojos4evrluvr @afanofbeans @br3nt-12 @sleep101 @scaleniusrm @bbygirl9 @elysianightsss @spidersuneee @mihoonz @ungodlydilf @nicolebarnes @kentuckyhobbit

[differenteagletragedy]

On domesticating Simon Riley.

Simon knows people, knows how to read them and how to get what he wants out of them, in a general sense. He also knows women, their bodies and how to handle them. How to pick one out that wants the same thing he wants, how to approach them and then how to cut and run.

What he doesn't know is how to stay. How to let someone else know him, even see him. What makes a home.

So you're going to have to teach him.

He has the most minimal wardrobe you've ever seen -- a few pairs of jeans, a handful of t-shirts, a couple of hoodies and one pair of boots. After a few weeks of watching him lace up those boots every time he takes out the trash, you check them for his shoe size then order him a pair of crocs to wear around the house and when they arrive, you leave them by the door, where he keeps his boots.

"The fuck are these?" he grumbles that evening when he goes to grab the boots while you're cleaning up after dinner. They're too big to be yours, but he knows they're not his.

"I got them for you," you answer, coming to stand beside him. "Just something to wear when you need to step outside for a minute or if your little feet get cold and you wanna wear something around inside."

"I don't have ... fucking hell," he says, pointing down to the shoes. "They've got holes all in them."

"That's so you can accessorize!" you say proudly, pulling out a little bag full of charms that you picked out for him.

It's ridiculous. It looks absolutely absurd. But he wears them anyway, because he's learning that when people care about each other, they make little gestures like this, and if there's a way that he can wear your love for him around like a badge of honor, then no matter how goofy it looks, he'll be proud to do it.

Simon chews his fingernails down to the quick, a nervous habit that he's had for as long as he can remember. After catching him with a couple of bloody fingers after one particularly bad evening, you tenderly pull him into the kitchen, wash his hands and dry them, then sit him down at the kitchen table and leave for a moment, only to come back with nail polish.

"Really, love?" he asks, looking up at you with a smirk. "Gonna give me a manicure?"

You roll your eyes, pulling one of the chairs closer to him and reaching out for his hands, replying, "What, too manly to have your nails done?"

"Yeah, that's what it is," he smirks, all sarcasm, then says, "Why though?"

"It's the taste," you explain, shaking a bottle of black polish before taking the cap off and carefully leaning in to start on his right thumbnail. "The idea is that when you go to bite your nails, the polish will make it taste bitter so you stop."

He can't help but smile a little to himself as he watches you work. He doesn't care one way or the other about his nails, but it's cute, watching you so focused on him. Still, something about it nags at him, because while it feels good, having you care, it doesn't quite feel right, not all the way. Not just yet.

"Not hurting anyone with biting them," he says quietly, his eyes on his hands as you finish up.

You give a little sigh, capping the bottle before meeting his eyes, and you tell him, "You're hurting yourself. And that's not ok, not with me."

He doesn't do birthdays, not his anyway. Not in a dramatic "I hate my birthday" way, it's just not something of note to him. He knows the date, acknowledges it to himself when it comes just as a reminder that he's 40 now, not 39, nothing more. The first birthday he has with you comes after you've been together for several months, and you only hear about it after the fact.

"My sweet boyfriend," you coo at him one night in bed, a little tipsy from the wine you'd had with dinner. "My beautiful, beautiful boyfriend."

He chuckles, still marveling at how much you seem to marvel at him. Your hands are on him, gentle and doting, and he hears you giggle as you ramble on.

"Sweet and kind and handsome and strong," you say, running a hand through his hair. "He always watches out for me. He always takes care of me. My favorite person."

"You're drunk," he points out, smiling softly, cheeks red.

"Am not," you reply. "Even if I am, the truth is the truth."

You go on, praising him for everything you can think of. Pretty blonde hair, pretty smatterings of freckles, pretty dimples that only you ever get to see. It's almost unbearable, hearing how much you adore him, but in a good way. Like it's stretching something in him that's been closed for far too long.

You're breaking him in, slowly and carefully.

"Have you ever," you ask him at one point, "ever in your entire 39 years, thought that you'd get a girlfriend as thoughtful and loving as me?"

It's a playful question, but of course he's never thought that. His chest aches at the thought of just how much you've given him, and how much you let him give you in return. So instead, he dodges it.

"Not 39 anymore, sweetheart," he says softly.

Your brow furrows immediately, not understanding, and he laughs quietly, his hand on your stomach under the blankets sliding to your side to pull you closer.

"A few weeks ago," he explains.

"Your birthday was a few weeks ago?"

"It was."

"And you just ... didn't think to say anything?"

You're serious now, almost concerned, and he can't stand it.

"It's not a big deal, love," he says, leaning in to press kisses against your forehead and temple. "Just another day."

"It is a big deal," you argue, pulling back to look at him. "I would have ... I don't know, I would have gotten you something. Treated you special. Thrown a party, something."

"One, I don't like parties. Two, you treat me special everyday. Three, you've already given me more than you know, I don't need anything else."

All those things are true, but it still takes much longer than he'd like to get the frown off your face.

The next day, you ask him to run some errands for you. You need the oil changed in your car, some things from the big grocery store on the other side of town, but you need to stay home and take care of some things that need done around the house. He agrees easily. He likes taking care of you.

When he comes back later that afternoon, he goes for the kitchen, ready to put up the groceries he'd picked up, and there you are, leaning against the counter and smiling at him like you were waiting for him.

The homemade cake on the counter beside you, with candles sticking out and "Happy Birthday Simon" written in icing on top, tells him that you were.

Every time you do something like this, perform some little act of kindness that comes so naturally to you, it feels like something gets unlocked inside him. Like there have always been chains wrapped around his mind and his heart, keeping him tight and cold and alone, padlocks piling on top year after year, keeping all the hurt secure inside. But somehow you have the key, and you take your time, undoing them all.

Undoing him, completely and thoroughly, until he's open for the first time. And it's raw and new, and it hurts, but something in him knows that the pain will give way to something beautiful.

He watches as you step up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning your head against his chest.

"Happy birthday, Simon," you say softly.

He can't say anything, not now, so he pulls you closer to him, strong arms cradling you against him, and you're close enough that he can feel when the corner of your mouth turns up into a smile

Another lock coming off. Another piece of proof that he can be something different, something better, with you.

[rafeysbunny]

brother's bsf!rafe popping your cherry

there is absolutely nothing that rafe craves more than to fuck you, his best friend's little sister. he knows it is wrong, but he can't help himself when you're so fucking pretty, always wandering around in those cute little skirts and tops you like to wear, round tits almost spilling out of the thin fabric.

god, he's so obsessed with you.

you're always in his mind, all the fucking time, the thought of you haunting him every night when he goes to bed. and every single one of those nights, he ends up jerking off at the thought of you, like a bloody perv, to be able to finally fall asleep.

he knows topper'd kill him if he ever finds out about his massive crush on his baby sister, but that fact doesn't stop him from getting you alone in your guest bathroom as soon as the alcohol knocks your brother out cold on the couch. and now he has your gorgeous body pinned against the sink, the party still in full swing outside in your house while you two sloppily make out.

he's hard as a rock inside his slacks just by kissing you, the taste of your cherry chapstick lingering in your plump lips, as if you weren't just sweet enough already. it doesn't help his case the way you're whimpering so prettily into his mouth, your body arching against his as he grips your hips tightly, which has the silky fabric of your skirt all crumpled.

he tears his lips away from yours, panting heavily as he stares down at you with pure lust in his eyes. "fuck, you're so goddamn beautiful..." he reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him. "listen to me, baby."

you hum dumbly in response, not really paying attention to what he's saying, you just want his lips back on yours so, so bad. your small hands fist his expensive polo, bambi eyes staring shamelessly at his mouth as you watch him talk; his words not really registering.

"hey. hey, sweetheart, eyes up here..." he taps your chin with his finger. "i need you to tell me that you want this too, a'right?"

your dazed eyes dart up to meet his blue ones while you nod obediently, your thick, long lashes fluttering in his direction. "i want it, rafe," you mutter softly, pretty voice filling in the silence of the bathroom.

his eyes darken, pupils dilating when he hears the words he's been longing to hear for months now and the intensity of his gaze makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. "that's a good girl..."

before you know it, he has you bent over the countertop, skirt pulled up 'round your waist as he fucks your pussy with his thick fingers to stretch you out. you've got the tightest cunt he's ever put his digits into, which has his cock throbbing painfully in anticipation.

despite how bad he needs to sink into you, he forces himself to give you at least one orgasm with his fingers before he yanks his pants down and slowly pushes his dick inside your sopping hole, the feeling almost too good to be real. he thrusts into you one time, two, then three, your pussy squelching lewdly around him, and his whole body feels on fire.

is this what heaven feels like? yeah, it probably is.

he'd fuck you dumb, big hand shoving your pretty face against the cool marble as he pounds your pussy into oblivion until you're creaming all over his dick, flushed cheeks stained with tears.

"such a good girl f’me," he praises as he pulls out to finish on your plush ass, thick ropes of cum painting your smooth flesh.

more.