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ghostwhippet · 2 days ago

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From Scratch

Nutrition Info: Johnny/Reader; 4k; a meetcute launched by Reader's inability to cook reasonable portions, and Johnny's... well, just Johnny

No matter how long you live alone, you can’t get the hang of cooking for one person. Even when you try to make a single-serving meal instead of batch cooking, somehow it balloons out of control. Wasting food makes you feel awful, but you can only freeze so much.

One evening, desperate and utterly fed up, you go kick gently at a neighbor’s door, both hands full, trying to mimic a knock with your shoe. Jason, you think his name was? Striking blue eyes, big frame, a cute cropped mohawk, amazing brogue, and he’s always been cordial when you’ve run into him around the building. Friendly, but not too friendly.

He’s understandably confused by your request at first, but seems happy enough for the food, and takes it around your repeated apologies–for bothering him, for existing, for anything you can find, really.

Unfortunately, not even forcing yourself to go and do all of that manages to pierce your shite sense of volume. Your trips to his door do get less awkward over time, though. And Johnny, his name is, always has sparklingly clean dishes and containers to return in exchange for the full ones.

Eventually he just starts showing up at your place instead and eats with you at your bar counter. He didn’t really ask, and you definitely didn’t, but there he is all the same, and… if you're honest? He’s just so easy to be around, it quickly feels natural having him there. He puts you off your guard, puts you at ease and makes you smile, like those are somehow the most natural things in the world.

From that first night, Johnny has insisted on helping with dishes. Starting the second, he’s always got groceries with him. Even manages to talk you out of your discomfort over accepting them, so well that on his fourth night, you’ve got a small shopping list ready. He’s cheeky, you don’t think he’ll mind. And he is right, after all: you're probably feeding him at least three or four nights out of the week, what with all the leftovers.

You start eating better, and trying new things you'd always planned on “getting around to,” now that you've got a reason to cook beyond not starving. Everything comes out fine the first time you make it, when you’re closely following a recipe, and Johnny has no qualms about trying anything you put in front of him. You’ve never met someone so genuinely un-fussy when it comes to food.

A couple months after he’s started eating at your place, he disappears for a while. “Work trip,” is all he'll say, and you don’t pry, even though you really want to.

Once he’s back, he starts coming over weekend afternoons sometimes. You do brunch with beer or fancy drinks in champagne flutes, or occasional breakfast on the roof before other people are awake, him in a big hoodie or jumper, and you wearing a thick blanket like it's trying to digest you, looking like a half-drowned cat because no living being is meant to be awake at such an hour.

You cut fruit into mangled flowers and vague geometric shapes for the brunches, usually while just spending time with him. He tries his hand at it once, with you pulling up videos, laughing the whole time you’re explaining how it’s supposed to work, and the utter bastard is better at it on his first go than you were after weeks. His hands are confoundingly steady, and his hand-eye coordination borders on the unnatural.

That’s probably the official start of his sous chef arc. And that’s what has him spending a night judging your knives and marveling, repeatedly and loudly, that you still have all your fingers.

You might put a piece of eggshell into his omelet that night in retaliation, and he might not even have the decency to react to it.

“...Johnny I can hear it crunching, oh my God would you spit it out!” You manage between laughter that’s got your face hurting.

That happens a lot around him. Smiling so much it hurts.

“Nah, i’s nice texture,” he says around the mouthful, then starts enunciating the longer words. “Very advanced technique. Shows a great awareness of the culinary experience–”

“You’re being such a prat. Why are you being such a prat!”

He talks over you as if he can’t hear you, as if he’s doing some mockingly posh review. “And honestly, the crunching–” he pauses and chomps down on the shell for effect, and how is it still intact, “it really engages the senses. Keeps me immersed in my dining experience.”

You regret loaning him your cooking books. Never again.

After that, though, he steals your knives, takes them home, and they come back so sharp you can cut windowpane slices of potato. He offers to teach you how to do it yourself–after stipulating with heart-clenching thoroughness that he’s happy to come over and do it for you any time.

Johnny gets weirdly into shopping farmer’s markets, walking around discovering new produce and varieties of things he’s never seen before. “Fuck would I know tomatoes come in this color? Look at this thing, it’s like a feckin’... it’s a wee lumpy sunset, isn’t it? And this! Like someone took the heart of a dragon,” his voice had gone terribly dramatic, and you definitely hadn’t covered your face, “and stuck it on a bush somewhere.”

“Baby how are you so huge, but so adorable?” You don't know when the pet names started, but you know he started them; sometimes it feels like you two grew up together.

You like the challenge of the new and unexpected ingredients that come from his trips, and by this point, he’s keeping your kitchen pretty stocked with whatever oddball pantry items you ask for, so you're set up to deal with almost anything. But on rare occasions he’ll call you with a question, too. You’ve had each other’s numbers for a while, it just made coordinating easier.

“Oi can you make sommat with uh… fiddlehead ferns?”

You always can, whatever he asks about. It just takes a quick internet search to find out if you can tackle it that same night, or if it needs to wait for another day. Sometimes it ends up disastrous, but like a shot, Johnny has you laughing or throwing something at him (usually-but-not-always also while laughing) before guilt or shame can get a proper foothold.

There was a night when he was too excited about something to wait for you to answer the door when he knocked, and since then, he just sort of comes in on his own after he announces himself—at least when you know to expect him. That feels right, too, just like having him at your counter had.

You’re feeding the both of you almost every night of the week by now, even if you’re still not cooking often. You like being around him so much, you can’t imagine doing it less, not even when cooking is the last thing you want to be doing. It’s like there’s a bubbly little sun in your chest when he’s around.

Johnny makes you so happy, in fact, and you’re so afraid of losing your time with him, it’s nearly six months before the first time you have to tap out of a dinner, too knackered to make yourself even casually presentable, nevermind cook so much as instant noodles.

He reacts like it’s no problem at all, which of course he’d do, because he’s wonderful, but you don’t manage to keep your heart from dropping that he’s not at least a little sad. That he doesn’t, maybe, look forward to the nights like you do. You know your arrangement is practical, and he’s never been over unless there was food involved, but… well… seeing him seems to have become rather… vital to you.

Which means it’s better to put it away, anyhow, right?

So when, an hour after you’d texted him and basically all he’d said was No problem, thinking takeout, any votes?, he’s coming through your front door with delivery bags and talking a mile a minute like it’s just another night, you're left with your mouth open and your hand on the knob, because… because he's here.

You're not cooking, but he's still here.

You just stand there gobsmacked as he sits on the couch, nattering away, half the food out before he even realizes you’re still playing doorstop. He asks if you’re having the time of your life or if you’re going to come sit down, those horrible (wonderful) crinkles at the sides of his eyes, brows pulled up in the middle.

He looks confused when you say you want to freshen up, like he can’t see that your hair might’ve lost a row with a feral rodent, or that you’re wearing clothes that shouldn’t even be outside of a bin, nevermind on a person. He just tells you the food will get cold, and that it’ll be no good that way.

So you run your hands through your hair and sit, subdued and uncertain like you haven’t been around him in ages, as he amiably fills the silence. You know he can tell you’re not right, but he’s just… acting like it’s ok that you aren’t.

Midway through the meal, he reaches forward to grab a container and put it in front of you, and it makes his knee come up against yours.

It doesn’t move away when he sits back.

Then, as the night wears on and the very most jagged edges of your weariness have eased, he makes a joke and you bump your shoulder into him in retaliation. It pushes your legs flush… and neither of you do anything to separate them. He just keeps on being Johnny like nothing is different, like nothing strange is happening, like he can’t see how bloody flushed you must be, like the room hasn't turned to glass and burst, leaving the both of you toppling through the air.

You're not stupid, so you have to tell yourself repeatedly that he’s just trying to comfort you. He’s acting completely normal otherwise—for Johnny—and you look like a person in need of a friend tonight. And same as him, you’re at all your meal nights instead of off with friends or dates. At least for him, it’s because of his career. You haven’t even seen him bringing up a new fling in ages.

…You’re not stupid. Right?

After the food is finished, Johnny putters about cleaning up, working his way around your kitchen like he knows it exactly as well as he does. He puts all but one container of leftovers in your fridge.

You hug your knees comfortably, just sort of watching him, too full of static to be paranoid about it, and he either doesn’t realize or isn’t bothered by it. Not being a complete creep, you don’t keep it up for too long, anyhow. You’ve got plenty to occupy your thoughts.

He surprises you on his way out by casually setting a mug in front of you. He’d made you something hot to drink while he was cleaning up, and you were so spaced you hadn’t realized. He just gives you a little smile, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder with a stroke of his thumb, says, “Wednesday, yeah?” (the night of your next normal get-together), and moves on toward the door. All normal. But there’s some metal in your chest painfully bending itself into unaccustomed shapes, jabbing places that aren’t used to the pressure, pushing into your windpipe until it’s hard to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from telling him that you made up a new seasoning blend for popcorn, if he’d maybe like to watch a movie before he goes.

He stands there by the door looking at you just for a split second too long, opens his mouth, closes it, then settles right back onto the couch up next to you. He reaches out an arm and pulls you gently into his side, moving in a way that makes it an invitation and not a demand, while he’s talking about what to watch.

You fall asleep there. So does he.

Things turn a bit funny after that in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. At the surface, everything is the same. But nothing feels the same. Every time there’s a tease, casual touches, close quarters, you have to chant not stupid not stupid not stupid on repeat in your head. He’s just Johnny, that’s all. The guy you could have grown up with.

You keep up the dinners and the weekends, and eventually, finally realize that with him around to take all your extras, you can bake. It’s something you’ve wanted to try forever, but recipes don’t really make single servings, and you never had anyone to pawn off the other 22 muffins or ¾ of the cake onto, or the sheet of croissants, because you absolutely want to try the most fussy, difficult things. And it turns out, when at last he tells you what he does, that Johnny works at the local military base–which at least explains his size–so if he can’t polish something off, well, he knows some blokes.

You’re so excited after that, things almost seem to return to normal. He even comes over and hangs out while you’re baking sometimes. Just knocking about, licking the beaters and the spoons and the bowls, doing dishes as you go, fidgeting with this or that, all while knowing you’re equally as likely to produce something inedible as you are a treat.

Johnny tells you a little about his career one evening. He says that it means he’s in real danger often, there’s a lot of secrecy with people in his personal life, long absences and surprise ones, shit pay, and likely a brief expiration date. (You don’t really let that last one in). He’s got a bit of a funny look in his eyes when he shares about all of it. Quite focused on you, in a way? It makes your cheeks heat. It isn’t as if it’s on you to approve of his life.

But at least now you understand why he’s on his own. And you suppose you’re a bit small, because while you’re incredibly sad for him, part of you is thrilled that it means he’s not likely soon going to be swept away by someone else too soon.

You just gather yourself up, smile, and tell him that at least he’s spending the time he has as best he can, which is a hell of a lot more than a lot of people do–although you personally hope there’s a lot more of it. And that… at the end, you're glad for all the times you're involved.

Johnny’s leaning against the counter while you fold nuts and rum-soaked fruit into a thick batter, his normally busy hands jammed into his pockets, posture a bit off, and so close you almost keep elbowing him on accident, the two of you just bantering back and forth.

You turn your head toward him to fire back, and–

–his mouth is just there, on yours.

He lingers, but doesn’t move otherwise. It’s… testing, you think. You feel his lips shake against yours, in fact, just once.

Your shock dies fast and your eyes slip closed, and while it’s a brief kiss, when he pulls away, you don’t open them. You can’t. Because if you’re honest, you’ve probably been gone for him since the first time you gave him a friendly hug goodnight, and it’s only ever gotten worse. If you open your eyes, this won’t be real, or it won’t have happened, or it will shatter somehow.

After a pause, he runs the back of a finger down your temple, trailing the side of your face to your jaw. You still won’t open your eyes, so he just toys with your face until you do.

He’s got a soul-crushing smile at the corners of his eyes.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he admits into the quiet.

“...Oh?” Your voice is embarrassingly, unhelpfully breathy. It’d probably be mortifying, if you had the mental capacity to fully register embarrassment at the moment.

He pauses, smile making its way to his lips, and curling them up at the corners, bit by bit. He cants his head, just a little, like he wants to see you from another angle. “Aye. …Might’ve been since the first time I saw you at the mailboxes.”

“Oh?”

That had been one of the first times you remember ever seeing him. He never said a word to you other than, “Mornin’” or “Evenin’,” if he said anything at all.

His smile blooms until you can see his teeth. “You were wearing this little shirt. Green, thin. Bit worn, like it was a favorite. Showed a wee spot of skin at your back.” His fingers brush the spot, soft and testing, near the base of your spine, and it jolts you from scalp to toes. “Might’ve… lost some time, thinking about what it’d feel like if I slid my hand up there.” He toys with the hem of your shirt and steps in, voice going deeper and rougher around the edges. “Might’ve imagined pushing it up, getting a bit closer. Really might’ve imagined putting your back up to the slots, mo–”

You kiss him this time, before he can go on, and it’s anything but testing.

And just like everything else about him, this fits.

His mouth fits against yours. His body fits against yours. And as if some band of control snaps, so abruptly you swear you feel it jolt through his skin, he's got you up on the counter, his thighs between yours, both of you already breathing hard.

His hands on you are perfect, calloused, slipping up under the back of your shirt, smoothing and gripping, making your chest and your thighs feel molten. It's ravenous, like he just has to touch your skin, has to get you closer. You arch toward him, fingers running up through his hair, legs curling around his and pulling him nearer.

His hips are carefully, stubbornly, infuriatingly back from you, but the kiss is so full of need, so close, that some of his breaths sound hollow against your mouth. It's like he can't decide whether inhaling or devouring you is more important, so he just doesn't choose.

When you're at the point of moaning unintentionally, of hungry little sounds forcing their way out of your chest, of your hips moving against the counter in desperation, when you're moments from outright begging, Johnny pulls back, and goes further when you try to chase his mouth.

His lips are red and full, his face dark--much worse when he catches sight of how completely drunk you must look--and he's panting. His fingers dig into your hips like he's trying to keep one or both of you from drowning. He squeezes his eyes shut.

You don't mean to, you really don't, but you look down, and lord help you but–

“That looks painful,” you tell him. Your voice sounds like it's been run over a washboard. He's tented against his denim, and his size is… proportional.

…You can't seem to remember how to make yourself look up.

“Really rather not talk about my cock just now, love,” he gravels, fingers clenching briefly against you. His head tips forward onto your shoulder, breaths panting out against your collar bone, leaving you to pick up every bit of heat he's trying to get out of himself.

You hum, teasing. “Shame, because I can't think of anything I'd rather talk ab—”

His big paw covers your mouth. “For the love of every Saint, I’m beggi—”

You cut him off right back. By licking his palm.

He recoils in horror, but the moment your eyes meet, you both burst into laughter, made worse every time he tries to tell you how disgusting that is, something about his sisters as kids, you don't know what else.

You're the first to sober, breathing almost back to normal, thoughts already whirring on fast-forward. You look down, pulling your knees together, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Are we…. Will we be ok, after this?”

You peek up to see him looking at you like you're daft.

“‘S been the better part of a year,” he says softly, moving forward and running his thumbs over your knees. Asking your legs to make room again, to let him get close again. “Have you really not figured it out, all this time?”

Your legs open hesitantly, and he steps in and, when you look up at him, kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, slow and warm and so tender it feels like your chest is cracking right down the center.

Eyes closed, brows a little pinched, you murmur, “We can't all be SAS savants, Johnny.” Maybe you know. Maybe. But it has been all this time, so maybe you need to hear it, too.

He's still kissing, pace unhurried and savouring, making his way to your jaw and just beneath it. But it's calming now, somewhere between reverential and still trying to bring the both of you down. Himself especially, you think.

“Then let me spell it out for you. Gladly.” He noses up against the bottom of your ear and roughs, “You are fucking stuck with me. Glued. Bloody welded.” He huffs a laugh and leans back upright—but not all the way, not too far back. “This isnae a new thing for me. You know that, right? I just….” He shakes his head and abandons the thought, “Hell, my mates have already been asking when they can come over for dinner, the dobbers.”

Your brows shoot up. “You've talked about me at work?”

He looks down, and while his face is in half a scowl, you'd swear he does it to hide a slight flush, too. “Haven't shut up about you, more like. Should hear what my Lieutenant– Ach, nevermind that.”

You hurry to say that they're welcome any time, but it makes him scowl fully.

“Not exactly keen on the idea just yet.” He puts his arms around you, buries his face in your neck, and just stands there, breathing you in. He mutters into the crook of your shoulder, “Mind if I stay like this for a bit? Just while I, uh… calm down.”

His hips are still well back from you. You’re not sure you’ve ever adored and hated him so much at once.

“I’d really like that,” you tell him softly, arms going around his ribs, hands on his shoulders, chest to chest.

It's warm and resounding like this, so after a spell, without thinking, you bite his shoulder. Just sink your teeth in and leave them there. It’s not even entirely conscious, it's just so comfortable and comforting.

“All good, there, wee piranha?” he eventually asks, a smile in his voice.

You detach instantly. “Ah, sorry! I, uh, might have a tiny bit of an oral fixation.”

He groans. “Are ye trying to do me in?”

“I’m not the one who said we had to stop, Mr. Military Discipline.”

His eyes darken in a flash, but he tamps down on it just as quickly and gets that godawful cocky look on his face, instead. “Pardon me for not wanting to rush something that really matters.” His tone goes so soft at the end that you can’t even be mad at him--exactly as you know he intended, the great bastard.

“How did I not know what a sadist you are?”

And that look means he’s about to make you eat your words.

“Johnny I will happily kill you in your sleep.”

“I could handle that. Means you'd be in my bed, aye?”

He pulls your hands up from the death grip they've found on the edge of the counter and laces your fingers together. “I dinnae….” He clears his throat, frowns. “Just being away on deployment is shite now, and I love what I do. But I miss you while I'm gone, think about you back here all the bloody time, and we havnae even….”

When he doesn’t finish, you whisper, heart clenching with the realization, “You don't want to rush this.”

He laughs quietly like he wants to argue. But what he says is, “No. I don't. But while that's true….” He steps in, chin ducking, eyes darkening even as they shine, voice lowering. “What do you say we turn the oven off? I've a funny feeling you willnae be getting around to that bake today.”

Masterlist

#johnny soap mactavish #cod soap #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap x reader #johnny mactavish #slow burn #friends to lovers #060 #meet cute #comfort fic #demisexual #fluff #johnny x reader #cod

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chuluoyi · 3 days ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄

xavier x reader

while the entire kingdom of philos rejoices over the soon-to-be-born heir to the throne, the king’s unwavering priority remains clear: his queen

genre/warnings: mildly suggestive, fluff, fluff, fluff, comfort, king!xavier and queen!reader, pregnancy, spoilers! from xavier's myth shooting stars and taking elements of xavier's card silvery polyphony

note: i'm not actually a xavier girlie... but ever since his myth and anecdote when shooting stars fall, he's been marinating in my head :')

“Your Majesty, here are the gifts meant for the Queen by the townsfolk.”

Xavier’s gaze swept over the various trinkets that filled the throne room—from fine fabrics and glistening pearls, to handwritten messages with heartfelt wishes for the future royal baby and your wellbeing. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

"All this? You’ve inspected every single one of them?" he questioned, gaze flicked to Jeremiah, his aide. His cerulean eyes narrowed slightly. "Nothing with malicious intent?"

Jeremiah shook his head with a smile. "No. They are purely tokens of love and respect for Her Majesty."

"I see..."

Xavier hummed softly, the stiffness in his posture easing as the assurance settled over him—no harm would come to you. In the fifth year of your reign as King and Queen of Philos, it had become clear that the people had come to adore their queen to such an extent.

As they should. The king found himself smiling despite his usual composure then. You were due their respect for all of your service and compassion. And now, with you carrying the future heir to the throne, it was even more deserved.

"Has the Queen been well? She hasn't been around much," Jeremiah asked, a knowing look crossed his face. "After all, you're counting down the days now..."

With the royal physician declaring you were at full-term, you could give birth any day now. Xavier would be lying if he said he wasn't antsy, but the least he could do in front of his subjects was showing an air of indifference.

But of course, Jeremiah knew him best after you.

"Why don't you pay her a visit? And oh, yeah, I think I've heard the maids saying Her Majesty is missing having the King serenading her!"

Your husband had been busy these past few days that he had little time to spend with you each day.

Of course, you missed him. There wasn’t much you could do while in confinement. And so when he entered your chambers on this windy winter day, you were more enthusiastic than you should have—

“Xavier!” You turned to him and smiled so brightly, your excitement making you rise to your feet and scamper towards him.

But he was faster, closing the distance in an instant and catching you before you could take more than a few steps. His hands steadied you, as the heavy weight in your womb proved to be a challenge.

“You’re supposed to be on bedrest,” he scolded, a frown tugging at his features. His hands rested firmly on your shoulders, holding you in place. “Don’t move around too much.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” You giggled as he led you to your bed, but before you could settle in, a sharp wave of pain rippled through your abdomen and spine. The smile faltered on your lips as you sucked in a quick breath, instinctively leaning into him for support.

“What's wrong?” Xavier’s voice tensed with concern, his arm tightening around you as his eyes widened in alarm. His free hand hovered protectively over yours, which was clutching your swollen belly. "Is it hurting? I’ll call for—"

“No, no!” You declined amidst your labored breaths, mustering up a smile despite the discomfort. “I’ve consulted the royal physician. It’s perfectly normal for me to experience this... I just have to bear it.”

“How is this normal?” Xavier's brow furrowed with worry and sternness. “If this keeps up, how will you preserve your strength for the real labor?”

He had always detested seeing you in distress. It was evident in all his actions, from the earliest moments of your relationship to this very day, and it made your heart warm.

When the pain subsided, you made him sit on your bed and brought both your hands to cup his face, trying to coax a smile from him.

"Don't worry too much, love." You grinned, eyes crinkling. "On the bright side, it just means that our little star is thiiis close to meeting us."

Xavier found your gaze and for a moment, he stayed silent. His clear blue eyes softened as they held yours. You had always been like this—diminishing your own discomfort in favor of reassuring him, and if you thought it would make him feel better, then you were sorely wrong because his instincts to protect you were deeply engraved in him, and it only fueled his concern further.

His hands settled over yours, pressing them to his face.

“From what I’ve seen, this baby really enjoys bullying you,” he muttered sullenly.

You pursed your lips. “A friendly reminder, you’re the one who got me with child.”

“I’ve always thought that sexual act is the pinnacle of showing the depths of my undying loyalty towards you.” His tone was mock-serious, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips. “The baby is a pleasant gift, what I enjoy more though—”

Before you could protest, his fingers skimmed over your figure, landing with unmistakable familiarity on your ample breasts—

“I like these the most.”

“Xavier!” You swatted his hand away with wide eyes, crossing both arms over your chest in an attempt to block him from further groping.

He chuckled openly at how defensive you were, a playful glint in his eyes. With a soft pat on your head, he stood up and extended his right hand towards you.

“What?” You stared at his hand, almost squeaking, wary that his hands might wander to your sensitive skin again. Xavier let out another chuckle, clearly amused by your reaction.

“I’ve heard through the grapevine that Her Majesty the Queen wants me to serenade her,” he said with a teasing smile. “And as your humble servant, who am I to refuse?”

. . .

You has always adored how Xavier plays the piano.

He claimed he didn't like the instrument that much, but the way his fingers moved over the keys so effortlessly, each note flowing with such precision—it was one of the many ways he captured your heart.

You sat next to him by the grand piano, your head gently bobbing along with the beautiful rhythm he drew from the keys.

“You used to play this a lot back then,” you commented as Xavier started playing the piece he composed himself, one you often referred as ‘his very own soundtrack.’

Celestial Serenade. Xavier even had a name for it. Solemn and playful, it was the beginning that always got your heart racing. But when he reached the bridge, a gnawing sadness would creep in, tugging at your heart.

And suddenly, in that moment, you had an epiphany.

From the days you had loved him as a student in the Academy, and then as a knight and your crown prince, those lonely years of waiting for him to come back the first time, until that decisive heartbreaking day when you let him go into the unknown once and for all—

—and those gruelling, painful years of waiting that followed afterwards… up until the day he finally came back to restore Philos, to retake his throne, and to make you his queen in the truest sense—

Tears pricked at your eyes at the flashback of everything the two of you had gone through, right after he finished the outro.

Xavier paused, his fingers still on the keys. He turned to you, but his eyes widened as he noticed the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “Why are you crying?”

“Nothing, I’m just—” Startled, you quickly wiped the tears from your face, but Xavier gently lifted your chin, his touch soft but insistent.

He was worried, his gaze searching yours as if he was struggling to find the right words, his eyes full of concern. “Tell me,” he urged quietly, the hint of a tremor in his voice. “What is it? What made you cry?”

How could you explain what you had just realized— the weight of all that had brought you to this moment? The journey, the sacrifices, the love that had never faltered even in the darkest of times?

And it all culminated into one single sentence, as you stared right into those beautiful eyes of his:

“I love you, Xavier.”

In that very second, Xavier could’ve sworn his heart was entirely in your grasp. His breath caught, and the world around him seemed to fade, leaving only you—your teary-eyed confession and the raw honesty in your gaze.

Through countless dawns and twilights, through many starry sea expeditions and a daring voyage to the past— everything he had done to protect you. All these long years of yearning to see you again had led to this precise moment, where happiness was finally within your reach.

To know his beloved returns his feelings in full… He was overwhelmed by love you gave him, it made his heart so, so full.

Xavier cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that streaked your cheeks. “Don't cry, you big crybaby. Save it for when we welcome our child later.”

You sniffled, frowning at him. “So, you don’t love me?”

A soft smile played on his lips as he pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in his warmth. He buried his face in the crook of your shoulder.

“Silly... I love you more than anything in this world.”

Three days later, you went into labor.

The palace descended into chaos, with attendants scurrying through the halls. But amidst all the commotion, Xavier was the one who struggled the most to maintain his composure.

Your cries from behind the doors felt like a blade slicing through his chest. He wanted nothing more than to rush in, to hold your hand, to do something—anything—but the midwives had firmly insisted that he stay out of the way.

Xavier’s mind raced with worry, his eyes fixed on the door as though sheer willpower could ease your pain. The only thing that mattered right in this moment was you and the child you were bringing into the world—and it was taking everything in him not to lose his wits.

Then, amidst his fervent prayers, hours later, a piercing cry broke through.

Xavier froze, his heart lurching. Relief and disbelief flooded him all at once as he realized—it was his baby's first cry.

But what about you?

He so desperately wanted to see you that Jeremiah had to physically restrain him. The women assured him you and the baby were being tended to.

When they finally allowed him inside, he rushed in so quickly he nearly stumbled.

There you were, seated on the bed, hair disheveled, exhaustion etched into every line of your face, yet to him, you were radiant—utterly so. His heart swelled as he watched you cradle the newborn, cooing with a tenderness that stole his breath.

“Now, say hi to Papa...”

Your voice was almost feather-like, yet it was in that moment the truth hit him with full force—his baby was really here. He stared at the tiny bundle in your arms, awestruck, before his gaze shifted to your pale face again.

And you smiled at him so brilliantly. So warmly.

“Xavier... say hello to our son.”

He felt like he was in a daze as he slowly kneeled and took the baby into his arms. The small, fragile weight felt both unfamiliar and extraordinary. This child— was a part of him, but most importantly, he was a part of you too.

The baby stirred, and when his eyes blinked open, Xavier’s breath hitched. Those tiny blue eyes, a mirror of his own, locked onto him.

“Ah, he—” Xavier faltered, his chest tightening as emotions overwhelmed him. Holding his son, seeing him so clearly now, felt like an arrow straight to his heart. Before this moment, he hadn’t thought much about how the baby might look. But now, he couldn’t help marveling at the sight. The little one had his hair and eyes, yet your delicate nose and soft, heart-shaped lips.

In that instant, all his doubts and fears melted away like snow under the sun, replaced by a feeling so intense, so overflowing, it brought a lump to his throat and tears in his eyes.

This was love—raw and undeniable. A love he never knew he could feel so deeply, now cradled in his arms.

And also in you.

As his gaze found yours again, Xavier made a vow—to every god and deity that might be listening, that no matter where his life led him, no matter how cruel fate might twist his path, if it meant getting even a glimpse of this unparalleled happiness with you, then—

He would endure it all. Every storm, every trial. For you, for the love you shared, and now for the tiny life in his arms. And if you were ever separated again—

No matter how, no matter how many times, through all means, he will definitely find you, always.

#xavier x reader #lads xavier x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #l&ds x reader #love and deepspace x you #xavier x you #xavier x mc #lads x you #lads smut #love and deepspace xavier #lads xavier #xavier love and deepspace #lads x reader fluff #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace scenarios #love and deepspace fluff

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joelsdagger · 14 hours ago

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‘tis the season || one shot

joel miller x f!reader

nothing new. nothing exciting. just some pwp. major shout out to my very freaky girl @dinandwhiskey, this fic was born due to our 4am conversations about fucking Our Old Man on viagra. and to my fellow ocean unicorn @joeloverture, for the encouragement, always. and to @pedrospatch, for being my eyes, and my biggest cheerleader, you have my heart. anyway – merry christmas eve eve & happy holidays ya filthy animals. may 2025 be ever so kind to you <33

pairing: dbf!joel x reader summary: you’re back in town for christmas, and it’s been months since you’ve seen your boyfriend, joel miller. and he decides to make the most of the brief window of time you have together. or, joel fucks you after taking viagra. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ warnings: [no-outbreak au], implied age gap [no mention of ages but reader is in college], secret established long distance relationship [that’s a mouth full] [that’s what she said], drug use, joel miller on viagra is a beast, pet names [baby, darlin’, sweetheart, kiddo], sexualization of the terms kiddo & old man, [mocking] dirty talk, size kink, praise kink, daddy kink, brief mentions of smut that occurs off page [i.e: face-sitting, fingering, anal play, ass eating, a reach around handjob, f! & m! receiving oral], softdom!joel, unprotected piv, missionary, mating press, overstimulation [rip our girl she’s fighting for her life], dacryphilia, finger sucking, biting, smidge of a pain kink, creampie, squirting, joel fucks you while you’re on the phone with your father, mentions of christmas, (2) christmas puns [author apologizes in advance for said puns], probably [most likely] inaccurate and unrealistic descriptions to the effects of viagra [remember, this is fiction!!], omitting a few tags as to avoid spoilers!!, aaaaand lastly, they’re in love BYE! word count: 3.5k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for notifs on when i post my writing!

“Just one more time, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond, tongue-tied. The agonizingly slow drag of his cock inside you is too much, your mind is a blur.

Joel’s been fucking you for hours. He’s made you come six times since you practically pranced through his front door. Twice on his face, once on his fingers, and three times on his cock. And now you’re overstimulated — cunt swollen and almost begging for relief — but Joel, driven by your high-pitched moans and strained whimpers, is unable to stop himself, working to make you come just one more fucking time.

It’s thanks to that stupid little blue pill his buddy slipped him that he’d been able to fuck you for this long.

In truth, he doesn’t need it. He never needs it. He fucks you perfectly fine without it. But you’re home for the holidays, and you haven’t seen him or come successfully on your own since the beginning of the fall term, and Joel wanted to take advantage of that.

Send you back fucked so full o’me you’ll feel me in here for weeks, he’d groaned.

Your drippy hole stretched out and clamped tight around the thick girth of him. It had been so long, your face contorted at the sharp sting, and a pained hiss escaped through his gritted teeth when he pushed the delicious fat tip of his cock past your puffy folds, splitting you in two.

The warm walls of your cunt pulse around his shaft, your clit throbs against the wet thatch of thick hairs stippled gray at his base. You’re too sensitive, too tender, cunt stinging with every long stroke, but not in the way it makes you want to use your safe word.

It’s just that Joel hasn’t let up. Two hours spent making you come and he hasn’t let up once. The only time he had given you some semblance of a break was when he got up, turned around, and sat on your face at your plea — your desire to show him how good he had made you feel all those times before.

His cock in your hand, weak fist tugging away at his length while you lathed away at the tight little hole in the crease between his ass cheeks. Even then, Joel couldn't help himself; shoved three thick fingers into your puffy pussy — timing the thrust of them to the desperate pumps of your joint fists — jacking his cock in unison while you writhed beneath him, pulling another climax from you.

Only when his sweaty thighs quivered around your body, chin tilted towards the ceiling and a stream of profanities poured from his lips, his body curling over yours as hot spurts of his cum painted your soft tummy when he felt your finger slipping past his puckered rim to the knuckle, had he given you a break.

“Attagirl, just like that. Pretty little pussy’s gonna cum all over me. C’mon, baby, give it to me,” Joel’s voice is thick with arousal as he rambles above you, his hips expertly rolling into yours, head of his cock nudging that place incompetent college boys have failed to reach.

“Joel—fuck—I don’t think I can—” You gasp frantically, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, arms wound tight around him.

He smirks with another deliberate roll of his hips. “Thought you said you could keep up. Isn’t that what you said? “Naw, I reckon you said, Try keeping up, old man, wasn’t that it?” He mocks, imitating your words from earlier. Fucking bastard.

A whimpering mess, your eyes pinch shut in response.

“I can’t—” you croak, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

Deft hands brush your hair back from your face. “You can. I know you can, baby.” His voice softer, barely audible through the wet smack of his balls, smeared in the evidence of your earlier release, firmly slapping against the curve of your ass. The sounds obscenely echoing through the quiet of his bedroom.

You whimper and try fruitlessly to nod. He knows you can, and he’s right. Your hips wouldn’t be grinding up off the mattress to meet his thrusts. You wouldn’t be feeling something roiling low in your belly.

“One more time, baby. Give me one more n’ I’ll let this sore little pussy rest,” he whispers, lips kissing away your salty tears.

You nod eagerly. His hand reaches up to the headboard, fingers curling around it and locking into place, his other removes one of yours from his shoulder, pins it to the pillow above your head. And with his hand clasping your damp palm, fingers squeezing then interlocking with yours, he fucks you harder.

The change in pace has tears spilling from your eyes and pooling into the shells of your ears. The wave swells, swells, swells —

Your phone screen lights up the dark room, buzzing on Joel’s nightstand.

You freeze, neck craning in the direction of the vibration, eyes squinting and damp lashes fluttering at the bright screen, Dad, it reads.

Shit.

You gaze back up at Joel, wide-eyed, panic surging in your chest. Joel growls. “Don’t answer.”

You don’t listen. You know your father, he’ll keep calling until you answer. Without saying another word, your hand comes up to the wooden surface in search of your phone. You take a few deep breaths, trying to quell the anxious heat swirling inside you, unplug your phone from the charger, slide a shaky thumb across the screen, and press the phone to the shell of your ear.

“Hey—” You clear your throat awkwardly, “Hey, Dad,” your voice breathy, tired.

You unstick your body from Joel’s, your free hand presses to his strong chest, a silent effort to halt his movements.

“Kid! I’m sorry to call you this late, but before you left for Eve’s, I forgot to let you know to be home in time for breakfast.”

Jesus. That could’ve been a text.

You sit up, scoot back into the pillows, while Joel sits back on his knees, wincing in unison as his cum-drenched cock slips out of your overflowing slit. Almost instantly, you feel a steady stream of his spend trickle out of your opening. He’d already managed to fill you to the brim three times tonight.

You fiddle with your bottom lip. “Breakfast? I thought we were just doing dinner.”

“Well, I thought since you’re only in town for a few days, we could go the whole nine yards. I missed our breakfasts together. I enjoy them, kid,” he says softly.

Your bleary eyes flick back to Joel. The smug grin that graces his lips and the gleam of something darker in his eyes don’t put you at ease. He’s up to something, as always.

You grumble, massaging your forehead. “Yeah, sure, Dad. I’ll be home by nine. Listen, I gotta—”

“Oh! Speakin’ of dinner, I was thinking of inviting Joel over,” your dad says, plainly.

Your heart stutters. “Joel? W-Why?”

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches, dark eyes glimmer with mischief. Two heavy hands find your waist, and he’s sliding you back down towards him. Slow and suspicious, one of his hands finds your knee, and presses it flush to the mattress. You both watch as his other hand cups the back of your other knee, pushing it back down to match the other, exposing you to the sex-tainted air. With his eyes transfixed on the slow trickle of his spend, his hand then wraps around the base of his cock, tip lining up with your aching hole.

There it is.

“Poor guy has been asking about you, kid.” And Joel glides the head of his cock up and down your puffy seam, collecting your mixed juices on his tip then taps the heavy weight of it on your perked clit twice in quick succession; Joel smirks at the wet smack. You jolt, thighs attempting to clamp shut, his firm grip on your knee tightens, keeping you open for him.

You pinch your eyes closed and curse under your breath.

“What was that, honey?”

Your eyes snap open, and you scramble to recover, “N-nothing, I just–” You clear your throat again. “Sorry. What were you saying, Dad?”

Joel chuckles lowly as he leans forward on top of you, pressing his broad frame in on you, your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. Chest to chest, belly to belly, pelvis to pelvis, tacky skin against tacky skin, once again as before. He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, and with his mouth at your other ear, his tongue darts out to lick at the salty droplet there before suckling ever so slightly on your flesh, you bite back a moan.

Your dad, oblivious to your current state, continues, “Oh— Joel’s been asking after you. Think he’s getting sick of your old man if I’m honest. He keeps telling me he misses having you around, always goin’ on about how you’ve grown up right before his eyes…”

He can hear him. You know he can by the feel of the corner of his mouth curling up into a grin, teeth grazing your carotid now. He lifts his head, dark gaze meeting yours while his massive hands cup your tits, caressing, squeezing, kneading, while muttering, Goddamn have you grown up.

Your cunt flutters around nothing, and you sigh into the phone; your dad doesn’t hear it through his rambling. You don’t register what he’s chatting away about because then, Joel’s nose nuzzles into your neck, traces a line up, up, up until his tongue snakes out and meets the curve of your earlobe. Licks the meat of it into his mouth and takes it between his teeth, your whimper cuts off into a moan when the bite turns sharp.

His fingers fiddle with your nipples. “Naughty little thing,” Joel taunts, warmth of his breath fanning across the hinge of your jaw, “You liked that?”

You keen and nod, his hand dips south between your bodies, wrapping around the base of his length, notches the too-wide cockhead at your too-small hole. You turn your head, pressing your mouth to the scruff of his beard, muffling the whine he elicits from you.

Joel pushes inside, takes a moment, and just to mess with you — he fucks his tip in and out of your drooling hole in small pulses — once, twice, thrice — teasing you, making you moan. He tilts his head, nosing your cheek, breath hot and voice deep, “Listen,” he commands.

Absentmindedly, you tilt your phone away from your ear, away from your dad’s mumblings. You strain your ears to obey him. In and out, in and out. The squelch of your sticky wet reverberates against the four walls of his bedroom as the blunt head of his cock moves in and out.

In. And out.

“Fuck,” you mutter, eyes flitting down to watch his cock impale you.

Your dad’s voice cuts in through the fog, redrawing your attention.

“Sweetie? You okay? What’s wrong?”

Your eyes widen. Shit. “I’m–I’m–fine, I– I j-just stubbed my toe. Dad, I really can’t t–” You stammer, and Joel chuckles lowly.

Your stuttering emboldens him, taking it as an invitation to torture you further, and with his lips against your ear, a breathy moan escapes from his lips as Joel feeds you his cock, slowly working himself back into your spent cunt. So painfully slow that he ensures you feel every ridge and every vein, and in turn, he feels every inch of your warm, velvet walls sucking him in as he eases himself into you. Used cunt clamped tight around him as you welcome him back in — inch by torturous inch.

He stills once he reaches resistance, and you bite your bottom lip hard enough that you taste copper, suppressing the moan climbing up your chest as his tip knocks your cervix, heavy balls pressed flush to your ass — finally bottoming out inside you.

He ruts into you once, tip bumps your cervix again — goading you, and you gasp in return, fingernails indenting his shoulder, half–moon crescents marking his skin. Beads of sweat roll off his forehead and onto your face, mixing with the warm tears now cascading down your face, and your tongue darts out to taste it. The flavor of him — his sweat, his musk — only feeds the dizzying blur that is your mind. But through the foggy haze and the lewd, wet slap of flesh against flesh, you think you can hear your dad saying, You really need to quit the habit of walking around in the dark, kiddo.

And you think you’re nodding, an endless litany of, yes, yeah–yeah slipping past your lips, as you rush your way through the phone call with your father, uncaring. Only interested in the shifts of Joel’s hips, slowly fucking into you in measured thrusts.

Joel tuts. “Such a dirty fuckin’ girl, gettin’ off while speakin’ to her daddy.” And your grip in his hair tightens, walls tensing in response. “Attagirl, keep squeezin’ me like that. You gonna show me just how naughty you are for me, hm? Gonna let me have it with him on the phone? Gonna cream all over my cock, naughty girl?”

You nod your head numbly, mouth dry and unable to speak with the tip of his cock prodding at the soft spot inside you on every languid stroke, hips swaying back and forth.

The wave begins to crest, and despite your eager nodding at Joel only a second prior, there’s no way in hell you’re really going to come on your boyfriend’s cock — your dad’s best friend — while on the phone with your father.

Your voice claws its way up your throat, “D-dad, I’m — mmm — sorry I really have to g–” You think your thumb presses the red button, but your phone slips from your hand, dropping to the carpet with a muffled thump, and it’s too late to check if you’ve fully hung up on him, and frankly, you’re too consumed by your lover to care.

Grinning with pride, Joel pulls back, cock halfway out of your pussy and your hands grasp at his shoulders.

“Joel— f-fuck–please,” you beg, your resolve melting.

He clicks his tongue. “Na-uh, try again.”

“D-d-daddy–please,” you whine.

“D-d-daddy,” he mocks above you. “Say it, pretty girl.” He knows, but he wants to hear you say it.

“Harder. Please, daddy–I–I wanna come, please, I wanna come,” you mewl, voice all whiny and petulant.

He says nothing. Without pulling out of you, his long fingers wrap around to grip the backs of your knees, pinning your thighs to your chest, knees to your shoulders, feet dangling in the air beside his beautiful head, folding you in half. Then, he moves to plant his feet flat on the mattress, propping himself up, hands on your thighs to steady himself.

You’re already a mewling, writhing mess underneath him as he fucks in and out of your wasted cunt — it doesn’t take much longer for you to get there. The air fills with sounds of the headboard hammering against the wall and filthy, sloppy sounds of where you two are connected as he bashes into you with arrant primal vigor.

The new angle has him hitting a point inside you, deeper than you ever thought to exist. And still — the wave doesn’t break. With his eyes locked on yours, you know he can tell. He can always tell. He’s made you scream his name enough times since the beginning of your many clandestine meetings last summer to know when you’re teetering on the edge. In need of more.

And for a moment, you think you can see it in him. Hazel eyes practically glint against the pale moonlight that spills into his bedroom. Joel bares his teeth in a cocky grin, his hand releases one of your thighs to cup your face, thumb parting your plush lips when he says, give it to me, kiddo, soak your old man’s cock.

Oh fuck.

Your eyelids flutter shut, your head falling back onto the pillows, hands clutching and pulling at tufts of his grizzled curls. Lips closing around his thumb wedged in your mouth; licking, sucking, biting into his flesh, as the crest finally breaks and washes over you, taking you under the rogue waves.

But Joel still doesn’t let up. One more time, my ass.

He’s insatiable. And he shows you just how insatiable he is when his thumb slips from your spit-smeared lips and reaches between your bodies, the pads of his fingers expertly thrum at your sensitive clit.

Your face twinges up at the intense, almost painful pressure as he pinches your clit between his index and middle fingers, hard. The swing of his hips speeds up, cock relentlessly beating your sore cunt. The sight of his girth, disappearing and reappearing as he pounds your pussy at a punishing pace, and his fingers twisting your swollen clit has your belly pulling taut and snapping within the same beat. With a broken shout of his name, you gush around the root of his cock, dripping down his balls. It’s warm and sticky when it seeps down, past your tight ring of muscle, soaking his blue sheets and turning them the shade of charcoal gray.

Joel coaxes you through your seventh–eighth toe-curling orgasm of the night. An endless stream of sweet nothings spills from him — good girl, that’s it, kiddo. I know, I know, it’s so much, I know – fuck– such a good fuckin’ girl, as he fucks you through it.

Your sloppy cunt clenches around him, and with his cock choked tight, deep within your bruised walls, he follows soon after. Growls raggedly as he unravels, and his own orgasm rolls through him, decking the hall of your weeping cunt with warm, milky ropes of cum for the fourth time tonight.

Joel collapses onto your sticky chest, placing open-mouthed kisses to your dampened face — your cheek, your nose, your forehead, while he pumps you full of his seed, abiding by his promise. And when he’s done, his sweaty forehead drops to yours for a moment. The waves now a steady ripple through your body as you come down.

After a moment, he lifts his head, and in retaliation for giving you what was possibly the best fuck of your life while on the phone with your father and nearly exposing your tryst, you bring one of his hands to your face, hollow your cheeks, and suck his thumb while looking up at him with wide and falsely innocent eyes.

He licks his lips but manages to pry his post-coital eyes away. Instead, his cum-soaked cock slips out of your tired, leaking cunt. When he leans back, you swallow a moan, catching sight of the aftermath of your many arousals in his pubic hair. Graying curls swimming in a pool of your combined releases that drips down his thighs. A thin strand of your shared pearlescent spend shines in the soft moonlight, stretching from his balls to your folds, still connecting the two of you as he pulls away.

Joel misses it, something else pulls his attention. His gaze shifts to the clock beside your head. A hint of a smirk passes over his lips.

“You’re lucky it’s Christmas, darlin’,” voice low, dangerous.

Your head snaps in the same direction. It’s past midnight. You smirk in turn and pull the comforter up to hide it.

You feel him shift over you, elbow popping loudly as he reaches for what he’s looking for before he moves to sit up beside you, back against the headboard. His hand pulls the comforter back down from your face, and you roll over and sit up on your knees to face him.

His other palm opens, wordlessly presenting you with a single twig of some plant. One with moss green, teardrop–shaped leaves and plump, round berries, waxy and opaque in color.

Mistletoe.

You take the meat of your bottom lip between your teeth, stifling a laugh that threatens to bubble through you. Because of fucking course he would.

Though, the soft laugh is short-lived. His broad hand waves the mistletoe over him, but not where it should be. Your gaze follows the movement of his hand, and your mouth falls agape. Your eyes snap back up to Joel’s, and his wicked smirk broadens.

Joel Miller — naked as the day he was born and splayed on top of his messy sheets — dangles the mistletoe over his length, still hard as a rock and stirring in his other hand.

But it doesn’t stop there.

Beneath the mistletoe rests a lump of bright red and velvety felt; a fluffy white cuff rounds the brim, and a matching fuzzy white bobble hangs at the end of it.

A Santa hat perched jauntily on his cock.

You shut your mouth and swallow thickly, already feeling that familiar ache at the apex of your thighs, and you clench around emptiness, a stream of his seed dribbling out of your overstuffed cunt and further soiling his bedding.

“But it ain’t a Merry one till you give Santa's big sack a few kisses.”

#non i hope this was freaky enough #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #joel miller one shot #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #dbf!joel #dbf!joel x reader #dbf!joel smut #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #tw daddy kink #noelle's workshop

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koalayoo · 3 days ago

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Men who talk a certain way.

They carry themselves with elegance, talk with a poised cadence unique to them. They hold themselves upright and have an air of superiority. A cunning look, signature smirk, firm hand; these are staples of their character, they know how to strike a deal. Whether for their people or their own gain, they intimidate those to gain an advantage no matter how many exploits gone through or people exploited.

People either love or fear them.

They’re important.

It’s no surprise that they sit at the centre of the table at a meeting, commanding attention. All eyes are on them, gripping their every word. Prompt nods and murmurs of agreements follow. They’re smart too. Incredible wit and perceptiveness as they continuously glance at everyone, especially you.

Fuck, and they’re hot too.

It makes your blood run hot. Jolts shoot throughout your body and you avert your gaze. It was stupid to you to be losing your cool for a man who felt indifferent about your existence. Maybe that isn’t the right word.

Sometimes, you would question whether he hated you. Whenever you needed a pen, your hands brushed against one another for a second and he would quickly pull back as if being stung by a bee with a slight scowl forming on his face. If the piles of paper you needed to finish took too long, he would be adamant you finish for the night, which is all fine and dandy if he wasn’t looking for help from others to complete your work. He even reprimanded you, talked to you in that familiar stern tone once for not having your priorities in place when a stranger came up to you in a flirtatious manner as if you could control that.

He pissed you off.

Why couldn’t he care about you like a normal person?

However, you were wrong about all of it. He cared too much.

When your fingers grazed him he was ridden with guilt, these were the same hands he would think about at night. Imagine tracing the sharp edges of his skin. He would shut his eyes and throw his head back, replacing his hands with your own. Try to commit the soft feel of yours to his. Would you go slow or fast? He wondered. How would you hold him? Would you let him make a mess? His thoughts would trail on and on questioning your grip, your face, what you would say.

So, it was no surprise when he saw you working yourself to exhaustion that he wanted you to rest. That was his duty after all. Only he could do that. The eyes that he desperately wanted to see glazed over with a lust filled haze needed to be well rested first. That way, he could slowly see them become drunk for him, turning red, bloodshot from just how well he would treat you.

And it was especially no surprise that when another person had the audacity to want you too, he had to stop them. Sure, you didn’t deserve the scolding but he would make you feel so much better later on. He just had to be patient.

Had to keep his tone steady and tame. Pretend to treat you just like everyone else. Even if you thought he hated you. He could fuck you like that too if you wanted. He would give you anything you wanted. However, you didn’t deserve to know how depraved he truly was.

There was a thought that lingered at the forefront of his mind. If you found out just how he imagined you, would you leave? He figured you might feel disgusted, a man of his caliber, his power, wanting to succumb to you. And so he continued to talk. Continued to keep his tone steady. Keep his tone tame.

He would keep himself in line; refined. Because if you found out how he was imagining you, perhaps then this man would truly feel fear.

fantasising about...

Sylus, NEUVILLETTE, Jing Yuan, Welt, Sunday, DAN HENG, Artem, Zhongli!, Gepard, Alhaitham?, Cyno ...and anyone else you're thinking of

Hope you liked this! Inspired by the song 'Talk' by Hozier. Specifically the line, "So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you." Please give it a listen! It was in my Spotify Top 5 it's so good and captures the vibe I was trying to go for with this. Sorry for the yap. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated!

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endursent · 2 days ago

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My Partner Turned Into A Cat And I Don't Know How To Fix It (4)

【 content; established relationship , fluff , humour , slight shenanigans , gn!reader 】

【 characters; alhaitham , arataki itto , baizhu , cyno , dainsleif , diluc , kaedehara kazuha , kaeya , kamisato ayato , kaveh , neuvillette , tartaglia , thoma , venti , wanderer , wriothesley , xiao , zhongli 】

【 premise; " You have been struck with a curse of some sort which has turned you into a cat, your partner has no idea how to fix it nor how long it might take. Yet he also cannot help but be rather amused by the situation despite the uncertainty…" 】

【 note; im sorry. this is so long... lol. 】

【 word count; 11.150 | read on ao3 | hsr reader ver | gi his ver | hsr his ver 】

Alhaitham;

He usually wouldn’t allow pets in the house… not because he dislikes them—Alhaitham simply wouldn’t want to have to clean up the hairs that fall off you after moving between every spot you lie down in.

Nevertheless… here he is, with a brush in hand as he tries to get it out of the sheets. You sit next to him apologetically (getting more hairs into the same sheet where you’re currently sitting, of course) and watch as he scoops it into a small bag. Alhaitham sets the bag aside and picks you up easily with one hand, his large palm lifting under your tummy and plopping you back down on his lap as he turns back to brushing your hairs away.

Feeling eyes on himself, Alhaitham looks down to see your large, round cat-eyes looking up at him, tail swaying.

He put you in his lap—doesn’t that mean it’s petting time?

Where’s your damn attention?

Slightly exasperated, Alhaitham tries to multitask and pet you while he's scooping your hair—but more keeps tossing around with every upstroke of your thick fur… why did you have to turn into a hairball? Couldn’t you have been a hairless cat? He’s almost tempted to just put you in the bag.

He’s a respectable “pet owner”, but does lack in one aspect that’s quite important to you, at least… perhaps not all cats

No kisses??

You’d at least like some on your head—he doesn’t have to kiss your nose or anything. Though you shouldn’t be surprised, Alhaitham isn’t very forthcoming with his affections and most of your casual kisses are by your initiation and his response to it.

So now you have to effectively smush your furry little head into his face to communicate that you want kisses.

It takes him a few tries to understand what you need, but thankfully he got it rather easily, smart lad.

Kaveh sometimes catnaps (kidnaps) you for… cat naps. He says it’s nicer than hugging his own pillow—and you don’t particularly mind, but Alhaitham does. Once he can’t find you after a general sweep of the house he figures Kaveh took you again and like a seasoned thief, swaps you out with a pillow while the architect is asleep.

“Hmph… he should get his own cat,” Alhaitham says to himself after shutting the door quietly, holding you like a baby in his arms, your paws in the air. He looks down, grey hair tilting over his eyes as he smiles only slightly. “What? You are my cat. Perhaps I should call you kitty from now on, even after you’ve changed back.”

You tried to climb onto the back of the chain in the study when Alhaitham was doing some studies once, but quicker than you could react—even with these new cat reflexes—he grabs you by the scruff of your neck and hoists you off. “You’re scratching the furniture,” he moves you from the back of the chair and plops you down on his lap. “Do refrain from doing that.”

Hmph. You wanted to bite his hair a bit… it smells nice. But fine. Lap it is, you can settle for that.

It takes you about two and a half minutes not to be satisfied with that, and lounge over his book instead, hoping he’ll stop and pay attention to you instead. You have a feeling he would do the same if he were in your position.

Alhaitham seems annoyed for a few seconds, but he only needs to stare into your big, cute cat-eyes for a few seconds to fold. What can he do? It doesn’t take much for you already to rope him into whatever shenanigans the day brings, and especially not like this.

Arataki Itto;

You just wanted a nice, cool nap.

It’s hot as balls in Inazuma, and you found an excellent spot under a slanted roof. You got comfortable and were half asleep already when you’re suddenly dragged off the crate and raised in the air like a divine heir.

Flailing in protest, your screaming of; “PUT ME DOWN YOU OAF” isn’t translated very well into frantic meows and hisses.

And of course, Itto has no idea what you’re trying to communicate—in fact, he thinks you’re just a bit surprised yet happy to see him. He sets you on his shoulder and you hold on for dear life. He’s broad, but broad muscles are also rather round and his outfit isn’t easy to grab onto—you just thank feline evolution that you have good balance and can hold yourself somewhat steady.

He sometimes just parades you around on his head like a strange hat, he doesn’t even seem to mind the death grip you have on his scalp.

Best naps, laying out in the grass on a warm summer’s day as the bright rays of the sun shine down on you. It’s comfortably warm, your fur keeps you cool enough that you don’t get lightheaded—despite popular belief, Itto is not a snorer, but he is a hugger.

You’re caged against his broad chest and there’s little escape or ways to wake him without scratching, biting or wailing like you’re trapped under a boulder.

Itto is a seasoned pet owner, he has multiple beetles that he takes good care of and thus he’s surprisingly adept at handling you. He doesn’t toss you around (except to put you on his shoulders or head) and doesn’t lock you out of the house or forget to feed you. In fact, you’d say he’s a top-notch owner, though you might be slightly biased.

The summer days are warm in Inazuma, and sometimes one just needs to do something to keep their mind off of the heat. Even with your coat protecting you from most of it, even you are starting to get dazed by the sharp, overbearing heat of the sun. And Itto is also very good at filling empty time.

He takes you out to the beach, though it wasn’t the best idea—he thought it was genius, the ocean is cool enough, there are not many around on the eastern beaches because of the awkward positioning and further distance from the city… but he didn’t take it into account that you absolutely refuse to get in the water, and there’s no shade. So that idea gets abandoned quickly.

For some reason he loves to touch your nose; poke it, kiss it, rub it… anything. And every time he does, you have to wet it again—it almost becomes a funny game to him to touch your nose and watch as your tongue darts out to wet it again.

Being unable to communicate with you isn’t a problem, he’s a yapper and can talk enough for the two of you. You try to meow along in response to show that you’re listening, but even if there was no brain behind your eyes, he’d still talk your ears off.

He creates a makeshift cat-bed for you out of some blankets and cushions, Itto was rather proud of himself for the craft that went into making it as soft as it is…

It still always ends up with you on his chest or legs at the end of the night. Without exception.

Baizhu;

He really scratches his head over this situation, how did this happen to you? You had gone out to deliver some medicine to those who aren’t well enough or mobile to come fetch it themselves, and had stayed out far longer than usual—Baizhu had started to worry and nearly had gone to look for you… when a cat with your eyes and mannerisms stumbles into the pharmacy meowing up a storm trying to explain itself.

Distressed, confused and much smaller than you’re used to being, Baizhu quickly scoops you up into his arms to calm you down. “Do not worry, I recognise you,” he assures—he feels a little silly saying this to a cat, and has a twinge in the back of his mind that he might be wrong. But the way you’re waving your paw is strangely… human, though muddled by the restrictions of your cat-joints.

Changsheng however, finds this HILARIOUS. She unwinds a bit from Baizhu’s shoulders and nearly bumps snouts with you as she wonders whether you were even fully aware of yourself, and after some arguing—in the form of loud yowling and meowing—they concluded that yes, your mind is well.

Baizhu tries everything he can think of, but he’s never really encountered a situation like this before and he has to use a lot of his attention to theory-crafting and tests.

The only thing that made a difference, was that one concoction he crafted made your ears twice larger… but it didn’t change you back. So now you just have unnaturally large ears for a cat.

He smiles sheepishly as he examines you to make sure nothing else is affected. “Ah… apologies, my dear. I don’t mean to laugh… but the ears,” he tries his best not to smile too widely, or give a soft laugh. But it’s difficult, you look so disproportionate it’s just adorable.

Despite your grievance over your proportions, Baizhu can’t help but rub your ears and scratch behind them. He gives you some good treats as an apology. You reluctantly accept.

Unfortunately, Baizhu has a job to do and can’t just close the pharmacy off from his assistance to tend to you. He multitasks as much as he can, but there are scheduled appointments to be present for.

But he has a good idea of how to utilise you, after all, you’re the usual deliverer—customers likely won’t mind if you’re cat-sized.

Thus, he gets some help from contacts and a day later you have a fancy harness with a delivery box on your back. Baizhu sets some medicine in it and fastens it properly so it won’t slip off and you don’t feel too constrained… and sets you on your way.

You were getting bored lounging around in the pharmacy anyway, so you revel in getting to stretch your legs a bit. You make the deliveries in record time, able to get through tiny crevices you weren’t able to before and hope through shortcuts you didn’t even know about.

As you return to the pharmacy after the final run, Baizhu smiles and kneels down in front of you, removing the harness and scratching where the lines of it had pressed against your fur. The nice feeling of being pet brings a rumbling purr from your chest and your tail sways happily as he gives you some water to drink and attention.

“Good work today,” he strokes between your large ears and rubs his thumb on your cheek. “It’s almost time to close up, let’s go upstairs and continue trying to figure out how to turn you back.”

The soft ambient light of the room and the sound of Baizhu’s brush stroking against the paper of a scroll makes you much more tired than you expected. You lay curled up on the desk against the wall where he sits and writes formulas and theories, Changsheng slithers up next to you and bundles herself on your back—it’s not particularly comfortable, but you’re too lazy to move, and it’s kind of cute.

Baizhu hums to himself and looks at you, his gaze lingers for only a short time before returning to the scroll in front of him.

Cyno;

He stares at the cat in Tighnari’s hands, his eyes look up to the man holding you and then back down. “What.”

The ranger deadpans and plops you into his arms. “I’ve been scouring the library for days while you were in the desert, I don’t know what happened, but it’s just how they are right now.”

Cyno lifts you up by holding your torso under your front legs, he peers at your face as you dangle like an idiot but have no way to really wriggle away. “Blink twice if it’s really you.”

You blink twice.

“Huh,” he just makes a sound of affirmation, then tucks you under his arm. “Thank you, I’ll take it from here.”

Tighnari stares at him, unimpressed by his lack of reaction to the fact that his partner is currently a small, furry cat. “You're not going to ask where I found them, how I know it’s them or how my progress is going when it comes to turning them back?”

Cyno is silent for a beat before he speaks again. “I know it’s them, I know their eyes.”

Somehow, the duty of getting you back to normal remained on Tighnari’s back, and Cyno sets you down on the dining table in your shared home. He folds his arms over his chest and analyses you, it’s a little awkward—you’re not sure why he’s staring so intensely at you.

“This is… quite the cat-astrophe—”

Oh no.

You have no way to stop him, and though you usually let him get it out of his system once he feels the need… you could also stop him once it gets out of hand. In this form, you’re effectively defenceless and unable to protest in any meaningful ways.

Thankfully, he does stop after you dive under your bed and hide for ten minutes in hopes he won’t drag you back and perform stand-up for you for the rest of the night.

Once Cyno is assured this strange transformation isn’t dangerous nor necessarily permanent, he’s rather laid back about it. He finds it quite funny (evidently) and there’s no way around it, you’re cute like this. Not that he didn’t consider you cute before, but it’s especially unavoidable now.

There’s no real way to stop him from making jokes or puns about this situation, it’s in his soul—and though you wouldn’t trade his soul for the world, you get moments of temptation when his brain hyperfocuses on one thing to centre his jokes around.

They get a bit tired.

You follow him around everywhere, it’s not like you’ve got better places to be. He thinks it’s rather adorable to see you trotting around at his heels as he walks through the city, though he tells you to remain home when he has work to do—it can turn dangerous sometimes, depending on the day, and he recognises that your body is smaller and more fragile than it used to be.

He does always come back right away, he wraps up any follow-ups and paperwork as quickly as he can—if only for the moments of arrival. Of opening the front door and being greeted by you sitting at the entrance of your home, staring up at him with a swaying tail. Waiting excitedly.

Dainsleif;

You’ve never seen this expression on his face, in the moments after you touched a strange-looking artefact, there’s a poof—and your body shifts to that of a small cat. It wasn’t painful, nor do you feel as if you were cursed in any way.

“... meow?”

Dainsleif stares at you, lips parted slightly, he’s positioned with one foot forward as he had been in the process of rushing towards you to hopefully stop you from touching what you shouldn’t… but he was a tad late.

He straightens and takes a breath. Okay… from one mystery to another.

He approaches you and picks you up—a bit awkwardly, as if he doesn’t know how to hold a cat—and you’re too confused and disoriented as to what just happened to process you being turned back towards the round artefact. Dainsleif takes your front right paw and makes you touch the artefact again.

Nothing. No glow, no poofing.

There goes his only idea.

The following days were confusing and mildly frustrating. It’s been a while since Dainsleif traveled alone, and though he isn’t technically alone—you’re still there, it doesn’t feel the same. He’s quite struck with the confrontation that he’s become very accustomed to your presence and how much he’s come to rely on it.

He’s a bit quiet and distant from you for a few days, while it makes you sad—if anything, you should be the one who needs comforting—you do try to slowly approach, you know that he can run the danger of isolation.

After starting a flame one evening in the alcove of a cave beneath a bright starry sky, Dainsleif sits down to rest for the night. You walk over with slow steps, careful and quiet, before sitting down next to him.

Far enough that you’re not touching, not even your tail… but close enough to be present.

His eyes slide towards you, and his head follows. “... what is it?”

“Meow.”

His eyelids squint, unsure what to make of your reply. Your answers always make sense to him… but what can he decipher from your feline face? The only familiar part of you is your eyes, shining under the light from the flames. “I see.”

You doubt he deciphered any meaning from your meows, but he’s engaging with you now. Progress.

Trying your luck, you move closer. He stays as he is, watching you closely.

You move closer yet, your tail touches his coat.

Dainsleif sighs.

You stop.

He can’t particularly feel your presence, not yours—but there is a presence next to him. It is yours, despite the fact he can’t sense it… and perhaps one day, were he to outlive you as if likely, he will have to find your presence in something you’re not.

And though you are this weird-looking cat, somewhere between a sentient human being and a feline animal, you’re still you.

The same, those same eyes, the very same gaze and mind.

He reaches out and sets his palm onto your furry head. Dainsleif pets your head slowly, and you nuzzle into his hand. You sit in silence before the swaying flames.

Diluc;

He can’t help but think that you might’ve done this on purpose.

Diluc has been very busy the last weeks he’s been coming back home to the winery late, leaving early—getting up in the middle of the night and waking you up when he goes out for his Darknight hero duties—and though you rescheduled it for next week, missed a dinner in the city that had been booked in advance.

He does feel bad, Diluc wants to spend all the time he can with you, all his free time and more—but with the winter months drifting by, business in the winery booms as people stock up on wine for the holidays. Businesses buy in bulk for holiday menu changes, and such.

And now, after hurrying back home when he was contacted that “something had happened” to you… he’s standing in front of a cat.

He thought you might’ve been hurt, or sick—he had run so fast his hair was loosening from his usual tail.

And while you’re not hurt or sick, you are… different. Something definitely happened.

He sits down and you climb onto his lap, sitting down and pawing at his chest, small meows leaving your small mouth. Diluc strokes your back and ruffles your fur with both hands. “How did this happen?” he knows you can’t answer him, but he can’t help but ask anyway.

You rise up on your hind legs, front paws on his chest as you lick and wet his cheeks. Diluc’s eyes close and his face scrunches up. “H-hey, stop that,” he puts his hands around your torso and holds you away from his face, your little tongue bleping down out of your mouth.

A smile tugs on his lips at the cute expression.

He still has to attend to his job, but while he usually handles most things himself, Diluc does accept help from his staff now that you’re… like this. So now he has more time for you, which isn’t exactly how he intended to spend that free time—searching for ways to turn you back, and having you loafing on his lap and being unable to stand up and fetch his coffee.

He’s not going to move while you’re so comfortable… he wouldn’t do that even if you weren’t a cat.

Not the biggest fan of the hair you leave around you, he needs to wipe his clothes thoroughly after you’ve so much as looked in his direction.

You get so much attention around the winery it’s not even funny, every employee pets you, gives you treats and treat you like you’re more of a royal cat than just a normal person turned into one.

Diluc came home one evening to see you loafing on the sofa, a shiny bow tied around your neck and a bowl of treats next to you… in reach for whenever you wanted it.

He had a conversation with the staff about making sure you don’t eat so much that your stomach will hurt… and that maybe not make you get too comfortable like this, he wants to turn you back to normal after all.

Kaedehara Kazhua;

He thinks it’s adorable, Kazuha is a rather laid-back person overall, and he’s certain you’ll be okay—so why not have fun while you’re like this?

It started all fun and games when on land, Inazuma is filled to the brim with foods that cats would love, every shop has some form of fish or vegetables that Kazuha can share with you…

But as soon as you go out on the open ocean, it’s over.

Kazuha has never seen you so violently unhappy on the ship, every rock of it makes you yowl and dig your claws into whatever you’re standing on, be it a crate, table, bed or Kazuha’s clothes (you ruined two pants, but he doesn’t particularly mind).

You have an irrational (or very rational) fear that you might be tossed off the ship and into the ocean at the slightest dip of the deck. Kazuha does his best to calm you and comfort you, he even offers to make a harness and leash for you so that he can yoink you back if you happen to fall overboard.

You don’t find his idea as funny as Beidou does.

Thankfully, you don’t get tossed overboard you don’t spontaneously die or have any other terrible event happen to you—and you’re so thankful to touch land that you hop off the side of the ship and to the harbour the ship docked by before it can even properly be tied down by the dockworkers.

Kazuha leans over the railing of the ship and calls your name, a bit worried—he hopes you don’t get lost before he can catch up to you.

It takes a while for the ship to dock and open up for people to leave, Kazuha convinces another person on the ship to take his duties for a while as he rushes out to find you. He’s not worried you might get yourself in trouble—you’re rather good at keeping out of it, but he doesn’t want you to get lost or have to spend all day looking for you.

Even though that’s kind of what he’s starting to do right now…

Kazuha shoulders past the crowd in the busy markets of Port Ormos, it’s early noon and it’s starting to fill up. The Crux has stocked up here often before and thus the both of you are quite familiar with it, but the winding streets and large crowds filling the markets can make it disorienting for even seasoned visitors.

After looking around for longer than he cared for, Kazuha finally spots your tail disappearing behind a corner.

Kazuha picks up his pace and somehow manages to catch up to you, perhaps the soft breeze is on his side, as he swoops up next to you and scoops you up into his arms.

He smiles, ducking out of the crowds and into a small alley where some crates are stored for the market stalls. “No need to run away, you’re safe on land now,” he holds you like a baby, your paws in the air as his arm holds your back steadily. “Though you are also very safe on the ship, I won’t let you fall overboard.”

You meow gently, Kazuha isn’t sure if you’re thanking him or expressing concerns… but the way you look up at him in this position is pretty cute. “Let’s find some good food, hm?”

Kaeya;

Funniest shit he’s seen all year.

Kaeya tries not to look like he’s very happy this happened—so long as he knows it’s not dangerous or permanent—or that watching you lick yourself to clean your fur isn’t very amusing.

He brings you everywhere, lets you follow him around and even holds you and lets passersby pet you…

Kaeya is just straight-up treating you like a real cat.

At this realisation, that he was acting like you were a pet, and not his very real (though cat-like for now) partner and previous human… you got angry! you wriggled in his grasp, surprising him and causing Kaeya to almost drop you—he righted his hold and blinked at you with a confused expression. “What is it? Did I hold you wrong?”

A series of angry meows and swats of your paw later, Kaeya was none the wiser.

He tried to bait you to “forgive” him with some nicely cut fish… and it kind of worked, that was some good fish.

Kaeya sits by the table you’re on as you gobble down the fish he bought you, he leans on his fist with a smile and watches as you lick your muzzle after getting fishy-oil on it and shake yourself when you accidentally dip your whiskers into the water next to the plate.

The sun almost makes it seem like your fur shines and sparkles under it and as you sit down, belly full and satisfied, Kaeya reaches out and scratches behind your ears. “Did you take behavioural classes before this? To behave like a real cat? You’re really nailing it.”

You make a huffed sound, but reach your head further into his hand.

He tries to get you to play with toys, he buys a stick with a bundle of feathers on the end in hopes that you’ll chase it when he dangles it in front of you… but when he sat down with you on the floor of your shared home and dangled it in front of you…

You stared at him as if he had just grown three additional heads.

Kaeya pouts, he wriggles it a bit—and though you follow it around with your head, you still sit where you are and don’t move.

Not until he lowered the toy and the feathered end touched the floor.

You pounced onto it.

Kaeya pauses, blinking at you in surprise. You look up like you got caught with your hand in a cookie jar.

And then he just laughs, he wriggles the toy again and you swat at it in frustration for making you leap at it like that, you’re not a real cat!!

Kamisato Ayato;

He doesn’t leave you alone.

You’re trotting along the engawa of the estate on your way to find a nice spot to nap—and suddenly, you’re swooped up into his arms. Ayato smiles and strokes your head. “There you are, my dear. I was searching for you,” he hums and turns around to walk into the estate.

Ayato spends about half the day—and sometimes more—in his study tending to paperwork of many kinds. Unusually, you would lend a hand and help with the neverending piles on his desk, but you’re little help like this… still, he demands that you “lend your paw” and sit on his lap the entire time.

It was nice at first, he’s got a nice lap to lay or loaf on, and he would scratch you in spots you couldn’t reach yourself, or just stroke your back… but after five hours, you really want to stretch your legs. So, you squeeze out from under his arm and stretch next to him, letting out a big yawn—only to find a finger poking your tongue?!

The bastard actually stuck his finger in your mouth when you yawned. Ayato smiled, all smug and somehow innocent at the same time. You meowed in disapproval, but it went straight over his head, as if he had any idea as to what you had just said to him, insult or not.

He also keeps pinching your toe beans, sometimes making your claws stretch out and then back in—even in the middle of the night, he rubbed your paws and stuck his finger between the beans. What is wrong with this guy.

Other than messing with you and pulling your leg, he does provide the best food and treats—as usual, you have the privilege of accessing the clan kitchens and being made food by them on a daily basis and it never fails to make you nearly cry with how good it is. And even now, as you sit next to his desk and his dinner is brought to him (even though you’ve tried to ask the staff to not bring it to him, and that he has to eat outside of his study or else his ass will get stuck to the floor) you are given your own tray of dishes as well.

Gobbling down the freshly made meals tailored to you even in this form, Ayato is happy that you seem to have a good appetite. He had been concerned that this… situation might stress you out and you wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep.

Despite his endless workload, Ayato somehow finds the time to pamper and take care of you between his busy schedule. He sits down with you in the gardens and brushes your fur, rubs your cheeks and kisses your nose (and you need to wet it again every time). As if you were a little fur baby for him to take care of.

He still talks to you as if you were as you always are, though Ayaka uses a baby-voice like one would use with a cat (she tries not to, but fails), Ayato speaks to you normally. He plucks the seeds out of a small cube of watermelon before feeding it to you as he recounts his day, humming in affirmation as you meow back about your own… he doesn’t understand it, but you need to get it out as well.

Your snout is practically pink by the end of the watermelon bowl, and Ayato gives you that smile… oh no.

“It’s been a few days now, and you ran around the garden yesterday… and now you’re covered in melon juice. Why don’t I ask Thoma to warm a bath to wash your fur?” he asks innocently, and watches in amusement as you shoot out of his lap and flee into the estate. Not a chance.

Kaveh;

Kaveh gapes at you. You stare up at him. He blinks. You blink.

“H-hah???!” he scoops you up—accidentally upside down, but you just flop in his arms, still blinking at him from your angle, you know he won’t drop you. Kaveh rights you and brings you nearly nose-to-nose as he stares into your eyes. “How did this happen? You were just—I was… this…”

He holds you a few centimetres away so neither of you go cross-eyed. “... Do you understand me?”

You nod and raise your paw, pressing it onto his cheek.

Kaveh doesn’t move his face away and lets your paw just press against his skin. “Okay, you’re… uh, aware… how do I fix this?”

“Meow.”

“...” right. Maybe this was a stupid question.

Kaveh goes a bit overboard, he researches the best ways to take care of a cat, the best foods, beds, toys—everything. And suddenly, he comes home after a short day at work (he has more important things to tend to!) with… so much stuff.

You stare, dumbfounded, as Kaveh carves out a cat-space in his and Alhaitham’s house… did he get Alhaitham’s permission to do this? You somehow doubt it.

After everything is set up, he stands and sets his hands on his hips with a wide smile. “What do you think?” Kaveh asks, looking down at you sitting by his feet with a swaying tail. “I think it fits very well, the colours compliment our living room—and I tried to arrange it in a way that mostly hugs the wall and doesn’t intercept with the flow of the room—”

He’s rambling again. You don’t mind when he gets going and his interior design skills ARE good, despite it not being his expertise, it goes hand in hand with architecture.

But… did he consult the other half of this house before doing this?

You found out quickly, you had just settled in the high cat-bed that hung on the wall, giving you a good view over the living room as well as a height advantage to him (now you get why cats enjoy the high ground)... when the front door opens and a very familiar Scribe enters.

Alhaitham wasn’t even aware that you had turned into a cat, to him… he just came home to see a random cat in the living room—and that it was arranged completely differently to give you space.

Thankfully Alhaitham has a good few brain cells to rub together between his fingers, and isn’t quick to rise, so he looked to Kaveh and tilted his head towards the kitchen… where they had a lengthy discussion, where Kaveh explained everything to him and asked him if it was okay…

Which is a tad late when he’s already rearranged the entire living room and gotten you comfortable there… but fine. So long as he takes it all down and makes everything as it should be once you’re back to normal. When asked, Alhaitham said he was too busy to help turn you back and told him to consult the library.

Kaveh is a hugger in his sleep, and you’re a victim (you love his hugs). He practically wraps himself around you and holds you to himself the entire night—and don’t you dare try to leave, he’ll wake up and whine about it. He does sometimes squeeze a bit too much—you’re not as durable as you usually are, you’re just a little kitty…

He gets cuteness aggression when you do anything mildly affectionate. Rub against his legs while he’s at his desk, loaf on his lap and slow blink up at him, lick his hand when he strokes your head… Kaveh tries his best not to squeeze you or shake you like a keychain, he bit into his own hand once to refrain from biting your full cheek of food once.

He drew a full sketchbook of you over the span of two weeks, he can’t help it—you’re too adorable and he wants to keep the image of you forever.

Neuvillette;

Not chill about this, Neuvillette was immediately concerned with how to turn you back and if this curse-spell could have any permanent effects on you. He doesn’t really have many tomes to consult, nor are there many people he could ask for advice as to… how to fix this.

After some time, and you rubbing your furry cheek on his arm and leg to try and calm down his nerves, Neuvillette does slow down. He’s usually very calm in the face of the unknown or danger—but he’s never had to deal with direct danger (or not, he hasn’t figured out if it’s dangerous or not yet) when it comes to you.

Thankfully, you’re still there with him, just… a bit smaller, and furrier… and you smell a bit weird—still like you, but also with a tinge of something else. Perhaps that part of your scent has always been your humanity.

And now you’re a cat.

He’s never owned a pet before—and you’re hardly a typical pet, and thus consults the only person he can think of. Furina (though he’s unsure she’s ever owned a pet either?).

And she loves you, she already likes you well enough—but like this? You’re getting picked up, petted, smooched, pampered and loved. Neuvillette just stands a bit awkwardly as Furina gets it out of her system and you get dangerously close to being fed up with her hugging and smooching… you’re not an actual cat! You just look like one!!

After being freed from her clutches, Neuvillette holds you with more dignity for a while until you feel safe enough to walk around the ex-Archon’s home (and won’t get swooped up again). When the initial chaos is over, he sits down with Furina and they put their heads together to try and find a solution to this. They write down how it happened, what exactly changed—your mind is the same, your scent as well as your eyes. Though your fur has turned a shimmering white regardless of your head and body hair colour before.

You look like a big snowball.

There’s no real conclusion to the first session of brainstorming, but they manage to narrow down that though neither was there to see what exactly happened, it was likely a spell, or perhaps an artefact you touched (where would that even happen inside Fontaine?) or something along those lines.

Thus, Neuvillette takes you back home for the night. He’s a bit stiff around you, he doesn’t interact much with animals and though he won’t avoid them if a cat approaches him on the street (he’d mostly greet and nod at them) he hasn’t exactly had to care for one before.

He has to rely on asking you yes or no questions that you can nod or shake your head to, and makes it through the first few days like that. And while you’re… cute? (He’s not entirely sure how to describe you) Nauvillette does much more prefer you in your normal state, where he can communicate with you, hold your hand and touch your cheek without getting sniffed at by a wet nose.

Not that Neuvillette doesn’t enjoy petting your fur and scratching under your chin, it’s just not the same.

It is very amusing to watch your head move left and right as you sit on the kitchen counter and watch Neuvillette prepare dinner—mostly for himself as you don’t eat typical foods now. He offers a small piece of a carrot and watches as you crunch on it for a good thirty seconds until it’s mushed enough to swallow.

Tartaglia;

Another situation of; the funniest shit he’s ever seen.

He brings you everywhere—Childe has no concept of ‘pet-free zone’ because you’re not his pet? You’re his partner? His beloved? Why is he being shooed out, you’re on a leash and everything (half chewed apart because you refuse to wear it with dignity and do all in your power to get free, how dare he put you on a LEASH).

Of course, initially, he was confused and rather concerned. He thought you might have been attacked, or targeted and thus had been made into this… cat, maliciously.

But you honestly seem pretty undisturbed, so he is as well. Calm cat, calm Childe.

He dresses you up before taking you outside—not necessarily for fun, but rather because it’s insanely cold in Snezhnaya in these months, and he doesn’t want you to be a block of ice after a few minutes. So he goes and buys some puffy coats, socks and a warm blanket for your return. You feel like you look like an idiot (you already look like a cat…) in all these clothes, but his cooing and smooching make it less annoying—mostly because now your annoyances are focused on him.

His siblings don’t really understand that it’s you, not at the younger range—and Childe just tells them that you’re a cat he and you decided to take care of for a while and that you’re busy elsewhere. Tonia doesn’t seem as convinced when Childe keeps smooching your nose and rubbing his cheek against yours.

Embarrassing enough as it is, Childe starts to call you nicknames now—it isn’t entirely unusual, but they’ve always been normal… now he’s calling you “Combat kitten” and “Fuzzy comrade”... worst of all was “General toebeans”

You wish you could tell him to stop, but all you have are meows and hisses.

Snezhnayan homes are made to withstand cold and harsh winds, and thus have excellent central heating systems… also known as a fireplace—and a furnace elsewhere. And curling up on some soft blankets or a plush chair by the furnace as snow gathers on the windowsill and winds brush against the exterior of the house… there are few places more comfortable to take a nap.

Unfortunately, Childe’s humming and singing from the kitchen disturbs your perfect peace, but you’re just glad he’s having fun. You’ll live.

And he brings you some treats, places a small kiss on top of your furry head and sits down in the other chair, dragging the one you’re on to be next to his so that he can stroke your back and belly when you eventually flop on your back for more attention.

He’s pulled every string and contact in the Fatui to try and figure how to turn you back (except a select few who will either be last measures or just straight avoidances despite advice they might give) but hasn’t had much luck so far. Thankfully you've only been stuck like this for a week or so, and thus it hasn’t been so long to be concerning.

Perhaps it’s just a matter of waiting it out, and Childe is surprisingly patient.

Thoma;

The Housekeeper stands in surprise as a cat is suddenly plopped into his arms. “Ah… is this… a new house pet…?” the Kamisato estate doesn’t exactly have pets, there are some cats that come around and nap in the gardens every now and then and leave after a while, but this cat is staring at him as if they’ve known him their entire life.

Ayato only hums as he’s already turned to another task, rushing from one thing to another as the busy days of summer come along. He doesn’t have much time to explain—nor is there much to explain. He had borrowed you for a few minutes to help him with something, he turns around for a moment, and the next you’re a cat.

Thoma stares at him, silent for a time. He’s not entirely sure if Ayato is messing with him or not—it’s entirely possible, and par for the course for his lord—but as Ayato shakes his head and waves his hand in dismissal, he speaks again. “I already have someone looking into it, take care of them in the meantime. I’ll have someone fetch you if there is news.”

You’re actually a cat.

After leaving Ayato’s study and sitting down outside where the afternoon sun has begun sinking towards the oceans beyond the cliff the estate sits on, Thoma stares at you as if he’s not entirely sure what to do with you.

Despite the initial confusion (and the followed concern, but it’s quickly dampened somewhat, Ayato has someone on the case and he trusts him to find a solution) Thoma is a very responsible person. He makes sure you’re not uncomfortable at all despite some estate staff vehemently refusing to let you in specific places… such as the kitchen. Fair enough. But there are also certain rooms and areas that have to be kept very clean and they don’t want cat hairs to get all over the place.

Thoma brings you around, he’s got many places to be, and he’s sure you’d like to stretch your legs anyway—it’s always nice to leave the estate for a few hours and run some errands. He had to head down to a nearby village and see whether trade agreements were coming along smoothly, they produce a lot of high quality rice and are often stuck in trade deals with large towns and clans for their rice—and for a well enough reason. Recently, Ayato had struck a deal with them and everything was signed and well along its way, Thoma just had to go and make sure they had everything they needed for transport.

It was a good walk, but you kept up easily… somehow having four legs rather than two makes you less tired after walking for some hours…? Or perhaps it’s because your body is so light now, you don’t know much about cat anatomy.

The meeting went well and you didn’t linger for long.

Unfortunately, a heavy downpour began to fall on the two of you as you headed back. Thoma quickly scooped you up and tucked you into his jacket—it’s not much of a jacket, it barely reaches below his ribs, but it was just big enough for him to cover you (and lean a bit to cover you better) and pick up his pace to run back to the Kamisato estate.

After making it back inside, the rain was as if a waterfall had opened in the heavens to drop down on the roof. Thoma’s hair is wet and sticks to his cheeks as he sets you down. “Ah, that was close,” he laughs softly. “Are you dry?”

You shake yourself after being pressed against his chest for so long and sniff around your fur, then give him a nod.

“Hah, that’s good, I’ve heard cats don’t like water much,” he smiles. “I need a change of clothes, come with me?”

You let out a happy meow and follow him along further inside.

Venti;

Cooes at you and talks to you with a baby-voice, he puts both thumbs on either side of your cheeks and rubs your face like it’s dough… even though it makes his nose red and his eyes puffy—despite the cursed allergy that torments his everyday life (there’s so many cats in Mondstadt) he doesn’t let it stop him from being around you. Pestering some healers for a medicine that could help, he feels… less bad, but it doesn’t really dampen the itch in his eyes and throat well enough.

He doesn’t take this situation seriously at all, at least not nearly as much as you do—you should probably trust his reactions and instincts, as he’s far more knowledgeable than you (even though he doesn’t act like it at all) and if you were in any danger, he wouldn’t be smooching your cheeks and nuzzling you like HE’S the cat.

Thus, you try to calm down, to focus on just getting through the days and not feel embarrassed when you have to clean yourself or relieve yourself as a cat.

But Venti also doesn’t make it easy for you, he builds a “throne” for you out of books and pillows for you to have the high ground (he doesn’t want to put holes in the wall for a hanging bed) and gives you “Mondstadt’s finest tuna” that tasted very much like a normal piece of tuna, but you appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

Sometimes you really wonder if he was the one who cursed you just so he could mess with you and cuddle you without you being able to fend him off. Not that you would be particularly opposed to cuddles in the first place? He could just ask?? Besides, why would he choose the form of a cat out of every other pet considering his consistent sneezing up a storm around them.

It doesn’t add up, you discard your theory.

You can’t sleep in the same bed anymore, both because Venti moves a lot in his sleep and being a cat does not make it safe, he could crush you! (as if he’s heavy enough to do that) and because he might well and truly pass away if he had to be so close to your furry-ass for such a pronged amount of time… and thus, Venti makes a nice bed for you out of blankets and pillows next to your usual one where you can rest.

There was a time where these new cat instincts took a bit too much over, and when you were chasing a crystalfly on a walk along the roads outside the city, you had hopped onto a big rock—and after missing your chance to catch the crystalfly, you hopped onto Venti and tried to eat his braids.

He yelped in surprise, but laughed once he realised what you were doing. “My hair isn’t for eating, it’s no good for your digestion either!”

You felt embarrassed about this little incident, and he kept making fun of you for it—though not necessarily maliciously, Venti just thought it was funny that you didn’t go for his hat, but his hair instead.

Climbing to the top of the Mondstadt cathedral or the statue of himself isn’t your favourite pastime, but it’s surprisingly much easier in this form—and thus when Venti suggests you go to the top to play some songs, you had been hesitant at first.

Making it to the top, Venti sits down comfortably as if he’s done it a thousand times (you sometimes suspect he climbs it to make you feel better, because you know he can just float up with a gust of wind) and pats his lap for you to sit down.

You plop yourself onto his thighs and settle comfortably as the sun sinks below the horizon, Venti takes out his usual lyre and tests a few tunes to ensure it’s properly set. “Let me play you something nice, it’ll help you sleep.”

And it is nice, your ears flick as his fingers dance along the harp’s strings, he hums along with it but doesn’t sing full words—the vibration of the song calms you and you rest your head on your paws.

Wanderer;

“You are the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He’s being dramatic, you’re not that ugly… but…

Why did you have to turn into a hairless cat?

You feel strange, and perhaps you would also feel the same way if you had a lot of hair, but every single breeze makes you feel you are especially naked—because you are!

Wanderer isn’t exactly happy to have to take care of you—he will do it, of course, but he will also complain about it. You were perfectly independent and functional as a person before you just had to go and sniff some plant in the wild that poofed you into a cat before his very eyes.

He refuses to seek help to find out how to turn you back, not because he doesn’t want anyone to know that you’re a cat, but rather because he’s certain he can handle it himself.

You whack at his arm with your paw, meowing up a storm after a few hours of not being fed the day after—he had completely forgotten that he needs to prepare something digestible for you… he’s never had to take care of a creature like you before—what can you even eat?? He clicks his tongue. “Don’t swat at me like that. You’re human, act like it…”

You’re not human right now!! Give me food!!

Eventually, he does begin to take proper care of you, even though he keeps telling you that you look like a peeled potato… you don’t have many ways of retaliation except whacking him with your paw or hissing when he lightly pinches a big patch of your skin.

Surprisingly, during one strangely cold night when you were curled on the bed and trying to stay warm—even the slightest drop in temperature was very cold to your hairless body… you feel something soft drape over you. Half-asleep and cold, you squint up and scrunch your nose as your whiskers squish against the blanket, you see Wanderer turn back around after setting it over you. Hah… he’s soft under that hard shell as always, even if he tries to act aloof.

After several days of no luck in trying to turn you back, Wanderer does begin to cave to asking for some… advice. Not help. Advice.

With you in his arms, head reaching towards the market stalls of Sumeru city (literally everything smells good and extremely edible) as he passes by, Wanderer takes you to meet with Nahida who is rather enthusiastic about this mystery. She pets you and smiles, humming as he recounts what happened and describes the particular flower you smelled.

“Hm, I have an idea, but it’ll take a while to execute… do you think it’ll be okay for them to remain like this for a few more days?” the archon taps her chin in thought, mind swirling with ideas and possible solutions.

Wanderer huffs, not exactly a scoff, and clapped his hand onto your head. “It’s fine.”

But as soon as you returned back home and he set you down on the living room table, Wanderer points at you. “You better turn back to normal soon…” he folds his arms over his chest, his expression isn’t as tight as it was before. “I don’t want to deal with this forever. Just get back soon.”

You inch closer to him on the table, reaching your paw out to tug his sleeve closer—only to rub your head into his palm. He clicks his tongue. “Whatever… don’t think this counts as an apology. You’ll have to make up for it properly when you’re you again.”

Wriothesley;

You are, quite possibly, the smallest cat he has ever seen.

He holds you in the palm of his hand, it’s adorable. Wriothesley cracks a grin and lifts you to eye-level. “Hm, you’re not nearly as scary like this, no one in this prison will listen to you like this.”

You want to whack him on his nose, but politely refrain—if only because you don’t want to get dropped. You meow at him, ferocious and upset at this situation, you have a job to tend to! Things to do!

But Wriothesley has other ideas, he sets you down on his desk and sits down. “Now, how did this happen? I assume this wasn’t intentional?” is he teasing you? Most likely. He knows you can’t just answer his questions, and you assumed he would be slightly more concerned when a guard brought you to his office…

But no, he instantly recognised you and dismissed the guard. Had it been the eyes? The fur? Is he somehow responsible for this??

All unanswered questions, and though he sends out word to some people he thinks might be able to help decipher this mystery, he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get you back to normal. He sets you in the pocket of his vest (it’s embarrassing that you actually fit) and goes on with his days as normal.

Siegwinne was initially very concerned, she seemed much more sensible in her worries that leaving you in this form for too long might be dangerous and that the Fortress isn’t exactly a good place for pets. There are a lot of crevices to get stuck in and things to get hurt on.

Though you still retain your mind, so you should be alright in that sense… so long as you don’t get overly curious.

He is undeniably very warm, and cuddling up to him at night is very comfortable—especially now that you can just lay on his chest and snooze there and not worry about being dragged back into his embrace if you move too much in your sleep. You barely move at all in this form.

Come morning, Wriothesley was already awake by the time you open your eyes, he strokes your fur and scratches behind your ears. Having a day pass by does make the initially amusing situation a bit more… real. He doesn’t want you to be struck with a permanent curse, or some kind of spell that might harm you in the long run.

“Don’t you worry,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “I’ll make sure you’re back to normal soon, just stick close by.”

And you do, mostly because you couldn’t have been blessed (cursed?) with a normal-sized cat body, but possibly the smallest there could be. You can’t even jump up onto his desk by yourself and have to yowl at him to let you up.

He does so happily, surprisingly eager to carry you around and help you with the smallest things.

Wriothesley doesn’t even change in mood from amusement when you chase the pen in his hands as it glides across paperwork he signs, you leap onto his arm and try to whack at the pet in either some strange instinctual haze, or an attempt to play—and though you whacking the pen makes it seem like he has the handwriting of a toddler, it’s just rather funny.

The Fortress doesn’t exactly have a large variety of foods, not in the sense that it can be adjusted for the diet of a cat that isn’t accounted for during inventory fills, and thus Wriothesley sends for specific ingredients that won’t be heavy on your tiny little stomach.

And he also… got some cat-related things delivered, like a bed, some string toys and treats. You never used the bed, either preferring his lap to nap on, or just slept in the strangest places he never even imagined you could reach with those stubby legs.

But he’s a very responsible caretaker, at least, that’s what he claims as he holds you down to brush your teeth and you wriggle and flail like an eel.

Xiao;

Very worried, he didn’t even realise the cat sitting in the clearing of the forest was you at first and searched for you for several minutes before seeming to realise that you had just… shrunk. Into a cat.

He stares at you for a good minute, lips parted and eyes large… before your name tentatively leaves his mouth.

You meow in affirmation, standing and shaking yourself as you try to understand the situation yourself—still a bit disoriented.

Xiao approaches you quickly and kneels down in front of you, he lifts you up to your hind legs, puts you down and inspects your ears, your tail and under your paws. You meow in curiosity as to what he is doing, and surprisingly he seems to understand your question.

“There might be traces of whatever did this on your body, it will make it easier to track or reverse,” he says and even checks inside your mouth, which you weren’t really happy with.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t find any answers, and kneels there rather awkwardly with you in front of him… what now? This situation has stumped him a bit—he’s supposed to be able to keep you safe from all manners of danger and curses like this (perhaps not exactly like this, he never prepared for this exact scenario) and now that he’s not got many leads to fix it, his mind is a bit aimless in where to search for information.

He has no idea how to care for you, and while he has vague ideas of the behaviours of animals…they mostly stem from wild animals and their reactions to foreign presences in their territories, or similar scenarios.

What does a meow mean? Is there something wrong? What does it mean when you paw at the door? Do you want to go outside? But it’s two in the morning?

He severely overestimates the portions of food you eat, giving you a full plate of something the Wangshu Inn kitchens prepared on his request (they figured out what happened and have been trying to help him, but Xiao is still trying to be subtle and secretive about the situation) and being confused when you only ate a fourth of it.

Are you sick? Was it the wrong kind of food?

He brings you along with him on his hunts, while he could leave you at the inn… how can he be sure that you won’t get into trouble? The window is high above the ground, what if you tumble out of it? What if you try to climb up on the dresser in the room and get stuck? Or fall down and hurt yourself?

No, you’re safest with him, even if he has to wield his spear with one hand and hold you with the other.

He’s surprisingly good at it too.

Desperate after a week of unsuccessful herbs and potions he tried to make, Xiao caves and contacts Liyue Harbour and the adepti that reside there for help.

It seems his message had gotten into Cloud Retainer’s hands, and instead of any actually helpful advice on how to turn you back… she had sent an entire booklet of cat behaviours, diets and how to take care of them.

Helpful, sure… but not exactly what he was asking for.

One evening as he was out on the usual hunts, he noticed that you were walking slowly by his side, yawning and rather cold so high in the mountains. He didn’t even have to think about what might be wrong or what to do, as he had already scooped you up into his arms and teleported back to the inn, where he sat down with you on the bed.

“You should tell me when you’re tired…” he grumbles and tugs one of the covers on the bed to his lap where he wraps it around you as if bundling a baby up. Xiao reaches up and scratches behind your ears as your eyes blink closed in the comfort of being back in the warm room.

He had only been petting you for s few seconds when he felt you… tremble? There was a strange rumbling sound coming from you, are you uncomfortable? He doesn’t quite understand it… but you continue to rumble as he scratches your head and ears.

Ah, was this the ‘purring’ he read about in one of the booklets Ganyu sent him? How… cute.

Zhongli;

“Ah…” Zhongli stares at you, this isn’t quite what he had imagined would happen… he had been crafting a potion in hopes it would help Ganyu sleep better, she had been overworking herself (again) more than usual and was so tired that she couldn’t sleep. It can happen.

The combination of herbs and materials required for the potion he had put together wasn’t very suitable for humans, and of course he made sure to let you know so that you wouldn’t drink it… but he hadn’t expected that only being touched by a single drop onto the back of your hand would lead to a poof, and your size being reduced and body turned to that of a cat.

You had only wanted to help by handing him ingredients so that he didn’t have to turn around so often… you didn’t anticipate this either!

He makes sure the potion won’t burn and sets a lid on the pot before turning towards you. “I… had not foreseen that this could have been a danger to you, my apologies,” he kneels down on one knee and holds his hand out for you to sniff. You do so, snout twitching towards his finger before you bump your head into his palm.

“Have you retained some sense of consciousness?” he wonders, gloved hand moving to stroke over your small head, your ears flattening under his palm. “I’m sure I can find a way to reverse this.”

He was sure, at least. But after some research and testing… he wasn’t making any progress—at least, he wasn’t making progress in finding ways to turn you to your normal self without some potential risks or aftereffects.

What he did find, was that the herb that you had been touching, and the potion he had halfway crafted was similar to another concoction that he had made before—and the effects of that had only been temporary.

It seems you will simply have to wait until the effect wears off.

Zhongli had instinctively prepared a delightful meal in the way he knows you would enjoy while you sit in the kitchen counter and watch with interest, your tail swaying happily as you watch him chop some vegetables and set them into the pot… but halfway through the process as he’s setting spices and herbs into the pot, Zhongli realises that more than half of the ingredients in the pot are unsuitable for cats to eat.

He finishes the meal and sets it aside, before fetching some fish you had purchased just yesterday that he was going to use for lunch tomorrow and cut it into nicely bite-sized pieces. You tilt your head slightly as you watch—the meal he had just been putting together doesn’t have any fish in it?? What’s it for?

And honestly, when he plated your food (in a very professional and presentable way) and set it down on the dining table, then set his own on the other side for himself… you felt a bit offended. Raw fish, some rice and a hard boiled egg… next to his delicious smelling beef stew…

If you could’ve cried, you would have. And Zhongli felt pretty bad for the rest of the day, he tried to offer you some “safe” treats or make it up to you with some pets and scritches, but you still sulked.

You had looked forward to this dinner all day…

Thankfully you got over it rather quickly and Zhongli is glad that he didn’t offend you too badly… it seems having been turned into a cat had made you quite dramatic as well, he doesn’t recall you ever having sulked like this over a meal before.

Knowing that it was simply a waiting game, Zhongli isn’t very concerned about your state, but he does ensure that you’re comfortable and not afraid—he understands that perceiving the world differently like this can be strange and even scary, but he’s glad when it seems that you’re relatively calm.

Your nightly routines are slightly out of whack now—something that Zhongli isn’t very fond of, he quite likes it that after cleaning up after dinner, the two of you settle in the living room for a while. He tends to read and it varies what you get up to, but it’s always a shared time where you sit in silence or chat about your days.

He does talk about his day to you, sitting on the comfortable seat in the living room with you on his lap, Zhongli recounts his day to you and expresses that he hopes you weren’t too bored alone in the home today, and that perhaps he can convince the director to allow him to bring you for a day. He strokes your back and smiles as a rumbling purr leaves you, he scratches under your chin and touches his forehead to yours as you seem to have fallen asleep on his lap. He reaches for his book and decides to read for a while before taking you to bed.

Despite the mishap, he’s glad you’re safe—he will endeavour to be more careful in the future and ensure you won’t be hurt or disturbed by his work.

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thecoochiefairy · 2 days ago

Text

gamer girlz. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 4.6K word count. blackfem!reader, drabble, college football coded! onyankapon, grumpy!onyankapon, sweet!onyankapon, dominant!onyankapon, kinda sorta makeup sex?, couch sex , black woman, vaginal penetration, rough, lil bit of sweet talkin’, hair pulling, creaming, oral [f] [m], choking, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, backshots, missionary, condomless sex, cumming on face, kissing, spanking, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ day 283737272 of liyah’s ovulation and faithful celibacy pact meaning she’s having the most nasty, egregious thoughts. please enjoy my black man fantasies. the links inspired this fic heavily, so enjoy those too.

𝓐ᥫ᭡ :: onyankopon just wants to help you finish your game.

link. link. link. ony’s visuals.

YOUR FINGERS SHOULD'VE HURT AT THIS POINT. Swiftly moving from button to button, they tap the controls as you’re on another level of the game you desperately wanted to beat.

You had some time off of studying, and this is how you wanted to spend it. Your boyfriend was at football practice—although a part of you just wanted to be swarmed up in his arms, your attention span also had you elsewhere—this damn game. You enjoyed the older games, replaying the hardest version of Batman: Arkham Asylum, your boredom peaking your interest back in the game you’d had since childhood.

You didn’t even register that the door had opened, or maybe you didn’t just care enough. You knew who it was. You eye him dropping his keys against the counter, black hoodie over his head, sharp jaw grunting lightly from his sore muscles, scowl along his face—definitely had to do with practice.

You pause the game for a second, turning your face to the side, fuzzy socks along your feet, his large jersey slung along your body as you greet him, “Hell, baby. What they’ do to you?”

“Coach was on dick today. Had me running laps cause other niggas couldn’t catch the ball and I got mad,” he huffs, taking his helmet and slamming it on the counter next to him. He massages the nape of his neck, sighing deeply to himself.

“Now you know coach don’t like all that cussing on his field,” you sigh, “He knows you're good. That’s why he’s on your ass.”

“Nah. He just annoying as fuck. Can’t expect me to do everything.”

He’s like a child, grumpy and pouty. His tall frame comes closer, wanting your attention in response to his rough day at practice.

“How’s my baby?” he says in your ear, wrapping his large muscular arms around your waist and gently biting your shoulder. His broad frame shadows under his hoodie, tat against his face shining under the lights of your shared apartment, full lips moisturized—you’d never let him leave the house otherwise.

You give him a soft laugh, rubbing your fingers over his durag as you say, “I’m fine. Had some time off studying, tryna’ beat this game. I meant what I said, Ony. He doesn’t just give you a hard time because he’s bored. You’re his star player, gotta make sure he ain’t treating you like everybody else.”

“Don’t tell me you on yo’ nerdy stuff. C’mon. I’m sore,” he groans, his grip around your waist tightens and he pushes himself against you.

“Oh, is it nerdy shit when you’ screaming on the game playing 2K with your friends? I was gonna offer a little massage. Now you’ve lost your entry to that,” you say, trying to push him off of you, reaching for the controller in between your lap.

He doesn’t budge. He holds firmly onto you, pressing sloppy kisses against your neck to distract you.

“Don’t be like that. I was kidding, you know I like that shit,” he huffs, his breath against your neck as he presses his lips on the sensitive part of your skin, “Forgot to tell you, I got an away game coming up in a few weeks. So I’ll be gone for like, a week.”

Your head comes down a bit to look directly at him, “What? You’re not coming with me to my parents? You know the holidays are coming up, Onyankopon. I told them you’d be there.”

“You know imma’ just be sitting around hiding behind you,” he murmurs against your skin, his hot breath tickling you.

It’s not that he’s shy— rather, he just doesn’t enjoy the unnecessary attention.

“How ‘bout we do our own Christmas, before I go?”

He’s nuzzling himself against your neck now, his hands roaming all along your body. You press his body away from yours, standing up as you become annoyed.

You then say, “I wouldn’t be going up to my parents place if you didn’t agree to come with me in the first place,” going into the kitchen, searching through the freezer.

He runs a hand over his face, seeing how instantly irritated you became. He knew having his support for the holidays meant a lot to you, and he might’ve waited on telling you about the going away game to lessen your disappointment.

“Mama,” he calls, watching you from the sofa.

You turn, raising an eyebrow as you say, “Oh, so now I’m Mama, you love hitting me with that shit when you know I’m mad.”

“You know I don’t like going to those family functions, I swear that house always stinks cause yo’ auntie cooks that nasty ass fish. A week ain’t no big deal. Let’s just have our own thing here.”

“So which one is it? You don’t wanna go or you got your football shit?” You narrow your eyes, pulling the ice pack from the freezer, arms crossed as you come back closer to him.

He knows better than to lie, especially to you.

“They got some NFL scouts coming to this game,” he mutters, scratching his temple. I’m sorry. But I’m tryna’ go pro, you know that.”

“Mhm.”

You hand him the ice pack, “Put it on your knee. I know it’s been sore lately.”

He raises an eyebrow, “You’ not mad?”

“Did I say I was mad? You’ want the ice pack or not?”

He takes the ice pack, wincing once the coldness hits his knee. He knew you were gonna give him a scolding if he didn’t.

“You’ got a bad ass attitude right now.”

“I wonder why, Onyankopon? If we had plans to go back to your parents house for the holidays and at the last minute I told you I have exams and that I just didn’t wanna go, you’d be irritated too.”

“Damn, you gon’ be on my ass about this for the next three weeks?”

He didn’t like it when you were like this, cause instead of being pissed you were more disappointed, which was somehow a lot worse to him.

“I’m gonna be gone for a week.”

You scratch your nails in between the baby blue orchid claw-clip that holds your curls. You dismiss him, “You need to go shower.”

“What, you ain’t tryna’ join me?” he murmurs, a smirk on his lips, “Quit being mad. I’m tryna love on you. Wanna put on The Isley Brothers and give you a rub down.”

“You’re playing too much right now,” you deadpan, “Bye Onyankopon.”

“What’ you mean bye?” he says, his smirk turning into a frown.

“I’m finna’ go finish studying,” you’re already walking back towards the bedroom, ending the conversation off as that.

When you finally hear him smack his lips and make his way into the shower, you glance over your notes, deciding you weren’t gonna let him ruin your previous plans. You’re now back on the sofa, eyes set onto the screen, trying to defeat the computer generated opponent.

You switch over to the sound of the bathroom opening, seeing him re-tying his durag back on, basketball shorts baggy and house shoes on his feet. His tattoos all along his face, neck, chest and arms always had your attention—but not as much attention as you usually gave him at this moment. You sprawled along the furniture, elbow deep into the couch's pillow as one leg laid straight out, while the other bent itself over the top of the couch.

He doesn’t like how you’re paying no attention to him. As stupid as it sounds, he’s always got to have your eyes on him. They were pretty.

“You’ still mad? You for real ain’t finna’ give me a massage?”

“I’m good,” you swiftly respond, “Just playing my game. You can massage yourself.”

“Why you’ gotta be like this?”

He sits down next to you, his large frame takes up a lot of the space. The couch becomes smaller somehow. His eyes watch the game intently before he decides to get comfortable. Lying back down on the sofa, he lets his head rest in your lap. Even with you being irritated, you let him lay there.

You continue going up level by level, your focus intently on the game. The little argument between you and Onyankopon irritated you to say the least, but you didn’t have the energy to completely push him away. It’s unfortunate he was persuasive. You notice out the corner of your eye that he lifts his head a little, the warmth between your legs along the back of his neck, and that’s when he sees that you’re wearing nothing under his jersey.

He takes the time to admire you, legs lazily hung open, his eyes staring directly against your pussy, scenting of vanilla on your legs, freshly shaven. One of his large hands comes to rest on the back of your thick thigh, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

“What you’ got on?” he mutters.

“Had to wash clothes, didn’t have any underwear. That’s why I put on your jersey,” you tell him, eyes still not looking at his face, unable to see how his jaw clenched at the sight.

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. In that moment his large hand rubs along the skin on your thigh, pushing the jersey up further.

“You look good as fuck in my shit,” He mumbles, a low rasp in his tone.

“Thank you,” you say in a softer tone, mainly because you’re distracted, buttons pressing harder against the controller.

He can tell how focused you are—how your face scrunched up, the way your fingers move, even the way your thighs fall open on his head.

He’s getting impatient.

That’s when you feel him lean down, giving a gentle peck to your inner thigh. The feeling makes you tense a bit, but you still keep your eyes against the screen, huffing out a breath as your character is close to dying. This level was difficult.

He’s giving small, light kisses along the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, taking small intervals to glance up to you as you keep your eyes against the screen. His hand moves higher up on your leg, slowly pushing the jersey up even more.

Your eyes go to him for a millisecond, seeing as his head is down, lips attached to your thighs, sucking ever so gently on your skin. You can almost feel a pressure building in your stomach, the slow ache of his movements almost purposeful, teasing you in a way. You press your glasses up against your face, huffing out a breath as you mutter, “Stupid ass level,” trying to come up with a reason as to why you sound so breathless.

He grins as he’s laying there, hearing your breathing getting heavier. It’s obvious how hard you’re trying to focus on the game, but he’s working you up.

“You’ trying so hard, Mama,” He murmurs against your hot skin, his kisses trailing to the spot he knows is extra sensitive.

You shift your body, clearing your throat as you say, “Gotta restart,” adjusting your legs a bit, opening them up just a little more than before.

He can tell how you’re slowly giving in, how you’re shifting your body around, legs opening just enough for him to move closer. He lets his free hand come to caress your stomach, rubbing against the skin under the fabric of the jersey. His lips are so close to you, his breath is hot against your skin.

“Restart then,” He mutters, tongue now coming to flick out from his lips, gliding across your skin, hiding beneath the pillows of his lips as they begin sucking a dark red mark against you.

You narrow your eyes lightly as you restart the level you play, but your body is distracted by Onyankopon’s lips along it. You drag your teeth along your lip a bit, pressing your fingers harder into the controller, feeling his lips coming up higher.

You could feel the arousal you had flooding in between the lips of your pussy, protecting your clit as it now begins to pool farther down, dampening the couch. His large fingers wrap along the outside of your thighs, using his thumbs to pull the skin on the inside apart, showing the dark pink of your pussy, squelching at his presence. Your body tenses even more as you feel his thumb meet with your clit, rubbing so softly against it, dropping his mouth down to press another kiss to your skin. The leg hiked up against the top of the sofa trembles a bit.

“You’ winning?” You hear him murmur against your skin.

You take a deep inhale, squeezing your fingers against the hooks of your controller as you softly reply, “No.”

He circles your clit with maddeningly light touches, barely grazing the swollen nub. At the same time, he’s still pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses, occasionally grazing his teeth.

"You’ getting distracted. Wet ass pussy," Onyankopon murmurs appreciatively, feeling the slick evidence of your arousal coating his finger.

Your chest heaves a bit at his tone, but you don’t let up. You keep your eyes on the screen, but you seem to be losing. In both games.

He spreads you even wider as he leans in closer, hot breath fanning over your slick folds. He pulls his thumb back as he replaces it with his mouth, giving you an innocent kiss against your clit. His beard captures your arousal, your fingers shuddering as you hear him groan, “Ooh, fuck, Mama. You’ wet for real.”

Without warning, he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bud. He releases it with a lewd pop before trailing open-mouthed kisses along your slit, lapping up your dripping arousal. Your eyebrows deepen into a frown, lips trembling as you give one more press to your controller, before you take your hand and reach it to the back of his head, getting a clutch against the knot of his durag. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, clasping your mouth shut as you whimper for him.

He delves his tongue deeper between your opened folds, dragging it up and down, lapping up to create more secretion. His hands grip your thick thighs, spreading you obscenely wide as he eats you out like a starving man.

"Mmmm, this a nigga favorite fuckin’ meal," he rumbles, voice muffled by your flesh. He alternates between slurping you up and flicking rapidly, determined to make you fall apart. One hand slides up to grope your ass roughly, kneading the plush flesh.

“O—Ony…” you gasp, voice small and high pitched, fingers squeezing harder against his head, dropping the controller out of your other hand, the object hitting the ground with a thud. The music of the battle within the game becomes something you hear, but not as loud as his mouth gulping you down, heavy tongue sopping against your pussy, drenching his beard so much that he could drown in you.

“Pretty ass voice,” he encourages huskily, the vibrations from his words sending shockwaves through your core. He dips two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your weeping cunt, pumping them slowly as he continues his relentless assault on your clit with his tongue. The wet sounds of him feasting on your pussy fill the room, mixing obscenely with the forgotten video game noises.

His free hand roams your curves possessively, groping and squeezing every inch of exposed skin he can reach—your ass, your thighs, the underside of your breasts. You’re lost in a haze of pleasure.

You were always so sensitive to his touch, the pleasure that you received from him kept you so kidnapped that it was hard to be mad at him. You grind your clit along his mouth that waits to catch it, voice ineffective of composure as you struggle, “Gonna cum soon, Ony…”

“Yeah?” He grunts, head knocking up and down, your eyes only able to watch as his lower face disappears in between your legs, glistening a coat against his beard, “Where you wanna cum?”

“On your dick, baby…” you whine softly, rotating your hips gently to match his moments, “Please…”

"You wanna cum on your dick, Mama?” He coos against you, the sound reverberating through your core, you’re whimpering with an urgent nod, “Mhm,” before he can even finish his sentence.

He pulls himself back, already tugging his tip from beneath his basketball shorts, taking off the material as your eyes follow the curve, the vein in his dick, heavy against the stretch of his large palm. Tattoos spread against his pelvic, scriptures and inspirational quotes that didn’t belong in his blasphemous moment.

"Turn around, put that ass in the air for me.“

Your legs feel a bit numb, bringing yourself up as you know exactly how he wants you. Raising your left leg along the arm of the couch, you lean your breast over the top as your face hides beneath your arm, right knee digging into the seat of it. He places his fingers along the side of your neck, other hand digging into your thigh thrown over the furniture. He doesn’t have to tell you to look at him—you always give him your eyes, feline as they blank beneath his control. Your body trembles as he slams his palm against your ass, “Arch more,” your body following suit, deepening the valley your silhouette creates.

He grips your hip with bruising force, using the leverage to grind the swollen head of his dick teasingly along your soaked slit. Up and down, he rubs himself through your slick folds, coating his length in your essence. Your hips tense as you feel the weight of his tip stretching open your pussy, sinking in that it makes your abdomen cramp, aching in a pleasure that has your entire body tighten. Your eyes are beginning to roll back, digging your nails into the sofa as you keep your eyes on his, he looks mad at you, slamming his palm against your ass again as he grunts, “Keep that fuckin’ arch.”

Your chest is filled with oxygen, holding your breath to cure the slight discomfort you feel, but it’s also an agonizing pleasure, feeling so full from him. He’s slowly dragging himself halfway out, rolling his hips back in and going even deeper, your mouth dropping open as your eyes flutter shut, turning your head back towards him as you whimper, “Fuck, baby. You’re deep…”

Silence goes in between the both of you, savoring the rush of pleasure that clutches the air as he drags his first couple of thrusts, so slow it felt like time wasn’t even passing. The sedated actions almost feel better than if he sped up, his eyes locking down as he sees you painting his tip, creaming on him.

“I’m in your shit, huh?” he talks to you, it’s almost tortuous as he hilts himself fully inside, his heavy balls slapping against your throbbing clit. Your walls clench around him like a vice, your head tilting back as you completely tense. You whimper, “Ungh,” attempting to push him back to relieve the stimulation, jumping as he gives you a bruising spank, deep voice aggressive as he says, “Uh-uh, don’t do that. You know I don’t do that running shit.”

His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he starts up at a carnal pace. The wet squelch of your pussy being split open echoes obscenely in the room, mixing with your deep whines, nodding your head, gently dropping your hips against his abdomen to meet his strokes.

“Keep riding that dick, goood fuckin’ girl,” each thrust is punishing and deep, stirring up your insides. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes obscenely as he rails into you, chasing your pleasure to insanity.

You always try to keep up, but you never could. All your organs feel tossed around by him, so blinded in your erotic state, your mouth opens as you give long moans, deeply gasping each time you need to catch your breath. He brings you to a point of saying things you’d never thought would leave your lips, mouth parted as you groan, “Yes, yes, baby. Agh, fuck, Ony. Deeper.”

"You want this dick deeper?" He growls, accentuating his question with a thrust that has your eyes rolling back farther. His grip on your hips tightens, surely leaving finger-shaped bruises on your toffee skin as he sets a merciless pace.

He’s back at palming his hand brutally against your ass, rushing it up to come around the front of your mouth, resting his fingers there as he grunts, "Take this fucking dick then," yanking your head back.

The new angle allows him to go even deeper, his hips slapping against your clit, “Finna’ tear this fuckin’ pussy open.”

His filthy words mix with the lewd sounds of your bodies coming together, filling the room, it has you groaning through his fingers.

“Love you so much, baby—“ this was a regular routine, the affection you give him as he’s hitting that spot that only he could find, whines plummeting from your mouth, eyes to the back of your head as you reach back and grab onto his wrist that holds your hip, moaning louder each time he rolls his hips back to meet the weight of your ass matching his rhythm.

“What happened to you being mad?” He questions, going slow as he tugs you back into his dick, the echo of your skin bouncing off each other like a drug induced round of applause.

You shake your head, “Not mad at you, Onyyy, love you so much….”

He chuckles darkly, low and rumbling in his chest as he leans over you, pressing his muscular torso against your back. His hot breath fans across the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "I know you do, Mama. I love you too.”

One large hand slides up from your hip, reaching around to splay across your stomach as the other now tangles in your hair, tugging your head back. He rolls his hips in a slow, deep grind, stirring you up from the inside, your mouth releasing broken shouts, your face hot, pleasured tears wanting to stroke along your face.

"Fuckin’ love you, princess. Pussy was made for me,” He gives another sharp thrust, grinding against your cervix. "You’ getting tight as fuck—You’ cumming, Mama?”

“I’m….” You gasp, defeated in your inability to speak, taking your hand and reaching back to hold his face closer to yours, hips trembling as you dangerously moan in a cracked tone “I’m cumming, baby. I’m cumming. I’m—agh, c—cumming…”

His chuckle is dark with lust as you flutter and clench around him erratically. He grips you harder, using the leverage to pound into you relentlessly, chasing his own release.

"Good job, baby. Biggg fuckin’ girl. Cum on this dick. Fuckin' soak it," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure. One hand moves from your hip to your clit, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub as he continues his brutal pace.

Your whole body tenses and shakes as your orgasm crashes over you, a loud cry tearing from your throat. Your pussy spasms almost violently around his thick shaft, gushing against him so much it pushes him out of you, trying to milk the sensation for all it’s worth.

“I’m finna’ bust, baby,” he warns, groaning in your ear, “Come eat this dick up.”

Your body feels numb as you turn yourself towards him, immediately wrapping your lips along his tip, enveloping the taste of your own arousal within the walls of your mouth, sucking him in to reach the heavens of your throat. He clasps your hair within his palm, bobbing yourself back and forth as you reach down, rubbing your clit as you still feel your orgasm rushing through your body. You moan around him, giving him those cat eyes, fluttering your dark extensions as you swirl your tongue against his tip, begging for a reaction.

He throws his head back with a deep, guttural moan as your warm mouth engulfs him. His grip on your hair tightens, guiding your movements as he starts to thrust shallowly into your throat.

“Shit—just like that. Eating that dick up good as fuckk," he pants, his abs flexing with each snap of his hips. The sight of you—eyes fluttering, cheeks hollowed, one hand buried between your thighs—it’s almost too much.

He pulls your mouth off him, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening tip. With another smack to your ass, he flips you onto your back, settling between your spread legs.

"I wanna see your face when I nut in this pretty ass pussy."

He lines himself up and sinks back in with one smooth thrust, bottoming out instantly, clutching your throat, holding you down as your back arches up, clawing into his back at the visceral sensitivity.

He sets a hard, fast pace, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. His intense gaze locks with yours, pupils blown wide with lust as he takes in every expression that crosses your face.

"That's it, baby. Gonna fill this pussy up real good," he grunts as you whimper with his talking, “Ba-by,” angling his hips to hit that special spot inside you. One hand slides under your thigh, pushing your leg up and back to change the angle, allowing him to go even deeper.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as he continues to pound into you. His tongue dominates your mouth, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. Breaking the kiss, he buries his face in your neck, biting and sucking dark marks into your skin as he chases his release.

"Fuckk, finna’ cum soon. You want it in you, baby?”

“On my face baby, you say it’s pretty there,” you whimper, deepening your nails in his back, “Mmmph, c’mon, Ony. Please…”

A grin spreads across his face at your pleas. Grabbing his throbbing tip, he positions himself at your face, smearing the leaking pre-cum across your cheek. He’s moaning, stroking himself rapidly, aiming his tip at your parted lips. His free hand grips your chin firmly, keeping you in place as his strokes become erratic. He then cums, painting your face—across your cheeks, over your lips, some even landing in your waiting mouth.

You stick your tongue out, running your tongue over your lips that darken in color, bruised as you dig your teeth into them with a sultry giggle. Heavy breathing fills the room as you keep your eyes up at him.

He steps back as he says, “Hollon, baby,” going into the bathroom as he finds a towel, rubbing it along your face to clean you up. He then leans down, pulling you into a kiss as he grunts, “Gimme’ your mouth. I love you, Mama. I’m sorry.”

You give him a kiss, holding his face in your hands, running your tongues together sloppily, passion filling your entire body from the previous actions.

You say, “It’s okay. You’ want your massage now?”

He pulls his mouth back a bit, eyeing you before he chuckles. It makes you pout, “What’s funny?”

He laughs, shaking his head as he helps you stand, “Nothin’ Mama. Just thinkin' 'bout how quick you forgave me after I tore your ass up."

You roll your eyes, “I can always change my mind.”

He runs a hand down your side, squeezing your hip possessively. "Chill out. I want that massage. You know I'm always ready for your magical hands."

He stretches languidly, his muscles rippling beneath his tattoos as he leads you towards the bedroom, “ And don’t be all stingy with the lotion. Do that lil’ thing I like if you feeling extra generous.”

“You’ getting beside yourself. Do you need that?”

He turns, “Do you?”

You scrunch up your nose, “No. I want a massage next!”

“Exactly. C’mon, get that ass on the bed.”

#onyankopon x black y/n #onyakapon #onyankopon x black reader smut #onyankopon fluff #onyankopon x reader #aot onyankopon #aot #aot smut #aot oneshots #onyankopon x you #onyankopon smut #onyankapon

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loveesiren · 2 days ago

Note

What about jj saving rafes gf instead of Sarah when she falls off the boat? Even though jj and Rafe hate each other

of course babes! sorry this took a while, i hope you enjoy! :)

𝕆𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕓𝕠𝕒𝕣𝕕

warnings: not proofread, language, slight angst

wc: 2.4k+

Before you were Rafe Cameron’s girl, you were a Pogue through and through. You grew up with JJ and John B, learning to boat, fish, and work hard for the things you wanted. Life was simple but full, with endless summer days spent on the water and nights filled with laughter. When Pope and Kiara joined your crew, it felt like your family was complete—especially since having Kiara around meant you finally had someone who understood what it was like to be a girl surrounded by all that chaotic, masculine energy.

But things changed when you caught the attention of Rafe Cameron. At first, it seemed impossible. A Kook and a Pogue? The idea alone was laughable. Yet, against all odds, there was something magnetic about Rafe—a spark you couldn’t ignore. And to your surprise, he felt it too. It wasn’t long before stolen glances turned into secret meetings, and those meetings turned into something deeper. But every step closer to Rafe felt like a step away from your childhood friends.

Sure, it was fine when John B started dating Sarah Cameron. But when you got with the older Cameron sibling, it was a problem. Rafe’s constant harassment didn’t help your case. Sarah was much kinder than her brother, and the Pogues saw her as someone who genuinely cared for John B. Rafe, on the other hand, had a reputation that preceded him—a volatile temper and a knack for trouble that made him nearly impossible to trust. Except when it came to you. Your presence seemed to calm the storm in his mind.

Choosing Rafe wasn’t easy. It wasn’t that you stopped caring for the Pogues. In fact, you still loved them fiercely, even if your paths had diverged. Being with Rafe meant walking a tightrope. While he harbored a burning hatred for your old crew, he knew better than to act on it—because hurting them meant risking you. And losing you was unthinkable for Rafe, who had grown to see you as the one thing anchoring him in his stormy world. But even his restraint couldn’t erase the tension. The Pogues saw your relationship as a betrayal, and you feared they’d never forgive you.

Now, you sat alone on the edge of a boat, staring out at the vast expanse of the Atlantic as it stretched endlessly before you. The journey to Morocco wasn’t one you’d ever imagined taking. But here you were, caught between two worlds, trying desperately to keep the peace. It was your idea to bring Rafe and the Pogues together for this mission. You’d convinced Rafe to help them track down Groff, who had made off with his money, knowing it could also give JJ and Pope a chance to evade capture. Even if you weren’t close anymore, you couldn’t bear to see the people you once called family thrown behind bars.

But, as expected, not everything had gone to plan.

The Pogues didn’t trust Rafe—and for good reason. His track record spoke for itself. As soon as they got him on the boat, they tied him up in the tiny bathroom, keeping him under lock and key. You understood their logic, but that didn’t make it any easier to see your boyfriend treated like a prisoner. Worse still, they’d forbidden you from seeing him until you reached Morocco. You didn’t fight them on it. Confrontation had never been your strong suit, and besides, you knew better than to argue with JJ when his mind was made up.

So, you sat in silence, listening to the rhythmic crash of waves against the hull, the salty breeze brushing against your face. The solitude of the sea was both comforting and suffocating. It gave you time to think—about the choices you’d made, the people you’d hurt, and the fragile balance you were struggling to maintain. You wanted to believe this trip could be a turning point, a chance to bridge the gap between Rafe and the Pogues. But deep down, you knew the odds were slim. Trust was hard to rebuild, and the wounds on both sides ran deep.

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you let out a weary sigh. All you could do now was wait—for land, for answers, for the moment when everything would inevitably come to a head. Until then, the sea was your only companion, its endless expanse reflecting the tangled mess of your heart.

Sarah was kind. She always had been. Even after all her brother had put her through, she still cared for him enough to make sure he was fed and hydrated. She did the same for you.

“Brought you some dinner,” she said, plopping down beside you.

“Thanks,” you responded softly. You took a few bites of the sandwich she brought you before putting it aside. Your appetite had been wearing thin the entire trip.

“I think it’s stupid too,” she said, looking out at the horizon while the late sun cast bright ripples on the calm water.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “The whole Kook versus Pogue thing. Rafe’s done his fair share of bad shit, but haven’t we all? I really think he wants to help this time.”

“He does,” you said. “All he wants is to get his money back from Groff. He doesn’t care about the crown. Honest.”

“I know,” she said, offering you a soft smile. “We’ll be there soon. Try to rest.”

You pondered her words as she walked off. You weren’t overly close with Sarah. It was almost as if you and she had swapped lives. You started seeing Rafe around the same time Sarah and John B got together, and for the last three years, she’d been getting a taste of life’s adventures while you enjoyed the finer things. You loved Rafe. You were in love with him. You couldn’t imagine being without him. But you often found yourself missing the life you once lived with the Pogues.

You cringed as you swallowed one final shot of whiskey, a vice that did close to nothing to take the stress away. You tossed the bottle to the side and rolled over, closing your eyes and trying your best to relax to the soothing sounds of the ocean. Eventually, you were lulled to sleep, dreaming of Rafe. He smiled as he took you into his large arms, and you felt secure in his warm embrace.

The dream was short-lived, though, as you were thrown roughly against the hard wall of the boat. Disoriented, you struggled to find something to grip. Rain lashed against your face as the boat pitched violently from side to side.

You made your way to your feet and took in your surroundings. The storm had hit fast. You could see movement inside the helm as the Pogues scrambled to navigate the chaos and secure the boat.

“Rafe,” you whispered, your breath hitching. “Rafe!” your voice rose into a frantic scream as you stumbled toward the helm. You knew you had to find him—if he was left unsecured, he’d drown.

“Y/N, get inside!” JJ’s voice cut through the storm. You turned to see him and John B holding the door open, JJ’s hand extended toward you. You reached for him, but another violent wave threw you to the deck.

“Where’s Rafe?!” you yelled, coughing as salty seawater stung your throat.

“Kiara’s getting him!” John B shouted back.

Moments later, Rafe appeared in the doorway, drenched but alive. “Y/N!”

Relief flooded through you at the sight of him, but your joy was short-lived. A massive wave loomed on the horizon, crashing into the boat with terrifying force. You screamed as the water dragged you off the stern, the world disappearing into a churning abyss.

“Y/N!” JJ and Rafe shouted in unison.

“Rafe!” you screamed, fighting to keep your head above water. The sea clawed at you, threatening to pull you under. “Rafe! Help!”

“I’m coming, Y/N!” JJ’s voice rang out as he dove into the water after you.

“JJ, what are you doing?!” John B yelled, trying to hold Rafe back from following. “JJ, no, no, no!”

But it was too late. JJ had already disappeared beneath the waves.

“Y/N!” Rafe’s scream was raw with desperation, tears streaming down his face. John B had never seen him so unhinged, so consumed by fear.

John B pressed his hand firmly against Rafe’s chest, forcing him back inside. “Come on, man! We can’t help them if we drown too!” he yelled over the howling wind. He shoved Rafe into the cabin and slammed the door shut.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Rafe sobbed, pounding his fists against the wall. “I have to go help her! I have to find her, man!”

“Rafe!” Sarah’s voice cut through the chaos as she wrapped her arms around him. “Rafe, it’s okay! Let’s just get to land. I’m sure they’ll find their way back!” She rubbed his back as he crumpled, his sobs echoing through the small cabin.

The water finally calmed as you and JJ struggled onto the sand, every muscle in your body screaming with exhaustion. The cold night air bit at your skin, but the relief of solid ground beneath you was overwhelming. Collapsing onto the beach, you coughed violently, lungs burning as you fought to catch your breath.

“Are you okay?” JJ asked, his voice ragged between gasps for air.

You nodded weakly, words feeling like too much effort. After a moment, you managed to rasp, “A-Are you?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Minutes passed as you both sat in silence, trying to steady your breathing. The ocean stretched out before you, dark and infinite, illuminated only by a pale sliver of moonlight. A single tear slid down your cheek as your thoughts turned to Rafe—his face, his voice, and the uncertainty of whether you’d ever see him again.

“They’ll be okay, Y/N,” JJ said softly, his tone more reassuring than he probably felt. “At first light, we’ll head down the beach. We’ll find them.”

You nodded, swallowing back another wave of emotion. “Hey, Jayj?” Your voice was barely audible.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you murmured, gratitude lacing every syllable.

He turned to you with a tired but genuine smile. “Can’t kill a Pogue, right?”

The next thing you knew, the sun was warming your skin, its gentle rays coaxing you back to consciousness. The once-violent sea was calm now, its rhythmic waves bringing an unexpected peace. You stretched, muscles stiff and aching, before glancing toward the shore.

JJ was standing near the water, absentmindedly dragging his foot through the sand. You rose to your feet, brushing off grains of sand stuck to your damp clothes, and made your way over to him.

“Hey,” you greeted softly.

He turned, offering you a small smile. “Hey. Sleep okay?”

“Guess so,” you chuckled. “Didn’t even realize I passed out.”

“Not surprising,” JJ said with a shrug. “You were pretty wrecked.” His tone was light, but concern lingered in his eyes. “I was thinking we head up the beach toward where the boat was headed. If they made it to land, that’s where we’ll find them.”

You winced at the word if, the uncertainty slicing through your chest like a blade. “Okay,” you replied firmly. “Let’s go.”

For the next 45 minutes, the two of you trudged along the beach in silence, your shared determination a quiet bond. Every step brought a mix of hope and dread as you scanned the horizon for any sign of your loved ones.

“You know,” JJ said suddenly, breaking the silence, “they’re probably feeling the same as us—like they might never see us again.”

You shook your head, gripping tightly onto hope. “We’ll find them, Jayj. We have to.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “We will.”

A few more minutes passed before you gathered the courage to speak again. “JJ?”

He glanced at you, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Do… Do you hate me?” The question felt heavy on your tongue, dredging up years of unspoken tension.

JJ’s expression shifted, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He sighed, raking a hand through his damp hair. “No, Y/N. I don’t hate you. I don’t think I could hate you even if I wanted to.”

His words caught you off guard, and you looked down, fiddling with your hands. “It just… it felt like you did.”

JJ’s voice softened as he continued. “I was hurt. You were my best friend, and when you and Rafe got together, it felt like he stole you away. From me. From all of us.”

A tear slid down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away. “I’m sorry, Jayj. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said firmly. “All you’ve ever done was try to keep the peace. I should’ve seen that sooner. And last night, when you fell off the boat…” His voice wavered, and he looked away. “All I could think about was how I couldn’t let you die thinking I hated you. You’re my sister, Y/N. You always will be.”

Tears blurred your vision as you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him. JJ hugged you back tightly, resting his chin on your head.

“I love you, Jayj. I’ve missed you so much,” you whispered.

He pulled back, his hands on your shoulders. “We’re gonna fix this. All of it. I’ll even make an effort with Rafe if it means getting you back.”

An hour later, the sun was high in the sky when you spotted movement in the distance.

“J, is that them?” you asked breathlessly, shielding your eyes with your hand.

JJ squinted at the figures. “Let’s find out,” he said, quickening his pace.

As you got closer, the shapes grew clearer: Sarah’s golden hair, Kiara’s familiar stance, and Rafe’s unmistakable silhouette towering above the group.

“Rafe!” you cried, breaking into a run.

He turned at the sound of your voice, his eyes widening before he sprinted toward you. The moment he reached you, his arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground.

“Oh my God,” he murmured, his voice breaking as he buried his face in your neck. “I thought I lost you. I thought I’d never see you again!” He cried.

“I’m here,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. “I’m safe. JJ saved me.”

When Rafe finally pulled back, his gaze shifted to JJ, who stood a few feet away, watching the reunion. Without hesitation, Rafe approached him and pulled him into a hug.

“Thank you,” Rafe said, his voice thick with emotion.

JJ stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, clapping Rafe on the back. “Yeah, well… couldn’t let her die on my watch,” he said with a crooked smile.

As you stood there, watching the two men who meant so much to you, hope swelled in your chest. For the first time in years, you felt like things might finally be okay.

Tags: @torturedtypewritersdept @bigenergy777 @outerbankspov @purplerose291 @shayofandoms @mirellef2001 @seojunandsoju @niktwazny303 @jjmaybankmylovee @simp4f1 @faephoria @toftomgmf @bunnykoo901 @adarkskinarchives @millietozier @babybreadamericano @hwaaholic @dilfluvr4evr @wtfdudesblog @harrys-housewife @sereneera @lizziesangel @akobx @kieeslove @serrendiipty @esquivelbianca @agnxstic

#rafe cameron x reader #jj maybank x reader #outer banks #obx #obx fandom #obx fanfiction #jj maybank #rafe cameron #obx 4 #obx 4 spoilers #rafe fanfiction #rafe x reader #jj fic #obx fic

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dollishmehrayan · 3 days ago

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# CHRISTMAS TREE DECORATING AND CHAOS ── .✦ ( decorating trees with batboys ‘separated’! ⋆౨ৎ

a/n: I literally feel so happy genuinely now, I guess my mental health is getting better && anyways i have 64 requests to get to… i truly need to speed run through these but some I can’t do sadly 😭 so sorryy ᥫ᭡, tags: (batboys x fem!reader)

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

The king of enthusiasm: As soon as you suggest decorating the tree together, he’s all in.

“We’re going for the most extra tree Gotham has ever seen!” He wants it tall enough to touch the ceiling and glittery enough to blind someone.

He’s the guy who insists on climbing to the very top to put on the star, even though he wobbles dangerously on the ladder.

Sings Christmas songs (terribly off-key he’s also like tone deaf and beat deaf it’s a curse to hear him sing something at karaoke) while you decorate, complete with dramatic twirls and spins around the tree.

Accidentally tangles himself in the lights at least twice. “I’m fine, I’m fine! I was just… testing the durability!”

Insists on taking a million photos of you with the finished tree, calling you his “Christmas angel.”

When it’s all done, he dims the lights, wraps an arm around you, and whispers, “This might be my favorite Christmas ever.”

JASON TODD ── .✦

He pretends to be indifferent. “Decorating a tree? Sounds boring.” But the second you start, he’s invested.

He’s surprisingly good at untangling lights and getting them perfectly spaced on the tree. “What? I’ve got steady hands.”

Jason leans into more minimalistic decor deep reds, dark greens, and gold accents but he lets you take the lead. “You want glittery ornaments? Fine. But I draw the line at tinsel.” (he’s like those sad beige moms but with like dark traditional Christmas colors…)

Complains about how prickly the tree is the entire time but still helps you string popcorn garlands because he knows it makes you happy.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

He’s excited about decorating but is terrible at it. Tim tries, but he’s way better at figuring out the tech side of things (like synchronized tree lights) than actually hanging ornaments.

Spends 20 minutes untangling lights and another 20 trying to figure out why one strand isn’t working. “It’s science! There’s a method to this madness.”

He’s the type to sneak a caffeine break halfway through while you keep decorating. “What? I need fuel to focus!”

Insists on hanging some nerdy ornaments—little Batman logos, Star Wars-themed ones, or even a tiny Robin figurine.

When you get frustrated with his lack of artistic flair, he pulls you close and says, “Hey, at least I’m good company, right?”

After it’s all done, he insists on dimming the lights and turning on the synchronized tree music. “Look at that. A masterpiece.”

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Initially acts like it’s beneath him. “Why would I waste time decorating a tree?” But he ends up being surprisingly good at it.

Damian has an eye for symmetry, so every ornament has to be perfectly spaced. “No, that one is too close to the red one. Move it.”

If you mention that decorating the tree is a nostalgic tradition for you, he softens immediately. “Fine. But this had better be worth it.”

He refuses to wear a Christmas sweater, but you catch him smiling when you put on a ridiculous reindeer headband.

Titus gets involved, carrying around ornaments and wagging his tail, which Damian pretends to be annoyed by but secretly loves.

When the tree is finished, he stands back with his arms crossed, pretending not to care. But when you beam at him, he quietly says, “It looks… nice. I suppose this wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

(He buys like 40 ft Christmas trees for the main ball in the manor and like that’s almost impossible to decorate without professionals)

The ultimate perfectionist. He has a very clear vision for the tree, but he tries to let you take the lead. “It’s your tradition. I’ll follow your lead… mostly.”

Insists on using the tallest tree that will fit in Wayne Manor and hires a team to bring it in.

He’s all about elegant, classic decorations white lights, glass ornaments, and a tasteful tree topper. But if you want colorful lights or quirky ornaments, he’ll indulge you.

Offers to lift you up to reach the highest branches instead of letting you use a ladder. “I don’t need you breaking your neck before the gala.”

Alfred brings hot cocoa and cookies halfway through, smiling at how relaxed Bruce looks around you.

When the tree is done, he turns to you and says, “It’s perfect. Just like this moment.” Then he pulls you into a rare, heartfelt kiss under the twinkling lights.

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seumyo · 1 day ago

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a softie for sentimentality, bakugou katsuki.

Bakugou wears a bracelet. You’ve known about it for as long as you could remember, but only decided to acknowledge it now that you’re in your third year at UA, two weeks before graduation.

It wasn’t flashy or adorned with any kind of logo—just a simple, sturdy piece of metal with a stainless clasp that he seemed to wear all the time. You tilted your head as you studied it.

“You’ve had that bracelet for as long as I can remember,” you said, sitting down on his study chair. It’s a privilege to even set foot inside of his room without immediately being told (yelled) off, really.

Bakugou looked up from his book and glanced at you. “Yeah, and?”

“Is there, like, a story behind it?”

“No story,” he said with a shrug, but you weren’t entirely convinced.

“Really? That’s so bland. I thought there’d be like a gut-wrenching or life-changing story for it.”

He sat up from his bed with a huff, his eyes narrowing at you. “It’s just somethin’ I wear. What’s it to you?”

You raised your hands in mock surrender, a playful smile on your lips. “Alright, Mr. Mysterious. Keep your secrets.”

“Fuck off, dipshit.”

“Again with that! Why can’t you be nicer now that we’re graduating?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

But the conversation stuck to you.

It’s the day of graduation when you presented him with a small, handmade box. It was simple, made of sturdy cardboard decorated with his signature colors and an orange ribbon to match. Bakugou rose a brow.

“What’s this for?” He asks, holding it up like the box might explode at any given moment, though there was no bite to it.

“A box.”

“No shit,” he scoffs, “what’s in it?”

“Open it to find out!” You egged him on.

Bakugou sighs, opening the box with a focused pout. He went quiet when he saw what was inside.

“Ta-da! A bracelet,” you said, smiling. “For you. Thought you could use something new to switch things up.”

He held the stringed bracelet in his hand, looking at the material as if it would erupt in flames if he glared hard enough. It was a stark contrast to his metal one—brightly colored warm complementary beads with little charms that somehow still managed to feel like him. There was a red charm shaped like an explosion, a black bead with a skull design, and a small silver charm with an engraved kanji for “strength.”

“I’m not wearing this,” he said flatly.

It’s like your cartoonish heart balloon had suddenly been popped with a prickly needle.

“What? Why not? It’s cool!” you argued. “I even made it myself to really match you!”

“It’s not my style.”

“Sure it is. Look, it’s got black, silver, and even a little red—it screams Bakugou Katsuki.”

“I didn’t get you anythin’ as a parting gift,” he tells you.

“Don’t worry about it! It’s fine,” you replied, waving your hand in dismissal. “Just thought this’ll go with your metal bracelet.”

He nodded, though there was a somewhat frustrated pout on his expression, muttering something under his breath a soft “thanks,” and placed the gift back in the box, never actually letting you see him wearing it during that moment.

Years later, during a photoshoot for the yearly hero gala, Bakugou stood in front of the camera in his full Dynamight suit. The photographer adjusted the lights, snapping rapid shots as Bakugou struck his signature confident poses.

“Hold still,” the stylist said, adjusting his gauntlet slightly. Her eyes flicked to his wrist, and she paused. “Oh, that’s cute. Is that handmade?”

Bakugou blinked, following her gaze. Wrapped around his wrist, right next to his ever-present metal bracelet, was the colorful string bracelet you had made him all those years ago.

He stiffened slightly, but instead of taking it off, he shrugged. “Yeah. What about it?”

The stylist smiled warmly. “It’s a nice touch. Makes you seem... approachable. And quite frankly, it matches your suit.”

Bakugou snorted. “Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

When the photos surfaced online, fans quickly noticed the bracelet. Social media practically exploded that day.

Is Dynamight wearing a friendship bracelet??

A HANDMADE BRACELET ON DYNAMIGHT??

Guys, he’s worn this thing for YEARS. Check the old pictures! 🙂‍↔️

You, of course, caught wind of the news—because honestly, who wouldn’t when it took all social media platforms by storm? You saw the posts one evening while scrolling through your phone. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw the photos. It was unmistakable—the bracelet you had made all those years ago.

Long after your UA days were behind you and your lives had taken you and Bakugou down different paths, the all-too-familiar bracelet made you smile sadly—more nostalgic happiness than actual sadness, really.

You stared at the screen, sighing quietly. You thought back to the last time you’d spoken, to the unspoken decision that had pulled you in different directions. You never thought something as small as a bracelet would still mean anything to him.

You didn’t even think you’d live to see the day he wears it, much less keep it after the years.

But there it was, bright and unapologetic on his wrist, a subtle reminder of a bond that hadn’t completely faded with time.

Somewhere across the city, Bakugou stood on a rooftop, the evening wind tugging at his hero uniform. He glanced down at the bracelet on his wrist, running his thumb over the frayed edges of the string. He smirked to himself, a quiet acknowledgment of the past and the person who’d given it to him.

“Guess you were right,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind. “It does scream Bakugou Katsuki.”

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zweigsangel · 2 days ago

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matt shutting yapper! reader up w kisses

it was a lazy saturday afternoon, the kind of day perfect for doing absolutely nothing. the two of you were sprawled out on the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table and some random show playing on the tv that neither of you were really watching.

you were mid-rant, your hands flying as you recounted a story about the lady at the coffee shop who had apparently ordered the most complicated drink in existence.

“and i’m standing there, matt, just trying to get my iced coffee, and she’s like, ‘no foam, no whip, but extra oat milk—like, what does that even mean?’ and the barista looked like he was about to cry—”

matt hummed in response, but his eyes weren’t on the tv. he was watching you, his lips twitching in amusement at how animated you got when you were talking about something that fired you up.

“—and then she had the audacity to ask for it in a different cup, like, who even does that? i mean, if you’re gonna—”

“babe,” he interrupted softly, a little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

you barely paused, your hands gesturing wildly as you kept going. “—if you’re gonna make it that complicated, maybe just make it at home, right? like, it’s not that hard to—”

“babe,” he said again, a little louder this time, leaning closer.

you blinked, finally catching the way he was looking at you, his head tilted slightly and his smile growing. “what?”

“nothing,” he said, his voice warm and soft. “you’re just… really cute when you get like this.”

“like what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes in mock offense.

“like a total yapper,” he teased, his grin widening.

you gasped, swatting at his arm. “i am not a yapper!”

“uh-huh,” he said, catching your hand before you could smack him again. “you totally are. but it’s fine. i love it.”

“well, good, because i was gonna—”

he cut you off by leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, his free hand cupping your cheek as he kissed you softly but firmly. your words trailed off into a muffled sound of surprise, your body melting into his as his thumb brushed lightly against your jaw.

when he finally pulled back, you were breathless, your eyes wide as you stared at him.

“what was that for?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

he grinned, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “just wanted to see if it worked.”

“if what worked?”

“if i could shut you up with a kiss,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes warm.

you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the smile spreading across your face. “you’re ridiculous.”

“yeah,” he said, still grinning. “but it worked, didn’t it?”

you opened your mouth to protest, but before you could get a word out, he grabbed your waist and pulled you into his lap with ease, settling you so you were straddling him.

“what are you doing?” you asked, your voice a little breathless as your hands landed on his shoulders.

“don’t stop,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you again. “keep talking.”

you started to say something, but he kissed you mid-word, swallowing your voice with his lips. every time you tried to get a sentence out, he kissed you again, softer, slower, more insistent, until you were laughing against his mouth.

“matt, i can’t—”

“sure you can,” he teased, his hands on your waist as he grinned up at you. “keep going. i like hearing you talk.”

“you’re the worst,” you said, laughing even as he leaned in for another kiss.

“yeah,” he whispered against your lips, his grin softening into something sweeter. “but you love me anyway.”

and as much as you wanted to argue, you couldn’t—because he was absolutely right.

#sturniolo triplets #sturniolo #sturniolos #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #yapper x listener

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leona-hawthorne · 2 days ago

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FICMAS #7— WHAT’S YOUR TYPE? / theodore nott

december 22nd

theodore nott x fem reader

summary: theo is smart, but he’s an idiot when it comes to taking hints. sometimes, you have to just give it to him.

warnings: smut, unprotected piv, oral m!receiving, google translated italian (sorry in advance)

words: 2.7k

navigation ficmas masterlist

Theo had this way of existing—effortless, detached, like gravity bent to his whims. He lounged against the headboard, a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. You were convinced he didn’t even like smoking; he just enjoyed the ritual, the way it made his hands look purposeful.

The dorm was dim, the only light spilling from the bedside lamps. Everyone else was sprawled across the furniture, engaged in half-hearted conversations about Quidditch or the latest rumors circulating the castle. But your focus was locked on Theo. Always Theo.

“What’s that look for?” he asked, his lips curving into a smirk as he caught your gaze. His voice was low, teasing, pulling at some invisible thread in your chest.

“What look?” you shot back, tilting your head and feigning innocence.

He chuckled, a sound that sent warmth pooling in your stomach. He took a drag of his cigarette and passed it to you without a word. You accepted it, your fingers brushing his. The fleeting contact sent a shiver down your spine, but you masked it with a casual exhale of smoke.

“So, what’s the topic tonight?” you asked, your tone light.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘topic.’”

“I mean, what bullshit are we debating? Everyone’s always got something to say about something.”

He glanced around the room, noting the fragmented conversations, before turning back to you. “I think we’re safe to create our own.”

“Fine,” you said, handing the cigarette back to him. “What’s your type?”

Theo blinked, caught off guard. “My type?”

“Yeah. You know, what you look for in someone. Or are you too much of a brooding intellectual to care about such trivial matters?”

His smirk returned, sharper this time. “I’ll have you know I’m very discerning.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you said, rolling your eyes. “But seriously, I want to know.”

He hesitated, the cigarette poised between his lips. “I don’t know. I guess someone who can hold their own. Smart, independent. Doesn’t take my shit.”

You snorted. “So, basically, someone who’s not a doormat.”

“Pretty much,” he admitted, shrugging. “What about you? What’s your type?”

You took a moment, pretending to ponder, even though the answer was sitting right next to you. “I’ve always thought intelligence is sexy. Like, really sexy. Bonus points if they speak another language.”

Theo glanced at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Oh, yeah? What’s so great about that?”

“It’s just impressive,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “Shows effort, you know? And…” You trailed off, letting the tension hang for a beat. “I’ve always been a sucker for blue eyes.”

His expression didn’t shift, but you could see the gears turning in his head. “Interesting.”

“Isn’t it?” you replied, your tone light but your gaze steady. He didn’t look away, and for a moment, you thought he might finally connect the dots. Instead, he leaned back, as if dismissing the comment entirely.

“What about personality?” he asked, like you hadn’t just described him to a T.

You sighed, exasperated. “Theo.”

“What?” he said, his voice full of feigned innocence.

“For fuck’s sake,” you muttered, grabbing his wrist and yanking him to his feet. The room barely registered the two of you leaving; everyone else was too absorbed in their own conversations.

Theo followed you into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you. “Care to explain what’s going on?”

You turned to face him, your back against the door. “You’re supposed to be smart.”

“I am smart,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Then why are you so bloody dense?” you asked, stepping closer. He didn’t move, his eyes fixed on yours, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Am I?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“Oh, you absolutely are,” you said, your hands finding the front of his shirt. “But I think I can help with that.”

The realization finally dawned on him, and his smirk widened. “Well, by all means, love. Enlighten me.”

You didn’t bother with a reply. Instead, you tugged him down by his collar and crashed your lips against his. Theo responded immediately, his hands bracing on your hips as he pressed you back against the door. The kiss was heated, messy, all teeth and desperation. You’d been waiting for this, and judging by the way his grip tightened, so had he.

“You’re insufferable,” you murmured against his lips, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“And yet you’re all over me,” he shot back, his tone smug. Before you could retort, his mouth was on yours again, silencing any comeback you might have had.

Your hands moved to the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head. Theo barely gave you a moment to breathe before he was on you again, his lips trailing down your jaw to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You gasped, your head tipping back against the door.

“I think I like it when you’re annoyed,” he murmured, his voice rough.

“Shut up,” you managed, but the words lacked any real venom. Your hands roamed over his chest, mapping out the planes of muscle and the scatter of freckles across his skin. He was impossibly warm, and you couldn’t get enough.

Theo’s hands slipped beneath your shirt, his fingers skimming over your bare skin. You shivered at the contact, your breath hitching as he pulled the fabric up and off. His gaze darkened as he took you in, his lips parting slightly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his hands settling on your waist. “Così dannatamente carino.” (So fucking pretty.)

Heat bloomed in your cheeks, but you didn’t have time to feel self-conscious. Theo’s mouth was on you again, his kisses trailing down your neck and across your collarbone. Every touch, every movement felt like fire, and you couldn’t get enough of him.

“Theo,” you breathed, your fingers clutching at his shoulders. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with intent.

Theo didn’t hesitate this time. His lips found yours again, hot and desperate, his hands roaming up your sides and pulling you against him like he needed you closer just to breathe. The counter dug into your back, but you didn’t care, not when his kisses were this consuming, his tongue brushing yours and leaving your head spinning.

But you’d waited long enough for him to figure this out, and patience wasn’t exactly your strong suit. You broke the kiss, your lips brushing his as you whispered, “Why’d it take so long for you to figure this one out, hm?”

His smirk reappeared, lazy and infuriating as his hands settled on your hips. “Maybe I just like taking my time.”

You huffed, turning him around so his back was now pressed against the counter. “Then let me spell it out for you,” you said, your fingers already moving to the buckle of his belt.

Theo’s breath hitched, his smirk faltering as you pulled the leather strap free and let it fall to the floor with a soft clink. Your fingers worked quickly, unfastening the button and zipper of his trousers, and when you pushed them down his hips, the tent in his boxers told you everything you needed to know.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his hands gripping the edge of the counter behind him as he stared down at you. “You’re not messing around, are you?”

“Not in the slightest,” you said, dropping to your knees in front of him.

You tugged his boxers down, and his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and already leaking at the tip. Theo let out a sharp exhale, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the counter harder. You glanced up at him, meeting his eyes as you wrapped a hand around him, giving a slow, deliberate stroke.

“Still confused?” you asked, smirking when his hips twitched at your touch.

“Not even a little,” he said, his voice rough and tight.

You didn’t give him time to say more. Leaning in, you flicked your tongue over the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum there before taking him into your mouth. The groan that tore from his throat was low and guttural, his head tipping back to rest against the mirror.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his fingers tangling in your hair as you took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You hummed around him in response, the vibrations drawing another string of curses from his lips. Your hand worked the base of his cock in tandem with your mouth, your pace slow at first, teasing, before you gradually increased the intensity. His breathing grew heavier, his hips jerking slightly as you set a rhythm that had him unraveling beneath your touch.

“Shit,” he groaned, his voice breaking on the word. “You—God, you’re so fucking good at this.”

His praise spurred you on, your free hand sliding up his thigh to steady him as you took him deeper. He was losing control, his grip in your hair tightening, his moans turning into something desperate and raw.

“Fuck—” His hips bucked as his head fell forward, and he looked down at you with wide, blown pupils. “I’m—shit, I’m close.”

You didn’t stop. If anything, you doubled down, your tongue tracing the underside of his cock as you took him all the way to the back of your throat. That was all it took. With a sharp cry, his body tensed, and he spilled into your mouth, a broken groan tearing from his lips as he came undone.

You swallowed, pulling back slowly and wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. Theo’s chest was heaving, his hair a tousled mess as he leaned heavily against the counter, staring down at you like you’d just knocked the wind out of him.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. “You’re insane.”

You stood, smirking as you leaned in close, your lips brushing his ear. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

He grabbed your hips in one quick motion, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing. “Oh, I’ve figured it out now,” he murmured, his voice still rough, but his smirk returning full force. “But I’m not nearly done with you yet.”

Theo’s hands gripped your waist as he pulled you flush against him, his mouth crashing into yours. The kiss was frantic, his tongue brushing against yours as he poured every ounce of leftover tension into it. His hands wandered, sliding up your bare back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine before tangling in your hair to tilt your head back.

“You’re too fucking good at this,” he muttered against your lips, his voice low and thick. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“Maybe,” you teased, your voice breathless as his teeth grazed your bottom lip.

He chuckled darkly, nipping at the corner of your jaw before trailing kisses down the column of your neck. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

“Pretty sure I am,” you quipped, your hands threading through his hair.

Theo groaned, his lips dragging over your collarbone. His hands skimmed your sides, his thumbs brushing under the waistband of your jeans. “We’ll see how clever you are when you’re begging me to let you cum.”

Before you could retort, he lifted and spun you around in one swift motion, your palms landing on the counter as he pressed your hips into the sink. You gasped, his chest flush against your back as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear.

“Guarda te stessa,” he murmured, his tone dripping with sin. (Look at yourself.)

Your gaze lifted to the mirror, meeting your reflection. Your hair was disheveled, lips swollen from his kisses, chest rising and falling rapidly. Behind you, Theo was watching you with hooded eyes, his hair mussed and his pupils blown with lust.

“Sei bellissima così,” he said, his hands sliding down to unbutton your jeans. (You’re so beautiful like this.)

He pushed the denim down your legs, letting it pool at your ankles, and you kicked them off the rest of the way. His hands found your hips again, sliding over the curve of your ass as his lips pressed to your neck.

“You’re already so worked up,” he murmured, his fingers slipping between your thighs to brush over the damp fabric of your panties. “Fuck, you’re soaking.”

“Do something about it, then,” you shot back, your voice shaking slightly.

Theo grinned, his fingers curling into the waistband of your underwear. “Impatient, aren’t we?” He dragged them down slowly, letting them join your jeans on the floor.

His hand slid between your legs again, this time bare against your skin, and you gasped as he slipped a finger inside you, his touch teasing and deliberate.

“Così stretto,” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. (So tight.)

You whimpered, pressing your hips back against him as he added a second finger, curling them just right. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he worked you open with slow, calculated strokes.

“Merda, sei perfetta,” he said, his voice rough. (Fuck, you’re perfect.)

You moaned, your head tipping forward, but he clicked his tongue, his hand moving to your chin to tilt your face back up.

“Guarda il specchio,” he ordered. “Voglio vederti quando vengo dentro di te.” (Look in the mirror. I want to see you when I come inside you.)

Sure, you didn’t understand a word of what he was saying, but fuck, you couldn’t get enough of him talking to you like that. You didn’t fight against his hand, meeting his intense gaze in the mirror.

Theo pulled his fingers away, and you heard the rustle of fabric as he kicked his trousers the rest of the way off. A moment later, his hands were on your hips again, guiding you back against him. You felt the head of his cock brush against your entrance, and he groaned, low and guttural, as he pushed inside.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, his grip tightening as he bottomed out. “You feel incredible.”

Your hands braced against the counter as he began to move, slow and deliberate at first, his hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that made your knees weak. He muttered something in Italian, his voice low and breathless, but you couldn’t make it out over the sound of your own moans.

“Che puttana carina,” he said, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he snapped his hips harder. (What a pretty little slut.)

You gasped, the words only spurring you on as you pushed back against him, meeting each thrust.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, his voice rough and teasing. “To be fucked like this?”

“Yes,” you managed to say, your voice breaking as he hit a spot that had you seeing stars.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place. “Take it all, bella. Sei mia.” (You’re mine.)

His thrusts grew faster, harder, and the bathroom filled with the sound of skin against skin, mingled with your moans and his curses in both English and Italian. You caught snippets of his words—“così stretta”, “troppo perfetta”, “dammi tutto”—and each one sent a new wave of heat coursing through you. (so tight, too perfect, give me everything)

Your legs trembled as the pressure built, your release teetering just out of reach. Theo seemed to sense it, one hand slipping between your thighs to circle your clit as he drove into you.

“Come for me,” he murmured, his voice raw. “Let me feel you.”

His words sent you over the edge, your body shattering around him as a cry tore from your throat. Theo groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed you moments later, spilling into you with a shuddering moan.

For a moment, the only sound was your heavy breathing, the two of you leaning against the counter, spent and satisfied. Theo pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his tongue swirling over the skin and his hands roaming over your waist as he caught his breath.

“You’re my type,” he muttered, his voice still rough but laced with affection.

You smirked, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Yeah, I fuckin’ better be.”

ficmas taglist: @winnie1emon @ur-local-wizard @satosugu4-ever @ankoluvs @superstargirll @slytherin-princess-x @abeoavita @mattheoriddle101 @georgiastars13 @smoooore @mattheoriddles-sluttt @2dloveshp @mattysprincess @catching-fire-in-the-wind @revesephemeres @esmerai-artemis @clar2aa @iamaconfusedpan

#theodore nott #slytherin boys #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott smut #theo nott #theo nott x reader #theo nott x you #theo nott x y/n #theo nott smut #slytherin #harry potter #lorenzo zurzolo #smut #theo nott x fem!reader #theodore nott x fem!reader #ficmas #leona-hawthorne ficmas

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moonlightwritingf1 · 2 days ago

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The Unexpected Gift | LN4

. ݁☃︎⋆⁺₊❅. summary ━━━━━━━ Lando surprises Y/N with a very special gift, and she realizes just how much he values their relationship.

. ݁☃︎⋆⁺₊❅. pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

. ݁☃︎⋆⁺₊❅. word count ━━━━━━━ 1.6k

The city of London buzzed with its usual holiday energy. Crowds filled the streets, rushing to buy last-minute gifts, as festive lights twinkled above the sidewalks. The atmosphere was alive with the enticing smell of chestnuts roasting, combined with the crispness of pine and the comforting essence of cinnamon—scents that typically brought joy to Y/N’s heart. But this year, the season felt different—hollow, even.

It was December 23rd, and Y/N sat in her cozy West London flat, hands cradling a steaming cup of coffee as she gazed out at the overcast sky. The grey December sky mirrored the heaviness in her chest. She had told herself countless times over the past few weeks that it would be okay. That spending Christmas alone wouldn’t be so bad. Work had kept her in London this year, far from her family, who would be celebrating together in her homeland. But the real sting came from something—or rather, someone—closer to home.

Lando.

They’d been together for just over two months. It was still new, but it felt significant. They’d spent so much time together, sharing laughter, teasing over her love for cats and his unwavering loyalty to dogs, and indulging in cozy evenings that stretched late into the night. She thought they were building something special, something that might have included an invitation to spend Christmas together. But as the days ticked by, there was no mention of Bristol, no invitation to join him and his family.

“Maybe it’s too soon,” she whispered to herself, taking a sip of her coffee. She wanted to believe that. Meeting his family would be a big step, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for it. But still, the absence of his offer lingered like a cloud, heavy and persistent.

She glanced at the empty couch beside her. It felt emptier than usual. They’d joked about adopting a cat before—her longing for one and his insistence that dogs were far superior. She could almost hear his voice now, playful and teasing: “Cats are just judgmental roommates. Dogs? They’re your best friends.”

Despite her smile at the memory, the ache in her chest remained. This time last year, she’d shared with Lando how much she missed having a pet. Growing up, she’d always been surrounded by cats, and the absence of a furry companion in London made her flat feel even lonelier.

Her phone buzzed, pulling her from her thoughts. She leaned over to pick it up, her heart skipping when she saw Lando’s name on the screen.

Lando: “Hope you’re doing okay. Missing you here in Bristol. Can’t wait to see you when I’m back in London after the holidays. x”

Y/n stared at the message from Lando for what felt like an eternity before finally typing a reply.

Y/n: "I'm fine. Just missing you too. Have a good time with your family."

She hit send and set her phone down, the ache in her chest growing sharper with every passing moment. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand why he hadn’t invited her to join him—she could respect the fact that they had only been together for a couple of months, and it was clear he had his family traditions. Still, the loneliness was heavy. Christmas was supposed to be a time of togetherness, but here she was, alone in her flat.

Her fingers brushed her phone screen as she picked it up again, smiling faintly at the sweet message he’d sent. He was always thoughtful, checking in even though he was surrounded by family. But it didn’t fill the emptiness she felt. Not entirely.

With a sigh, Y/n set the phone back down and reached for her mug of tea. Just a few more days, she told herself. Then maybe things would start to feel a little less empty.

Meanwhile, in Bristol, Lando was wrapping up a festive morning spent with his family. The house was filled with laughter and holiday cheer, but his mind kept drifting to London. It had been a whirlwind of excitement leading up to this moment, and now, the time had finally come.

For weeks, Lando had been carefully planning the perfect gift. Their playful debates about cats versus dogs always ended with him teasing her for being a "cat person," but he knew just how much she truly adored them. Every time they passed a shop with a cat lounging in the window, her face would light up, and he could see the longing in her eyes. She had never adopted a cat since moving to London, and Lando knew it was something she missed dearly. Determined to make this Christmas special, he was resolved to bring her the joy she’d been longing for.

Lando wanted to invite her for Christmas, but he hesitated, fearing she might refuse because she wasn’t ready to meet his parents. Not wanting to pressure her or make things feel too serious too soon, he decided instead to plan a different surprise. He’d contacted a shelter in London and arranged everything for the adoption of a small, ginger tabby. He knew it was the perfect gift for her, something that would bring her joy and comfort.

He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she met the cat. The thought of her eyes lighting up was enough to make his heart race as he finished packing his bag. The rest of the holiday could wait. This moment was going to be about her.

On Christmas Eve, after saying goodbye to his family, Lando set out for London. The drive felt longer than usual as he imagined Y/n’s reaction. The roads were clear, and the car hummed steadily beneath him, but his mind was a whirlwind of anticipation.

By the time he arrived at Y/n’s flat in London, the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky. Lando took a deep breath before grabbing the cat carrier from the backseat, his heart beating fast in his chest. He knocked gently on her door, not quite sure what to expect, but knowing that this moment would mean everything to her.

The door opened, and there she stood—Y/n, looking soft and surprised to see him.

“Lando?” she asked, her voice filled with a mix of curiosity and confusion. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be with your family for Christmas.”

Lando smiled, stepping inside, the carrier gently in his hands. “I was. But I couldn’t wait any longer to see you. I have something for you.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t have to get me anything, Lando…”

He didn’t say a word. Instead, he crouched down and slowly opened the carrier. A small, ginger tabby with striking green eyes stepped out, its fur soft and smooth.

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as she gazed at the cat. “Is this… for me?”

Lando nodded, his gaze warm. “I know how much you’ve wanted a cat. So I thought, maybe this Christmas, I could help make that happen.”

Tears welled in Y/n’s eyes as she knelt down to pet the cat, her fingers trembling with emotion. “Lando, I… I don’t know what to say. She’s perfect.”

Lando smiled gently, his heart swelling with affection. “I thought you’d like her. Her name is Ruby, by the way,” he said, his voice filled with warmth. “I thought she looked like a Ruby.”

Y/n’s voice cracked as she looked up at him, her eyes glistening. “You’re… incredible. I can’t believe you did this.”

Lando stood, moving closer to her, his hands cupping her face softly. “I wanted to do something special for you. I know this time of year can be tough, especially with you being so far from your family. But you don’t have to be alone, Y/n. Not anymore.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she whispered, “I’ve been feeling so alone lately… and you didn’t even invite me to spend Christmas with you and your family…”

Lando’s heart broke as he pulled her into his arms. “I didn’t invite you because I didn’t want you to feel pressured. It was too soon, and I didn’t want to make things complicated. But I’ve been thinking about you, about us. I knew, more than anything, I wanted to be with you this Christmas. It just… took me a little longer to figure out how.”

Y/n clung to him, feeling the weight of her emotions. “I thought maybe you didn’t want me there… but now, with this… with Ruby…” Her voice faltered as she held the cat close to her chest. “Thank you. I didn’t think I’d ever get a cat, but now… I have Ruby, and I have you.”

Lando brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his voice tender. “You have me, Y/n. Always.”

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the quiet comfort of the moment filling the space between them. The Christmas lights outside twinkled softly, but the warmth they shared was all that mattered.

That night, they sat together on the couch, the cat curled up between them as they sipped wine and exchanged stories. Lando had stayed in London with her, and while it wasn’t the Christmas Y/n had expected, it turned out to be exactly what she needed. A Christmas filled with love, surprises, and the promise of more to come.

As they shared a soft kiss under the glow of the tree, Y/n felt a profound sense of belonging. This was home.

“Merry Christmas, Y/n,” Lando whispered, his lips brushing against her ear.

“Merry Christmas, Lando,” she replied, her heart full.

And for the first time in a long time, Christmas felt just right.

#f1 x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 #formula one #f1 #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula one imagine #formula one x reader #formula one x y/n #f1 x you #formula one x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris #ln4 #lando norris fluff

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mostly-imagines · 12 hours ago

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NSFT Alphabet

jason todd x afab!reader

warnings: >18 i’ll block ur ass stay away 18+

A = AFTERCARE

Aftercare is just as important to him as sex itself, if not more so. He’ll lay with you until you catch your breath, giving light kisses to the nearest part of your body. Once you’re back to baseline, he’ll get a warm rag to clean you up, being more gentle than he needs to be with your sensitive body. If you want it, he’ll grab one of his shirts for you to wear and pull it over your head for you. He’ll cover you up in your blankets and hold you close, murmuring to you how pretty you are, how good you did for him, how much he loves you.

B = BODY

His favorite body part of his own is his arms. He likes how strong he is, plus they emphasize his frame which plays into his size kink too. For you, it’s your waist. As we’ll discuss more later, he loves holding onto your hips during sex and he’s a big fan of kissing down your stomach as a way to initiate.

C = CUM

He prefers to come inside of you most of the time, but he likes coming in your mouth or on your body too. He will not come on your face though, he feels like it’s disrespectful to you, even if you’re into it. He’s a big guy and he comes a lot—more than he wished he would. That's part of the reason he’d rather come in you than on you, he thinks it’s embarrassing how much comes out. The first couple of times you had sex he’d tried to distract you with kisses as he came, hoping you wouldn’t notice it. Once he learns that you don’t mind it though, even like it, it eases his anxieties considerably.

D = DIRTY SECRET

He’s definitely masturbated once or twice when you were asleep next to him and he didn’t want to wake you. He felt gross about it but you looked so good with the way his shirt rode up against the curve of your ass, your panties on display. Your cheek was mushed up against the pillow next to him and he wanted to kiss you silly more than anything, but you had to be up early in the morning. So he took care of it himself, admiring your pretty face. No, he’ll never tell you that happened.

E = EXPERIENCE

He’s had sex just enough to know that he has a big dick and has to be careful when he’s fucking someone. Before you it was mostly a method of blowing off steam, but it wasn’t something he craved like he does with you. There was always minimal kissing, if any, and it was more procedural than anything. So when it comes to romantic sex, his experience was 0 but that makes it that much better. He didn’t have too much experience otherwise and he was fine with that. He had more important things to worry about than sex. That was, until he met you.

F = FAVORITE POSITION

He likes anything where he can hold your hips the most. So cowgirl and missionary are never misses, especially for how well he’s able to see your face. He also likes fucking you against the wall, it makes for easy access to kiss you. In spite of how much he loves seeing your expressions during sex, he can’t deny how much he loves holding your hips in place during doggy. His least favorites are probably prone bone and reverse cowgirl, they’re too impersonal and dispassionate.

G = GOOFY

He’s going to take it very seriously the first handful of times. He’s not taking any risks about hurting you or making the experience anything short of extremely pleasurable for you. And in his mind, to do that he needs to focus. After you get more comfortable with each other though, he starts to relax and trust himself to be able to take care of you, even with a more laid-back attitude. The silliest sex you have will be when you’re drunk/tipsy, it’s very smiley and giggly. Generally, he’ll make jokes now and again, smile at your smiles, but he’s still more serious about sex than not.

H = HAIR

He’ll trim to keep up appearances, especially after he meets you, but it’s not something he’s overly concerned about. For you, he’s really truly completely neutral about whether or not you shave, but he’s likely to encourage you not to, if not only so you know you don’t have to change anything for him. But he won’t blink twice either way.

I = INTIMACY

Sex with you is always intimate for him. He tells you he loves you during it often, praising you constantly. He brushes your hair back when it gets messy and wipes your tears away with a gentle hand. He’ll call you beautiful and kiss you nice as he fucks you, holding your hand all the while.

J = JACK OFF

He rarely needs to get himself off, really only if he’s away on a mission for a while. It’s definitely not the preferred circumstances but he’ll make do when he has to. He feels like a fucking perv when he thinks about you while he’s doing it, but he can’t come otherwise. He knows you wouldn’t care but he still feels gross about it. The way he remedies this is usually by communicating with you directly, telling you how much he misses you and how much he wants you there with him.

K = KINKS

Above all else, he has a major size kink. He absolutely loves how much bigger than you he is and it gets him going at the most random times. He likes being stronger than you and making you go/stay where he wants you. On a related note, he also likes to restrain you. The implied deepness of the trust you have in him turns him on so bad. Plus, he likes being in control, and you not being able to wiggle gives him the chance to take care of you however he wants. Edging is another one he likes but he’s not always so good at it. He has a hard time denying you and when you’re begging him so sweetly to let you come…who is he to say no? Though, if you’ve been a bit of a brat he’ll be merciless about it. On the flip side, sometimes he’ll overstimulate you but it’s not his favorite of the two because he can’t always handle seeing you cry like that. But he does like the idea of you getting lost in so much pleasure that you don’t know what to do with yourself.

L = LOCATION

His favorite place to fuck you is anywhere in your apartment. Your bed, shower, kitchen, couch, the rug…He likes it a) because it’s private and he’s free to take care of his girl whenever he wants and b) he likes seeing you in the same spot going about your day where he’d made you come just a few hours ago. He’s also not opposed to subtle car sex, especially for going down on one another. He’s not a big fan of public stuff, if he were to do it, it would be in a situation where he was certain you wouldn’t get caught. He’s too private to get off on the risk and frankly, he doesn’t much like the potential of someone else seeing you the way he gets to see you.

M = MOTIVATION

He gets turned on by just about anything you do. If you wear tank tops, his clothes, shirt and no pants, those will all get him going. Then there’s things like play fighting, seeing you stick up for yourself (especially against him), when you yell, if you just touch him. He really is in love with you and everything that you do.

N = NO

JTLHG!jason is mainly dominant, but he can be submissive for you if you approach it the right way. You’d have to be subtle and encouraging or else his pride will get in the way. Anything him or you do in these times would be very soft and gentle, more vanilla than anything for the sake of reassurance. His biggest no here is restraints. Sex requires a lot of trust for him and as much as he does trust you, he would feel much too vulnerable tied up and he wouldn’t like it. However, when he’s the one in control he’s not afraid to be more…adventurous. That being said, he wouldn’t be into choking you or hitting you. I think even if you were very clearly into it, it would make him feel bad about himself on multiple levels. He doesn’t want to hit you, even sexually, and hates the idea of his hands around your neck. Public stuff makes him uncomfortable and degradation is a hard no for him.

O = ORAL

He prefers going down on you by a mile. He’s usually hesitant to let you do it, he doesn’t want you to feel like you have to or for you to potentially lose any pleasure during sex. He really does think it should be all about you and he has a hard time grasping that making him feel good makes you feel good too. He likes to hold your hands when he eats you out, or your waist. He doesn’t want to lose any physical contact with you—it’s a very intimate thing and he’ll treat it as such. He’s also been known to rub soothing patterns into your waist or wrap his arms around your thighs to hold them apart. When you give him head it’s overwhelming for him. He denies himself of it so much that he can’t handle it when he actually gets it. He likes to hold your hands here sometimes too, but more often than not he’s holding your hair out of your face so he can see you—the gentle weight of his opposite hand on the back of your head. He’ll struggle to catch his breath, lips parted.

P = PACE

It all depends on the mood for him. He can and will switch it up as needed. He can be very intense and rough, fast thrusts and heated kisses. This can be passionate or angry sex. He can also take it very slow and sensual, and depending on his mood, this can be either very romantic or very torturous.

Q = QUICKIE

He doesn’t really like quickies that much, he definitely prefers to take his time with you. Quickie’s don’t really allow him to prep you properly, something that’s incredibly necessary when having sex with him. Anyways he wants to make sure he’s able to give you the best experience possible and he can’t do that if he’s rushing. No, he really prefers to take as much time with you as possible.

R = RISK

As mentioned, he’s not much for risky situations. The riskiest he’ll get is car sex or sex at the manor. He might make out with you in an alleyway but he won’t full-on do it with you outside. He doesn’t want to be caught, doesn’t want to worry about it when he has more important things to focus on.

S = STAMINA

He can go for several rounds most nights and even needs to often. He feels bad about it sometimes though, he feels like one round should be enough for him and he shouldn’t need to take even more from you. Once he eventually gets it through his head that it’s okay for him to need more, he’s relentless. The thing about him is that he requires little to no recovery time post-orgasm before he’s on you again so you might have to remind him to slow down a little.

T = TOYS

He’s not the biggest fan of toys, honestly. He doesn’t like the idea of a piece of plastic making you come, doing his job for him. It also means he’s less hands on and he doesn’t like that at all. That’s not to say he wouldn’t use them ever, he just wouldn’t go out of his way to make it happen. If you had a vibrator or something and you wanted to use it he probably would, if not only so you don’t use it by yourself instead. Beyond that there’s not too much I see him wanting to use, nothing very intense for sure.

U = UNFAIR

He’s a big tease but doesn’t always have the capacity to see it through. If you beg him just the right way he just has to give you what you want. Until you’re able to crack that code though, he seems like an unbeatable force. He’s constantly touching you and it’s hard for you to tell if it’s absentminded or if there’s something more behind them. He’s an expert at attacking that one spot on your neck and getting you just as desperate as he is within a matter of minutes.

V = VOLUME

He’s a groaner and a grunter, low and deep. He, maybe intentionally, stops himself from moaning more often than not, especially when you’re first together. The best way to get him to make noise is to suck just below his jawline, caress over his v-line, or blow him. He can’t control himself when you do any of that.

W = WILD CARD

Jason secretly loves it when you give him as much shit as he gives you. He loves when you tease him, when you tell him “no, we’re not having sex you were being mean.” He can’t stop himself from smiling when you yell at him and he doesn’t even wish he could. As much as he doesn’t want to be submissive, he loves it when you don’t either.

X = X-RAY

Yeah so he’s 8.5 inches hard. He’s a big guy, it stands to reason that he’d have a big dick. It’s fat too, enough to make you cry the first time you take him.

Y = YEARNING

His sex drive is pretty fucking high after getting with you. It operates half as a means of affection and half as a stress reliever. And boy does he need stress relief. There’s phases where he wants you as much as every day, but more often than not it’s like 3-4 times a week.

Z = ZZZ

He wants you to fall asleep before him afterwards, he thinks it’s rude or something if he dozes off first. He’ll often brush his fingers up and down your back, easing you into sleep. If he’s not tired afterwards he’ll read while you nap on his chest, comforted by the in and out of your breaths.

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todoriin · 1 day ago

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x : TOUCH ME NOW *+ﾟ

in which: you help sunday through a predicament. a part 2 nsfw to this sunday fic.

warnings: 3k wc,MDNI or u fail ur next test, afab!reader but no pronouns, sex pollen trope, oral (m receiving), fingering, idk how in character sunday is but i blame it on sex pollen, sunday busts like multiple nuts, wall sex that then becomes bed sex, riding, creampie, unrealistic sex, unprotected p in v, emotionally charged sex towards the end, multiple rounds.

a/n: there are so many warnings i'm kinda ashamed. anyways, i hope u enjoy! i'm never gonna look at this again lol

A feverish heat clings to Sunday, racking shivers up his spine. Warmth suffocates him, expanding to all edges of his body- legs, chest, head, there’s a particular stubborn sensation that clings to his core. And his pants.

It must have been because of that mysterious substance that befell him during the mission. At first, it was a stinging in his nose and eyes that eventually faded, but after a while the real side effects kicked in, and he concluded that it was some sort of material that enhanced… sexual needs, if the growing stiffness in his pants was any indication. He excused himself from the group, and darted back to the hotel at record pace.

Curled up on his made bed, the linen sheets are a mild balm against his hot skin, coat and shirt discarded the second the hotel room locked behind him. Hours have passed since he separated from the group but the symptoms still stubbornly fester in his gut, falling and rising but never fading, sticking to his being like glue.

It’s already painful enough on its own, but you just have to be on the other side of the hotel door, knocking and knocking, asking if he was alright in that sweet, concerned voice of yours.

Things have been… awkward since that incident with you in his room. He hasn’t been able to look you in the eye since, and Sunday’s positive the entire Express can tell that something happened between you, just not entirely sure what.

Having a good memory can be a curse sometimes, and because of it, he hasn’t been able to forget the feel of your warmth atop him, and the paralysing fear when he realised just how strong his desire was. Sunday won’t deny it, even back in Penacony when he was the strict and rigid Head of the Oak Family, there were undertones of attraction that stirred in his heart when he first got to talk to you, but they were quickly buried, just as he was taught to do years ago.

Now, in closer proximity and freed from shackles of duty, he can’t help but let the desire roam wild, peaking at the incident that occurred not too long ago.

A siren’s song. He’s going to give in to your call.

He opens the door no more than a crack, letting your voice come through loud and clear.

“Sunday?” Your tone is gentle, kind, treating him like a wounded stray that would run if you got too close. In some sense, he is, except he thinks if you got too close, he’d pounce on you and do what he’s been thinking of doing for days- weeks, even.

Except in his barely-lucid state, he thinks it might be worse.

“Can I come in? Mr Welt told me you were unwell and separated from the group when March and I went away.”

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, strained.

You raise a brow. “You’re clearly not. No offense but… you sound a bit worse for wear.”

“It’s alright, I can manage alone.”

“Yes but you don’t have to, I’m happy to help.”

“I don’t think this is something you might want to stick around for.”

With each passing moment that you turnaround his rejection, Sunday feels his sanity slipping and pants growing tighter. And when you raise your eyebrows again in defilement, he just wants to pull you in and sink you both to the floor, reduced to a puddle of limbs where neither of you can tell where he ends and you begin.

“How bad can it be?” You whisper and all fighting spirit leaves him. He lets you inside.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you’re putting a hand up to his forehead, testing his temperature as if his entire face wasn’t flushed, pale skin heating up to an uncharacteristic pink. You seem to be avoiding the obvious issue that’s happening in his lower body.

“What happened?”

“I- uh, was hit with something,” he groans when you steps away.

“Like hay fever?” You ask, still somehow innocent and unaware.

He never thought he’d need to spell this out to someone. “Like extreme arousal.”

Your eyes widen and your mouth forms a small ‘o’ in realisation, eyes trailing down to his bare torso for a mere second before meeting his gaze again, as if deciding how to word the next sentence you want to say.

“Would you like some help with that?”

In any right state of mind, Sunday would be double checking that what you said was right. That he wasn’t hearing things. However, in a lust-ridden state where he can’t even tell north or south without thinking of the incredible stiffness in his pants, he says what he thinks is most logical.

“Please.” It’s no more of a whimper, but you hear him loud and clear because next thing he knows, you’re cupping his face with bringing it to yours, tongue parting the seam of his lips.

Sunday backs you up against the hotel door. You seem eager, that delights him.

With the invitation pressed into his mouth, he uses it to lick into your mouth, exploring and reaching wherever he can, tilting his head slightly for better access, overpowering whatever control you had previously exerted over him, just has he’s dreamed of. Biting on your bottom lip, he feels saliva dribble down his chin, wetting his skin. He separates from you to catch the trail, kissing down your chin and going even further, lips meeting the dips and curves of your neck as you gulp, overwhelmed by the onslaught of affection.

It’s your hands that remove your shirt, pulling it over your head as he continues his flurry of kisses, eventually stopping near your sternum. It’s your hands that exposes you- all of you, to him, letting him near his mouth and hands to your breasts. He squishes and pinches your left mound as the right one is enveloped by his lips where he spits and suckles, the sound so unabashedly wet that it shoots straight down to your core- where you need him the most. So you roll your hips against his and enjoy the vibrations of his moan, mouth still connected around you. You do it again and this time, his grip tightens, parting from your breast with a satisfying pop.

Crazed hunger gleams in his eyes and you sink to your knees before him.

“Let me take care of you,” you mutter breathlessly, now eye level with his member. His very obviously, very painfully hard member. Your hands make quick work of his pants, unbuttoning them as Sunday does the work of discarding both his boxers and the pants, leaving him naked before you, cock hitting the base of his abdominals.

It’s an odd sensation to present yourself so wholly to someone for the first time, especially when your most private parts are in the other person’s face, but Sunday’s mind is too far away to feel ashamed. Not when your hands crawl up and play with the angry, swollen tip of his dick.

“This looks so painful,” you mutter. “How long did you suffer for?”

“A couple hours,” he confesses through stifled teeth, feeling your hands move up and down along his shaft. You’re toying with him, seeming so sympathetic to his current condition when the only thing you’re doing is making it worse, the heat flaring hotter and hotter than he thought humanly possible in his abdomen.

It’s like torture, but he never wants you to stop. Never wants you to leave.

“Poor thing,” you coo. When you kiss his leaking tip, he collapses against the hotel door, bent arm catching him against the hard material. From this perspective, Sunday gets to watch you take him whole, his cock disappearing into your mouth inch by agonising inch until you stop just short of the base. It is so filthily wet and warm, and his skin glistens from your saliva when you move back, only to take him again, tongue sliding over the veins of his incredibly sensitive member.

The pleasure is overwhelming. It feels like everything and not enough, all at the same time. He wants your mouth to be hugging him like this forever, but he wants more, wants you to sink into his ligaments and press this feeling of pleasure into him permanently. Wants his muscles to remember the sensation of your tongue and lips, and how your spit mixes with his precum as small whimpers and moans leave him.

A hand comes to the back of your head, and Sunday begins to move his hips in tandem with your actions, and a surprised sound rings from the back of your throat when he forces himself deeper into your mouth. He does it again and again, wings fluttering as a coil begins to tighten in his lower half.

“I’m- I’m close,” Sunday whimpers. “Don’t stop, please, I want to- I want-”

The pleasure climaxes and hot ropes of cum shoot into your used mouth, dribbles out when it’s too stuffed to stay in, falling down the curve of your lips, down your chin, and landing on the floor or your body. He feels like ascending. This has been the high he’s been craving, the solution to the mania Sunday has been subjected to.

It is still not enough. He watches you swallow his cum, using your finger to clean around your mouth, and gulps when his dick springs to life again, aroused by the sight alone.

Only a fraction of his issue has been solved it seems, because neediness still burns hot in his veins, and he needs you so pathetically bad. Needs to press you against the nearest surface just to take you again and again.

Your eyes widen at his hard cock again.

“Still not enough?” You ask, voice slightly hoarse from being used.

“More,” he groans, and presses his mouth against yours when you rise from your knees, pressing a flurry of kisses against your lips, mixed with moans as words are spoken against your mouth. “Want more of you, let me inside.”

You nod against him, hands coming up to hold onto his shoulders, desperate for the anchor. “Please.”

A hand traces over your hip and moves down to your core. Two fingers part your folds, letting two digits sink into your wet entrance, collecting your slick as he glides in and out, feeling the constriction of your walls around his hand.

You cling to him tighter, resting your forehead against his shoulder as you deal with the onslaught of blinding pleasure, heightening when his thumb plays with your clit, rubbing circles and moving the nub up, down, left, and right. It’s mind-numbing, you don’t know what else to think of except the pleasure he’s bringing you.

It’s torn away when he retracts his hands, heated golden gaze staying locked with yours as he licks himself clean. An act so obscene that it leaves you speechless, all coherent sentences slipping from your brain as Sunday holds your leg up to his hip, allowing him more access.

He grinds his hard length against you, sliding it along your wet slit, sometimes catching your clit, causing you to jolt in his hold. Your breath is heavy with anticipation as you claw at his back, unable to take anymore of this gentle torment, walls clenching around nothing when his tip rests against your entrance. Sunday’s testing you, teasing as his perceptive, golden gaze never strays away from your expression, analysing every micro change as he slowly, slowly, slowly eases in, feeling every movement of your walls parting to make space for him.

You’re constricting him, pulsing around him so tightly that it’s getting harder to breathe, harder to think straight without fucking into you so recklessly that you leave an imprint on the door. His lust-filled brain wants to, but the composed part of his mind knows to give you time to adjust first, even if you’re wet enough for him to move freely.

However, it seems that he’s too impatient himself.

A sudden warmth floods your walls, gushing hot white as Sunday rests his forehead against you, shuddering, laboured breaths heaving out his chest.

“Did you just… cum?”

“Yes,” he pants, wings fluttering lightly as he recovers from busting his load without warning.

Your hands move to play with the hair at the base of his neck, twirling the strands as you wait for him to come down. It’s alarming that you can already feel him getting hard again. Just how strong was this pollen?

“Sorry, it’s just… I haven’t felt anything this powerful this before.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur, holding his cheek. “Sunday, use me. Don’t hold back.”

With your blessing, he regains his footing and slowly retracts his hips, almost sliding out of you before thrusting back. You moan right by his ear, nails clawing his skin. The pace of his movements stay slow, methodical as he splits you open, but with a last few rolls of his hips, Sunday begins to pick up the pace, listening to his frayed mind as the wet sound of skin slapping skin fills the hotel room.

Your whimpers of his name are soft as he keeps moving, holding your leg higher to his hip for more access as he relentlessly bullies himself into you, reaching even deeper parts of you. Mixed essences coat your skin, the last load he spilled into you falling out and dribbling from your entrance, and down to the apex of your thighs. It sounds obscene every time he thrusts into you, and the pleasure makes you bite into the junction of his neck- a coping mechanism against the searing build up in your abdomen.

He’s thrusting into you so deep, hitting a sensitive spot over and over again, causing you to see stars on the edge of your vision.

“I’m almost there, please, don’t stop,” you’re puffing against him now, gasping for air when his hand suddenly crawls between your bodies, rubbing your clit in the exact way he did before, intensifying the pleasure as it shoots through your nerves.

Without warning, you gush all over him, walls spasming around his cock as he continues chasing his own high, hands squeezing you harder as he grows sloppier. Then, with a muffled moan, he lets go and spills hot semen into you, his hips stuttering flush against your pelvis as he presses himself as close as possible.

Both of you pant erratically, still coming down from the high as you cling to each other with vice grips. He nuzzles into your shoulder, wings and silver hair tickling your skin. His is still feverish, burning and hot against your body. You can’t even remember if he grew hotter since you first began, but it’s hard to think about it when Sunday’s still nestled inside with no intention of leaving any time soon.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, careful not to break the delicate atmosphere.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I’m feeling… a little more clear-headed now.”

“That’s good. Should we move away from the door and sit on the bed?”

He slips out of you and you wince at the feel of thick fluids dripping out of you and down your inner thigh. Sunday is at least conscious enough to sit you down and go grab a towel, gently grabbing your ankle to stretch your leg, patting your skin gently to rid the traces. Despite how methodical and tender he is, he can’t hide his growing erection, even if he’s diligently avoiding looking at your spent cunt.

“This… predicament of yours must be stubborn,” you joke when he takes a seat next to you, unable to meet your eyes.

“I think this one might be mostly my doing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really.”

Without hesitation, you swing a leg around and straddle him, sitting daringly close to his cock. “Need a little more help?”

He groans through gritted teeth when you roll your hips, teasing him with a half-lidded look, lips turning into a smirk. You will be the reason for his demise, an obsession growing in the depths of his mind.

“If you are fit enough, don’t exert yourself for me.”

“But I want to help,” you pout at him.

Yes. Something like obsession.

Sunday’s hands are vice grips on your hips as you lower yourself down on his dick, the familiar stretch causing you to wince, but his touch is grounding as he places a flutter of kisses on your face when you’ve lowered yourself completely, the back of your thighs meeting his. You watch as his face contorts with pleasure, gaze focused on where you’re joined.

“You feel so perfect,” he murmurs. “I’ve been dreaming of this, I can’t believe it’s real.”

“Dreaming? How so?”

“Ever since that… day, where you visited me in my room,” he grunts, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, to stop desiring you, I felt it was better for the both of us if I just kept my distance since then.”

You cup his cheeks, placing a kiss on his nose before you move, rising before slamming down, causing the both of you to moan in sync, his being more of a whine. Repeating the movement a few times, you feel wet droplets landing on your hands, and you stop moving out of surprise, the ichor falling from his eyes catching you by surprise.

“Sunday, are you-”

Catching the liquid gold with your thumbs, you are so devastatingly careful handling him that he might just cum again, decorating your insides with white for the fourth time that night. He barely just holds on, though, for the sake of his own sanity.

Although he almost snaps when he feels you catch a tear with your lips, and then you clench around him- oh, this is the recipe for his downfall.

“You will drive me crazy.” He whispers as he holds onto your wrists. “T-This… this is incomparable. I-I want you like a man starved.”

Then, without warning, he rolls you around so that your back is on the bed and he’s the one on top. Climbing between your parted legs, he carves a space for himself in your arms, infatuation glazing over his expression.

“Let me show you how badly I crave you.”

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