#BoB detective AU

[peanutbutterwafer]

Jack and Frank form an unlikely truce to try and catch bob

[colacat53]

Nocturnal Detective Agency Kitties!

here's all of em individually

also for the first time ever when drawing characters as cats I gave them specific breeds(You can thank Halara for giving me the idea because before drawing them I had already decided that they would be a hypoallergenic cat in reference to the fact that they're canonically allergic to cats)

anyways here's everyone's breed

Yuma - Oriental Shorthair

Yakou - Norwegian Forest Cat

Halara - Balinese

Desuhiko - Flame Point Siamese

Fubuki - Pixie Bob

Vivia - Lykoi

also there are some details missing such as Yuma's ahoge and how some of them have cheek fluff but the poses I drew some of them in prevented me from adding those details/ I decided later that they had cheek fluff

also I tried to keep everyones fur colors as close to their actual hair colors as possible while still keeping their designs realistic so some of them have had their colors lightened, darkened or muted

also fun fact, I only originally intended to draw the four master detectives and Yuma and Yakou were recently added(like I literally just drew them)

[panzershrike-pretz]

Almost rebloged a Band of Brothers post to the Nerdy Prudes Must Die tag

That would've been fun-

[drawingswatson-holmes]

2022 Recap ✨

Drawn by Watson

[ninjastormhawkkat]

Detective AU

An au where Steven/Two Brains is a private eye detective who is a mix of Sherlock Holmes, Columbo, and Shawn Spencer from Psych in personality and skills wise. Basically he acts like a serious detective but has comedic moments due to his clumsiness, oblivious nature, and naiveness. Becky is his daughter who is 13/14 in this au. She is his partner (refuses to be referred as sidekick or secretary). She takes down all the notes and notices things her dad doesn't and keeps up with her dad's appointments and phone calls. She doesn't mind assistant but if you insult her position in her dad's work, you get a swift verbal beatdown that leaves you in tears. Bob is a human rookie cop that is good at his job, but has a food eating problem that gets in the way of promotions. He aids Becky and Steven about half of the time.

I am not sure what to do with the henchmen or the rest of the wordgirl cast yet. I know Scoops and rose are definitely reporters and the kids in canon are aged up in this au. Oh and also this takes place where everyone is part human/part animal. Steven and Becky are part mice and Bob is part monkey etc. This is just a fun noir/comedy detective/mystery crime series I thought up on the spot. I will update this if I have any more ideas worked out and feel free to send asks or ideas about this au.

@melodythebunny

@drtwobrainsstuff

@liloskull343

[attapullman]

Silver Screen, Make Me Scream | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: The world is used to seeing Robert Floyd as a Navy admiral on a screen thirty feet tall. You're used to seeing him as the man who spoils you rotten, in and out of the bedroom.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: f!reader, 18+ ONLY, older boyfriend AU, movie star AU, daddy k!nk, unprotected pinv, older bf Bob eats it from behind, cowgirl position, age gap, no y/n

A Note from Mo: Uh...this is porn without plot disguised as a filthy, flirty AU and I am waving from the bars of horny jail. Fellow old man fuckers, this one is for you.

It’s his cold pillow that wakes you. 

No deep breaths or soft snores echoing around the vaulted ceiling. The absurdly expensive bedding all yours to take. Your late night should keep you asleep until noon, but it feels wrong to be in bed when you don’t have your lover’s solid warmth against your skin.

You pad down the terracotta-tiled hall and take in the views of the Pacific, the only artwork needed on this side of the house. Stormy blue and glass-riddled sandy white, the picturesque view sells itself. The waves crash on the beach below, their mellow sound seeping into the Mediterranean revival from the open patio doors. 

He’s sitting outside in just his sweatpants, coffee in hand, as he watches the water while flicking through a thick stack of pages. The grey at his temples is bright under the early San Diego sun. You know he’s reading something important because he has those horn-rimmed glasses on, the ones he repeatedly complains are too tight around his ears. Won’t even waste a minute to go grab his preferred wire frames. 

Robert Floyd may be retired from show business, but he’s hotter than the first day he graced screens.

Eyes lifting from the pages, he catches you staring from your spot by the French doors, negligee skimming your body in the soft ocean breeze. The lids of your eyes are still a little heavy with sleep.

“You need something, baby?” He pats his broad thigh and you assume your perch, snuggling against his sun-warmed skin as you shake your head. How is he always the perfect temperature? The chill from the ocean wafts over you as he wraps his arm around your waist.

Your lips part in a contented smile. “Just checking in on you, Daddy. Missed you in bed.”

“Sorry, baby,” he coos, brushing his lips against your temple. His thick pointer taps against the stack of pages that arrived by messenger at sunrise. “Agent asked me to give this a look over, see if I’d be interested.”

You tilt your head to see the title. “Is that-”

“Yes, baby girl. They’re asking me to come back. Just a few scenes with the new regime, but get to wear that admirals uniform one more time.” Despite him saying it so matter of factly, you can detect his giddiness at wearing those pins once again. “Not sure if it’s the right move though.”

You trail your finger along his pectoral, imagining the ironed uniform underneath your touch. 

Robert Floyd had made a career of Naval action films, starting out as a fresh faced Weapons Systems Officer in his debut, to gracing the screen one last time as an Admiral in the franchise’s original conclusion. He’d won over hearts with his steely blue gaze and soft smile, never one for breaking the rules. Yet always the one who celebrated the hardest when his squadron completed a mission.

For military propaganda, he made a compelling poster boy.

Your entire childhood he had been on posters in the mall, trailers on the television during commercial breaks. Those bright sapphire eyes and gleaming pins burnt into your vision, uncontrollably charmed by the strong, silent type. 

And now here he was, putty under your palms as you asked if he wanted more coffee.

Without a doubt he’d take the appearance, spend a day or two on set with the next generation of Naval action stars. The next year he’d appear on every talk show and repeat his modesty over his fifteen minutes on camera. Your Bobby would balk at the attention, but glow with pride as the host played his cameo for the audience. 

Watching him flip through a few pages, you could already see the shy smile he would win the crowd over as he insisted the revival’s cast members were the real stars.

“What’cha thinking about, sweet girl?” You were so lost in your daydream that you missed his attention turning to you, warm palm running over your hip under your thin robe. 

You stroke his jaw, fingers curling into the regulation-cut greying hair. The cut he’s kept since he was first cast in his early twenties. “You should take the role. You look handsome as an admiral.” You peck a light kiss to his lips. “Dashing, really.”

His blush is striking against the ocean sky. As you get up to go make you both breakfast, you can feel his eyes on you; an extra sway in your hips for his enjoyment. Bob lounges back on the outdoor set and looks between the breaking waves and the now slightly rumpled script. 

He’s coming back.

The view of the ocean as you zip up I-5 is breathtaking, a gorgeous Southern California day. The early call time was less than ideal, but the energy in the car is electric. Bob’s hand wanders into the passenger seat to wrap around your bare knee, thumb tapping out an unknown rhythm as he navigates traffic. 

He looks the vision of wealth and importance sitting in the front seat of his pewter grey Porsche 911 - a sleek upgrade for his 40th from the battered truck he’d been driving since he arrived in Hollywood. The car is understated in its elegance, like its owner. You admire his graceful lines of a life well lived, the pokes of silver woven through his hair. And yet his eyes carry that intelligent, sassy energy that keeps you on your toes, ready for the next challenge he brings you. 

“You’re looking at me.” His eyes don’t leave the road, but the smile on the corner of his thin lips is playful.

You fiddle with his fingers, admiring the large dexterous digits. “Just so handsome, how can I not?”

Bob lifts your hand with his, allowing the platinum and diamonds of your bracelet to catch the morning sun - nearly blinding with their sparkle. He brings your interlocked fingers to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to the skin as he finally looks at you. His eyes are the same striking blue as the ocean behind him. 

“Perfect girl, what did I do to deserve you?”

You’re wondering the same when he enters the studio lot, passing through security and finding your way to the set. There’s a bustle of commotion as the two of you join the crowd, everyone immediately hushing their voices as the talent arrives. Bob’s chest swells with power as everyone immediately caters to him before noticing you.

“That must be his assistant?” Rumors spread through the crew like wildfire, watching you prance behind film legend Robert Floyd like an excitable puppy. Eyebrows shooting up when he turns back and rests a hand on the back of your bare thigh, leaning close to ask if you want anything from craft. 

You slide your diamond-covered wrist around his neck and peck his cheek. Definitely not an assistant.

Since the day he’d made his name on marquees, Bob had been surrounded by women. A tall man in Navy blues with the golden touch of Hollywood? His fellow cast joked more than once that tag chasers didn’t care whether you served the country or just did it on screen. Eventually he’d done the responsible thing and tried marriage, settling down with a woman who cared more about his flashy lifestyle than the quiet man behind the lights. Divorce was swift and the introvert reverted inside his shell, his film career quiet as the next generation of aviators took the screen. 

And then you entered his life, with your open face and bright smile. A coffee shop in Coronado he frequented that you happened to pass. A bump of elbows over the creamer, his amused grin when you accidentally grabbed his drink in your fluster. You were so excited to meet a real movie star, a dream come true. And he looked so much bigger than his character - those shoulders brawnier, that jaw sharper. Yet the smile he gave you was heart-melting as you handed him your own coffee cup to sign, nothing else available.

It wasn’t until that afternoon you noticed he’d written his number in neat penmanship. You had to wait until that next night to know you were falling inexplicably in love with a man who the rest of the world already adored. He was bigger than life, your everything.

And for all of your affection, he spoiled you. Dates to restaurants you couldn’t pronounce in Liberty Station, private events with tickets you couldn’t afford. Every week a new trinket left at your bedside, sparkling in the low light while he hummed in the bathroom excited for you to notice. Few things brought him joy at this stage in life, but you traipsing in with nothing on but the latest diamanté left him positively enraptured.

People could stare and point and judge all they wanted. It was love, and it was all yours.

You’ve raided the mini bar and read through the call sheet when Bob finally comes back to his trailer. He strikes a bold figure in his Navy blacks - pins gleaming, white cap under his arm. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” he greets you, swooping to kiss your cheek. But your breath is already stolen. You’d seen pictures, caught his movies at the old matinee in Balboa Park. But standing in front of you is the sexiest man you’ve ever seen. He looks so…official.

Bob was already feeling good in the wardrobe trailer, the crew he’d worked with for years stroking his ego as they put the final touches to his starched uniform. He’d be on screen for a total of eight minutes and he was going to look important every single second. 

But with your eyes trained on him, pupils wide and mesmerized, it’s the only compliment he needs. 

“They look good on you again,” you coo, tracing your fingertips over the sterling silver insignia pins. It’s hard to quell the rising heat as you look at him, standing tall in this uniform - his uniform - just like the posters and movie trailers of your youth. 

He rubs his temples and grabs his wire frames from the counter, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he straightens up. “Feels good to wear them, baby. Not sure who I am if not in the ‘Navy’.” He chuckles around air quotes, morphing into a moan as you run your nails down his torso. 

Even though he’s not in character, the suit transforms him. 

He’s not your Bob, the man who walks around his big ol��� house in band shirts he got in the 80s and his worn shearling slippers. Squinting through his glasses while trying to read fine print for instruction manuals for more Lego sets than he needs, peppering your head with kisses as you sit between his knees. Your Bobby is always goofy and smiling when you come through the door, eager to wrap his arms around you as he patiently listens to all the friend updates from brunch. He’s warmth and safety, that side of middle age where you have to explain internet fads with a playful eye roll.

But this man…this man in front of you is stern and mighty, seizing the room with his intensity. He’s commanding in his own silent way, back straight and shoulders taught. No nonsense, just like the admiral he plays for screens around the world. His presence is intoxicating. You can’t decide if you want to dominate him or be putty in his hands. 

You twist in his arms, pressing your chest to his as you smooth the lapels of his suit. It’s only natural that those big, practiced hands of his immediately slip to your legs. Two magnets drawn by the promise of touch. But once he’s inches from your pretty face, ready to ask you to help him read over lines, that gleam in your eyes has other plans.

His girl wants him.

“Babygirl, I’m in wardrobe.” His words say no, but the fervent way he’s stroking the skin under your hem says differently. He’s not immune to a tiny dress and puppy eyes. You watch his hand reach up to drag through greying roots before he remembers it’s styled, redirecting his frustration by slipping rough fingers around the nape of your neck. Holding your head still while he fights his sense of responsibility.

It doesn’t matter that you’re in a tin can trailer with no sound proofing. You lick your glossy lips and give him the most innocent smile. “Please? We can be super careful.”

He eyes you warily. The two of you together is messy.

“Please, Daddy?” You rub yourself against him, feeling the way he shivers underneath his stiff uniform. “I wanna know what it’s like to fuck an admiral. Please?”

He’s powerless against you when you’re like this. Needy and heavy-lidded, unsatisfied until you’ve had your fair share of him and then some. It’s only when you’re a panting mess full of his spend that he can regain any control against you.  The age gap is exhilarating and exhausting.

His face dips to rest against your temple, the floral scent of your perfume clouding his senses. So sweet, so soft. You feel his groan against your cheek before he straightens up to his full height, towering over you with a stern expression on his face. Those elegant, practiced fingers tuck under your chin.

“Attention.” Your spine straightens, your breath deepens. “Let’s see if you’re up to regulation, lieutenant.”

A warm gush of excitement floods your body, soaking in your flimsy excuse for underwear. You watch your big, broad, authoritative boyfriend sink down into the plush trailer sofa, knees spread. Patting his thigh with an unamused brow quirk. 

Exhilaration races through your veins as you eagerly straddle his lap, sundress sliding up your thighs as you perch prettily on his thighs. The vision of youthful glow, hoping to impress.

Bob traces your heated skin with callused fingers, lips pursed, before sliding a hand firmly up your back. The world spins as he flips you over his lap, your rounded ass exposed to his eyes, modesty barely covered by a scrap of lace.

“Uniform panty inspection,” Bob huffs out, fingers ghosting over the fabric. His voice is restrained, clipped. You stay as still as possible as you hold your breath. You want to pass this inspection so bad.

The firm touch of his ring finger to your clothed sex forces a moan to slip through your clamped lips. So close to giving you what you want. But he remains diligent, stroking your pussy through the fabric until he’s satisfied with the wet patch he created. “Perfectly up to code.”

His finger wraps around the strap of the thong and yanks it down, forcing you to further immodestly part your knees as he discards the sexy - yet unnecessary - piece of fabric.

Your mind is heavy with lust as you turn your head, trying to understand. Normally he’s between your thighs teasing the fabric for longer than you can handle. Your lips are still dry. But before your eyes and brain connect with the visual, film legend Robert Floyd has a rounded cheek in each hand and his tongue plunged deep in your pretty pink pussy.

Blunt nails dig into the soft skin of your ass as he re-acquaints himself with your taste. Sliding his thick muscle along the velveteen walls of your cunt, lapping up the addicting taste of your lust. Your head is empty as he forces you to take it, to enjoy the way he worships the very core of your being. 

Saliva and arousal mix on his clean shaven face as he presses deeper, moaning as he feels you clench around him. His own pride growing as you wail with only his tongue fucking you. It’s wet and dirty, the heat along your skin eating you alive as you succumb to your pleasure. 

These are the benefits of dating a man with experience.

His tongue retreats, laving over your folds with practiced precision. You bury your head in the rough sofa fabric, muffling the depraved sounds crossing your lips. Your fingers reach up and wrap around his thick wrist, needing a tether to reality. His free hand travels to his belt, loosening the leather and freeing his erection to the humid trailer.

He knows you and your tells. Dragging that wicked tongue back, he corners your little neglected clit. Sucks it into his mouth like an after dinner mint, savoring the tangy sweetness of you. Your hips thrust back at him, desperate for more as you begin your hedonistic descent. 

Time and space lose all meaning as Bob goes in for the kill, switching between the heavy pulls on your clit and the slippery licks along your core. Blowing cool air where you’re most sensitive before sweeping in with his burning tongue. The combination of his stiff muscle fucked into your depths and his thumb bumping your swollen clit finally send you over the edge, a white light overtaking your body as you scream into the plush cushion below.

Film legend Robert Floyd cleans your juices from your shaking thighs thoroughly.

Begrudgingly, your limbs are jelly as you bring yourself to his level. Bob’s hands continue their ministrations to the globes of your ass, squeezing and groping the soft skin. When you finally find yourself sitting upright, his thick cock nestled between the soft lips of your cunt, he gives into his desires and draws his hand up, only to bring it down with a slap! The sound rings through the room and his cheeks tinge pink with arousal and embarrassment.

“Admiral!” you giggle as he repeats the harsh slap on the other cheek. 

While you have the devastatingly sexy view of a sweaty admiral beneath you, his eyes are glued to the mirror across the trailer that captures the dark red handprint he wishes he could tattoo on your perfect ass. 

Lips descend upon his and the trailer is filled with the slick sounds of tongues and moans, four hands grasping with the need to touch. But where to touch? His burning skin? The cool pins of his jacket? It’s almost too easy a choice to wrap your fingers around the bulbous head of his cock while he swallows your desperate little tongue.

“That’s it, feel how hard Daddy is for you.”

He finally pulls himself from your kiss-bitten lips as his hands tug down the neckline of your filmy dress, exposing your heaving breasts to the room. Lips dipping down to wrap around your hardened nipple, leaving teeth marks and wet kisses on tender flesh. Your moans egging him on to bite deeper, suck harder.

The world knows the reserved man who waits to speak, level-headed in the most dire situations. And yet here he is, the remnants of your orgasm staining his chin as he closes his eyes to better enjoy the peaked bud he’s devouring. 

He’s delicious and all yours.

Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck, grasping the short strands with all your might as you pull him off your chest with an audible pop. Those impossibly blue eyes look at you reverently, letting you call the shots so he can continue to enjoy your body as it deserves. You drag your shared gaze to where your bodies meet and a grunt involuntarily leaves him. Finally.

The first touch is a puzzle piece falling into place. The thick head of him asking for entrance, slick with your desire. 

Those unbelievably large hands hold themselves delicately at your waist, assisting your descent. His eyes flicker between yours and the welcoming entrance of your cunt. Your commanding admiral - your sweet Bobby - grasps you securely as you try to sink further on his swollen cock.

“Daddy, it’s too big.” Your voice is pained, teary eyes struggling to hold his gaze just as he likes. His size splitting you open like his own personal cock sleeve.

“You can take it, baby, just breathe.” His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as your impossibly tight cunt squeezes around him. “There’s my good girl, gonna fit all of Daddy, aren’t you?”

Hesitantly lifting your hips, muscle memory takes over as you adjust. The ease of taking his thick cock coming back to you as your breasts bounce with your fervent movement. The lapel of his jacket wrinkles as you hold it, lip between your teeth as he grazes that spongy spot only he can reach.

He guides you in your pursuit of pleasure, admiring the way you thrust you chest out as you clench around him. One hand on his lapel, the other grasping his knee. Truly using his body to get yourself off. So unbelievably sexy.

Your admiral’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing persistent slow circles over the sensitive, swollen bud. Times a hard press with when you are completely full of him, your senses overwhelmed. Bob. Bob. Bob. His balls ache with the need to claim you as his.

Impatient, knowing call time is mere moments away, Bob lifts his hips to yours. Pumping his erection deep, all the way to the hilt as his balls brush your ass. He’s so deep, so perfectly deep. A guttural moan leaves your spit-slicked lips, begging for your orgasm. 

“Are you going to cum for your admiral?” His deep voice rings through your ears as you chase your high, the world clouding as only his cock becomes your reality. Your fingers card through his hair, silver and golden brown weaving together to keep you grounded in your pleasure. “I said, are you going to cum for your admiral?”

“Yes!” The next lot over could probably hear you shout to the heavens, plunging yourself down on Bob’s thick cock as your orgasm plunges you over the cliff. Sweet relief flooding your senses as your pussy pulses around him as a thank you.

Your lips find his neck as you nuzzle in, hips still sunk low on his throbbing erection. You need to be filled with Daddy’s cum.

The stiff fabric of his uniform jacket rubs your bare skin as he holds you close, pressing your nipples to his insignia pins as he strongly thrusts those last few times. Grunting into your cooing mouth as he finally lets go, cock pulsing as thick white jets of his cum coat your walls. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper in his ear when you carefully pull off, barely enough energy to keep your thighs closed for the sake of his uniform. He gently guides you onto your back, ever the gentleman. 

You stretch your sore limbs and relax into the plushness of his trailer sofa, hands wrapping behind your head as you smile, satiated, while Bob’s creamy cum runs past your thighs to pool on the fabric. Your graying lover gives you a wry smile as he regains his breath against the back the couch, uniform crumpled and bearing a stain a little too close to his zipper. 

Always so messy. But so worth it.

There’s a rap at the door, three quick knocks that shake you both from your orgasmic haze. Bob rushes to cover your modesty, fiddling with the hems of your dress with clumsy fingers. Wishing you were home so he could wrap you in his robe and run a bath before watching the ocean from the terrace instead of praying there’s wipes in this shoddy trailer. 

“Mr. Floyd? We’re ready for you,” comes through the door. The PA who whispered you were an assistant, now only steps away from your bare breasts and dirty thighs.

You wiggle your eyebrows at Bob as you fix your own appearance, amused as the bigger than life Robert Floyd shuffles around the room, tucking in his button up and wiping sweat from his collar. Blush in full force as he hands you the thong resting on the kitchenette. He shakes his head at you, mirth softening the edges of his hard gaze. There’s another knock at the door.

Uniform fully back in place, Bob takes a moment to admire you before an afternoon in front of cameras. Enjoying this last moment before he gets into character. Hands on your soft hips, sated cerulean eyes appreciating the curves of your mischievous lips. “Be a good girl for me today and Daddy will give you a reward later. Deal?”

You bite your lip and nod with a smirk, opening the door of the trailer so he’s not later than he already is. Today you get to watch him do the thing he loves, that in itself is already a reward. The crowd outside the trailer watches you turn back and leave one last kiss to his lips.

“Yes…Admiral.”

Bob can’t wait to surprise you with the South Sea pearl and diamond earrings he’s saved for this day. It’s his baby girl’s first day on set, only the best to commemorate the occasion.

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[poppy-metal]

in the creep au i think of art and her getting paired for a project and art noticing how similar and unique his partner’s handwriting is to a certain admirer… but this isn’t csi, he’s just on edge (and edging)

AURRRRRRR

i imagine this isn't even part of readers plan its just a random assigned thing and you're internally screaming. Its funny because obviously you dont think that highly of yourself - or you wouldn't be going about this so insanely - so you dont even consider about changing up your handwriting, art taking in your handwriting - remembering it - its too much.

but he does notice. its a small thing. you dot your eyes with hearts. his pen stops halfway down his paper when he sees it - flashes of all the notes hes gotten going through his head. he thinks, oh my god. a feeling goes through him - something like fear but probably more like excitement, like when you're in line for a roller coaster with a big drop. - he looks at you more fully. it suddenly hits him that you're so close. he's spent the past like six months of his life thinking about you nonstop, jerking off to you, soaking in your words like a sponge - god, hes seen your pussy -

but then you look up. wide eyed. confused. "art?" you ask, and he blinks. realizes he's been staring at you in silence for awhile and clears his throat. taps his pen on his paper like he was thinking of something helpful and not trying to be a detective.

he's so fucking dramatic. loads of girls probably dot their eyes with hearts. its not so abnormal.

"sorry, uh-" he looks back down at his notes. "- yeah, that sounds good. what you said - sounds good."

he doesn't know what you said. he'd totally spaced out there for a second. but you smile and nod and he gusses that was the right thing to say. you have a pretty smile. a birthmark by your mouth. he's noticed that about you before, hasn't he?

"i didn't catch your name, by the way." he tells you. recalls you already knew his. "have we met before?"

you pause through sifting through your pink notebook. stare down at it for a second. look back up at him and smile again. "no we haven't." you tell him your name. "i know you from, uh. your tennis."

he rolls your name around on his tongue. likes the way it sounds. props his chin on his hand as he relaxes more now that he knows you're not someone he just forgot he already knew. "you into tennis?"

you play with the end strands of your hair. your eyes dart around the room, a little erratic. he wonders if he's making you nervous?

"i just got into it recently...." you confess softly. "i think its really neat."

art laughs. it kinda bursts out of him and makes a few other people look over at you. you stare at him, startled and wide eyed - you'd made him laugh, you'd made him laugh you made art laugh you made art laugh youmadehimlaughyoumadehimlaughyou madehimlaug - and he scrubs a hand over his jaw.

"neats one way of putting it, yeah." more like his personal hell. heaven and the only thing in his life he has control over. a need and a want and a fucking burden. everything. tennis was everything. "you've seen me play?"

your head bobs in a nod, quick and shy.

"well, you should come say hi next time." his dimple shows. he's so golden and pretty in front of you. he really is made for you. your soulmate.

"i - um. I'll try..." this whole interaction has left you frazzled. you're itching to go back to your dorm. touch yourself furiously to the memory of him laughing and smiling at you - for you - because of you. you're throbbing between your legs. wet and drenched and needy. you'll have to write about how good he looked today and how hard he made you cum.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Physical Graffiti

Author: entropic_saudade

Artist: BasketcaseBetty

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Endgame Dean Winchester/Castiel, Brief Dean Winchester/Ash, Brief Dean Winchester/Max Banes, John Winchester/Kate Milligan, Past John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Past Dean Winchester/Lee Webb, Past Dean Winchester/Cassie Robinson, Past Dean Winchester/Others, Past Castiel/Others, Implied Bobby Singer/Rufus Turner, Past Bobby Singer/Karen Singer, Harper Sayles/Vance, Edward Carrigan/Madge Carrigan, Jenny Sorenson/OMC, Larry Pike/Joanie Pike, Background Max/Stacy.

Length: 75000

Warnings: Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. Additional Content Warnings: Self Harm, Alcohol Use Disorder, Recreational Drug Use, Child Abuse, Past Non-Con, Past Underage, Past Drug Addiction, Minor Character Death, Mental Health Issues

Tags: Case Fic, Murder Mystery, Horror Elements, Slow Burn, Journalist Dean Winchester, Detective Cas, Eventual Hopeful Ending, Families of Choice

Posting Date: November 4, 2024

Summary: The only ghosts and demons are the ones inside his head.  Fresh from a prematurely-ended stint at an inpatient psychiatric facility, ‘former’ self-harmer and functional alcoholic Dean Winchester returns to Sioux Falls, where he works as a crime journalist. His editor, Bobby Singer, sends him back home to Lawrence to gather the story on the murder of a teen boy and the recent disappearance of another. Painful memories from growing up resurface as the missing boy turns up horrifically dead and another goes missing.  The investigation is further complicated by the town’s gossipy tight-knit nature, Dad’s judgment, and botched attempts at making inroads with his estranged half-family, Kate and Adam Milligan.  Dean crosses paths with Castiel Novak, a renegade detective from Kansas City with a troubled past of his own. As they work together, they slip past each other’s defenses, unearthing each other’s secrets and digging for the truth.  As it turns out, monsters just might be real—and they just might live at home.  A Sharp Objects-inspired AU.

Excerpt: A dumpy parking lot, leaning against Baby’s hood, looking to the stars—it reminds Dean of doing the same with the football jocks. The way he’d smuggle stolen beer cans in Dad’s jacket pocket, turning him from ‘homo’ to ‘hero’ in their eyes. Stupidly, it reminds him of Lee.  Dean sneaks a glance over at Cas’ profile, tracing the angle of his jaw as he tilts his head up. The same stupid butterflies flap in his stomach. He suffocates them with a few swigs. “So, our arrangement. I’ll answer a question for each one you answer,” Cas offers, his adam’s apple bobbing.  “Deal.”  “What was it like growing up in Lawrence?” Dean whistles. “Starting with hardballs, huh? You don’t pull any punches.”  “Would you rather I ask for your favorite color?” Cas teases.  He groans. “No, none of that grade school shit. Gimme the real scoop.” Cas raises a pointed brow. You first. “Alright, Lawrence.” He sighs, bracing himself. “Mom had… my brother when I was four.” His voice wavers slightly when he brings up Sammy.  “Adam is much younger, though, isn’t he?”  “Different brother, Kate’s my stepmom. Me and Sam, we’re our Mom’s. She died when Sam was six months old. House fire.” Cas’ eyes sadden, but he doesn’t say anything. “But, as far as growing up—normal, I guess. Went to the school district nearby, was in wrestling for a little bit. I wasn’t some prodigy but I did okay, grades-wise.” “I bet you were Mr. Popular.” Dean barks a laugh. “Uh, no. Sorta depends on who you ask.” Depends on what year. “After graduation, I left for college.” Dean skips over the rest of the highlight reel.  “And Sam?” “Hey, you gotta answer at least one question first,” Dean pokes him. “Why is a detective from Kansas City down in Lawrence?”  “My supervisor likes to send me out on solo cases for assists. I don’t exactly work well with others.”  “Well, you and I make a pretty good team—a little chaotic, maybe, but at least we ruled two suspects off your list.”  “That we did. It’s a shame you’re not a detective.” “Reporters are detectives of sorts. We both look for narrative, just in different ways.” Cas gives a thoughtful hum. “My turn again. What happened to Sam?” Dean’s throat convulses. “He died. We were in our teens.” “What happened?” “He was sick all the time. One day, he just… kept getting worse. His body couldn’t take it.” Sammy’s ghost observed them, sadly, flickering in an in-between state.  “I’m sorry, Dean.”  They sit in silence for a few moments. Panic builds in Dean’s chest, and he worries that he’s ruined whatever rapport they’d been building.  “I’ll tell you something if you swear to not tell another soul?”  Dean nods, relief settling over him. He eats secrets for breakfast.  “The real reason I work Homicide is because it’s better than what I used to do.”  “What’s so bad that working Homicide is better?” Cas looked down and didn’t answer.

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

[deconstructthesoup]

Reasons why I'm gonna be writing the DBD swap AU proper:

-Crystal using 1920's slang and dressing like she stepped right out of a performance of Chicago

-Niko using her book-smart detective skills to the extreme

-Getting to twist Charles's arc in another direction with the whole amnesia plotline, with the added bonus of him actually having acted like an ass before he got possessed

-Charles knowing he's bi from the start

-Edwin knowing he's gay from the start and being the one to curtly inform Crystal how bi she is

-Edwin being an old-school nerd with an extensive knowledge of D&D, noir movies, and Agatha Christie novels

-Esther and the Night Nurse being bitter exes

-Thomas/the Cat King running a bakery and has a metal rolling pin as his weapon of choice instead of a cleaver

-Angie as a punk siren who takes Polaroids and listens to Chappell Roan (with a look that is, in fact, heavily inspired off of the siren from the "Casual" music video)

-Jenny as an afterlife worker with a blunt bob and a rumpled vest-dress-shirt-and-slacks combo that makes her 1000x hotter than she is in canon

-Esther in black-feathered everything

-Delirium cameo in place of Despair

-And, of course, the Palaski content

[femininenachos]

Hello lovely. I’ve been thinking about vacation au. Please tell me Clarke runs into Lexa swimming in some crystal clear Grecian water and wells has to close her mouth for her.

(Not quite, but close!)

Previously: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

By mid-morning the narrow streets near the harbour are already swarming with island hoppers fresh off the ferry. More line the quayside, waiting to board the day cruise that takes in the larger, more populous archipelago further down the coast. So-called ‘jewels of the Aegean’, they’re feted for being playgrounds of the rich and famous, boasting a slew of luxury resort hotels, designer boutiques and staggeringly expensive seafront restaurants.

For all its charm and scenic vistas, at least Polis has one foot in the real world. Here, craggy-faced fishermen and dock hands in scruffy overalls are hard at work unloading the morning’s catch, doing their best to ignore the clusters of tourists floating around, or at least tolerating their presence with stoic indifference.

And—it’s possible Clarke might be biased—Polis has Lexa, currently leading the charge like a woman on a mission. Clarke sticks close, her hand in Lexa’s sure grip, hurrying to match her loping strides as they make a beeline for the marina. Along the way they pass an assortment of small motorboats in all shapes and sizes, from dinghies and jet skis to skiffs and cabin cruisers and everything in between, until a gleaming white single-masted sailboat comes into view at last. 

Clarke stops dead in her tracks on the cobblestones, fingers slipping from Lexa’s.

Her jaw drops.

“Is this yours?”

Lexa glances over and laughs at Clarke’s expression. “I make good tips, but not that much.”

She points to the modest vessel moored next to it, an open-top vintage deck boat with a walnut veneer interior and burnt orange leather upholstery that’s bleached from exposure to the sun and the salty sea air. ‘Spirit of Polis’ is written in blue cursive script on the hull.

“I mean, this one’s great too,” Clarke is quick to respond. She styles it out. “Not so flashy. Compact. Classic. Nice, uh, sleek lines.”

Lexa peers over the top of her sunglasses, lips subtly twisting to the side. “It belongs to my uncle, so you don’t have to worry about offending me or the boat.”

She puts down the cooler containing their provisions of cold drinks and extends a hand to help Clarke aboard. A little unsteady on her feet at first, Clarke holds on tightly for support while she finds her balance, shifting her weight to counteract the bobbing motion of the boat as water sloshes against the sides. Once she’s confident she isn’t going to fall flat on her face or, worse, into the harbour, she takes a few cautious steps to reach the small seating area at the rear. She shrugs off her tote bag to stow under the bench and situates herself, the sun-scorched leather burning hot against the backs of her thighs.

From this safe perch (and prime ogling spot), she watches Lexa collect the thick rope that tethers the boat, tossing it onto the deck before she gracefully hops across with the cooler and gets behind the controls. Full of poise at the helm, like it’s second nature to assume command, the signature pout in place as Lexa lifts her chin like she’s surveying her nautical domain. 

It goes without saying that the whole preppy, boat-captain vibe is one hundred percent working in her favour.

Shades on. Hair spilling down her back in glossy chestnut waves, the ends getting whipped around by the wind. Appealing in her pale pink button-down worn over a snug white tank. Shirt open and catching the light breeze, the sleeves rolled up to reveal a hint of muscle definition and the ink that encircles her bicep. Tight little navy blue shorts hug her hips and ass in ways that are about to cause a major international incident at sea, because Clarke is far from looking respectfully.

“Ready?”

When her eyes snap up, she spies the half-smile on Lexa’s side profile, as though she detects the unholy thirst emanating from mere feet away.

Clarke gives a slow, absentminded nod, the tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as her eyes make another involuntary sweep down Lexa’s form.

“Clarke.”

She gets a hold of herself, breathing in deeply, and with it the spell is broken.

“Mm? Oh, yeah,” she says, feeling a resurgent wiggle of anticipation about this mystery adventure they’re about to embark on together. All Lexa was willing to divulge when they met is that it’s Polis’s best-kept secret, a spot known only to locals, unreachable except by boat, and so far unspoiled by tourists. Clarke had feigned offense on the last point, but soon dropped the act when Lexa tilted in for a kiss that went on and on and made her stomach clench. Each time Clarke started to retreat, Lexa would chase her mouth and draw her back in for more. 

Her lips are still tingling.

(Both sets.)

“At least give me a hint about where we’re going?”

The enigmatic smirk that plays around Lexa’s mouth widens a fraction. “I thought you liked surprises.”

“Oh, I do. But I’m also stubborn as hell and won’t take no for an answer, so jot that down.”

It earns a laugh, one Clarke is fast becoming enamoured with, and she can’t control the warm tingle that goes through her when she hears it or the rush of elation she gets from bringing a rare grin to Lexa’s face. 

“Good to know,” Lexa says as she reaches for the ignition key. Her next words are almost lost to the splutter and chug of the engine before it roars to life. “I like a challenge.”

~*~

Within an hour, they reach a small, secluded cove surrounded by sheer limestone cliffs, the ancient rock sculpted by wind and waves, where sparse scatterings of tall, rugged pines sprout precariously from narrow ledges in defiance of the elements.

It appears like a mirage, shimmering into view: a bay of dreamy, pristine, white-gold sands and crystal clear turquoise waters, serene and inviting, and there isn’t a soul in sight. The closest thing they had to company was the pod of dolphins they spotted off the starboard (Clarke learned) side about twenty minutes ago. She’d gasped and clutched Lexa’s arm, bouncing on her heels in sheer delight. But it was the look they shared, brimming with joy and something unaccountably softer and fonder, that made it all the more magical, the moment already locked into Clarke’s memory.

“What do you think?” Lexa asks.

Lost for words, Clarke shakes her head in silent awe.

She turns to Lexa, and the smile Lexa directs at her, eyes bright and glowing in the sunlight, leaves her just as speechless. When Clarke finds her voice at last, it comes out thick, clogged with emotion; touched and amazed by the incredible beauty of what she sees—the place, and the woman who brought her here. So moved that she’s dangerously close to shedding a tear, her vision glazing over. 

She blinks the moisture away.

“It’s…” She draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. Lifts her eyebrows. “Wow.”

She doesn’t second guess the impulse to wrap an arm around Lexa’s waist, to plant a soft, grateful kiss on her jaw.

“Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

Full lips twitch at the corners. “My pleasure.”

With one hand resting on the wheel, Lexa drapes her free arm around Clarke’s shoulders. They remain like that, Clarke hugging Lexa’s side and taking in the spectacular scenery as Lexa guides the boat in at a steady rate of knots.

“I can’t believe this place has stayed under the radar. You’d think tour operators would be running excursions out here every hour until sunset.”

“Clarke.” Lexa grows serious all of a sudden, and that only makes Clarke want to kiss her again. Coax another smile. “You must promise not to tell anyone. It’s how we preserve it for future generations.”

Clarke schools her features, pretending to match Lexa’s gravity.

“Well… it’ll cost you. My silence doesn’t come cheap.”

The slight frown Lexa wears smooths out as soon as she catches on. A quizzical eyebrow flexes in a way that’s rudely attractive.

“Name your price, but don’t forget I work in hospitality.”

“I’m not interested in your money, Lexa. What I want” - Clarke trails her hand over Lexa’s hip and the perfect curve of her backside to give it a slow, purposeful squeeze, relishing Lexa’s intake of breath and the darkening of her gaze as she glances at Clarke’s lips - “is you.”

She meant to say “your body” but she doesn’t correct the verbal slip. Because, yeah, she does want to bend Lexa into all kinds of shapes like a pretzel, but she also has a deep desire to learn more about Lexa as a person, to find out what makes her tick, beyond what she likes to do in bed.

Lexa takes it in stride regardless, easing back into the confidence she has in spades.

Something about the slope of her smile signals she’s about to gain the upper hand. 

She shrugs.

“Okay, deal.”

The enduring gleam in Lexa’s eyes before she turns her attention back to the sea gives Clarke palpitations. Her pulse thunders in her ears, drowning out the engine noise and the crash of the boat breaking the waves. 

~*~

They drop anchor a short distance from the shore, an easy swim from the dazzling white sands. Not yet ready to take a dip, preferring to bake in the heat for a while first, Clarke spreads a large beach towel on the deck for sunbathing. She senses Lexa’s attention on her as she shimmies out of her shorts and shucks her loose tee to reveal the red halter neck two-piece that Octavia helped pick out after breakfast. 

(“Hellooo, mama,” Octavia had drawled after Clarke emerged from the en suite and gave a reluctant twirl. She’d let out a low whistle as she ran her eyes up and down. “Almost wish I was tagging along just to watch Sexy Lexy’s head spin 360-degrees before it explodes. The twins ain’t playing.”)

At the time, Clarke had rolled her eyes and fought a blush but she’s glad she went with O’s suggestion.

Aware of her present captive audience, she proceeds to get comfortable on her back. One knee bent, an arm tucked behind her head as a pillow, showing off her best assets like a 1950s calendar pinup girl. Even behind the dark tinted lenses of her sunglasses, she sees Lexa’s eyes hungrily trace the shape of her body. Clarke basks in it, a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, secure in the knowledge that she’s not just a snack, she’s the whole damn meal, and Lexa looks like she wants to devour every last crumb.

But Clarke’s smugness is short-lived, because in the next moment she’s the one left gawking when Lexa wordlessly strips down to the skimpiest pair of bikini bottoms and not a stitch else, brow quirking up as she peers over her shoulder then dives off the deck, slicing through the water with barely a splash.

Clarke quickly levers up onto her elbows to watch Lexa surface seconds later, hair slicked back and plastered to her skull, a sly little tilt to her lips as she treads water.

“Come on in. The temperature is perfect,” she calls out, looking every inch the siren that lures thirsty sapphic sailors to their deaths. 

Clarke tries to cling on to the last vestiges of composure she has remaining.

“Gonna work on my tan for a little bit.”

The pout returns and she laughs, “Soon!”

Grabbing the tube of sunscreen from her nearby tote, she squeezes a large dollop into her palm. While Lexa does slow laps around the boat, Clarke liberally reapplies the lotion, slathering it on until all the exposed skin within reach is covered.

Before long, she hears Lexa climb the ladder onto the swim platform, accompanied by the rush of water cascading off her body as she rises out of the sea.

The soft slap of wet footfalls draws nearer.

“Lex?” Clarke twists around. “Could you do my—”

She stalls mid-sentence, only cognizant of her fingers closing hard around the tube in her hand when a spurt of lotion shoots out, splattering across her thigh and the towel. 

She doesn’t even flinch.

All Clarke can do is gape and stare, watching rivulets of water run down the slope of Lexa’s bare chest. Eyes drawn inexorably to taut nipples and golden skin that glistens under the sun, to the long, lean lines of Lexa and the scrap of luminous orange fabric that sits low on her hips.

Clarke’s belly tightens, arousal flaring hot between her legs.

(A voice in her head that sounds disturbingly like Wells tells her to close her mouth.)

She has to remind herself to breathe. 

Is thankful for the oversized shades that partially mask her expression, because she isn’t in control of what her face is doing right now. But if Lexa’s lip-bitten smile is any indication, it’s a lost cause anyway.

Casually wringing the water out of her hair as she approaches, Lexa glances at the milky white streak on Clarke’s inner thigh. 

“Not the first time I’ve made a girl squirt.”

Clarke mutters a sarcastic “ha ha”, rubs the lotion into her skin, then wipes her hands on the edge of the towel before she reclines again. She fakes nonchalance when Lexa sinks down beside her, but it’s impossible to ignore the butterflies.

She rolls her shoulders and stares at the sky above, fixating on the solitary vapour trail that cuts across the endless blue.

“Speaking of previous liaisons... do you bring all your conquests here?” She’s mostly kidding, but there’s an undercurrent of needing to know too. She peers at Lexa. “Or am I one of the lucky few?”

A slow shake of Lexa’s head before she leans over on her elbow, closing in and partially blocking the sun, and Clarke’s skepticism must be plain to see, because Lexa looks so intensely sincere now, no trace of a smile or any disingenuousness when she says: “It’s the truth, I swear.”

Still, Clarke has her doubts. There’s no way Lexa isn’t tripping over hot women throwing themselves at her feet and this boat trip is too well-orchestrated not to be a tried and tested seduction technique. 

Clarke peels off her shades to look Lexa square in the eye, and that frank, steady gaze pierces straight through her.

“I mean it, Clarke.” 

The space between them shrinks. 

Lexa’s pupils dilate as her focus shifts to parted lips. “You’re special.”

Water drips off the ends of Lexa’s hair onto Clarke’s shoulder and chest, and whatever rebuttal she had dies in her throat. She’s the one to reach out, gripping Lexa by the neck to tug her the rest of the way and kiss her like Clarke’s been dreaming of all morning.

As soon as Lexa throws a long leg over Clarke to straddle her, knees bracketing her hips, she needs no further convincing.

It’s on. 

She dips her tongue inside Lexa’s mouth and slides both hands up Lexa’s rib cage to cup her breasts, a shiver running through Clarke when she feels the hard poke of nipples against her palms. She kneads, and the low, throaty noise it earns her sets her nerves alight, warm tingles suffusing her body.

They kiss deeply, greedily.

They kiss until Clarke has to drag her mouth away to gulp down some air, only to have the oxygen punched out of her lungs once again when Lexa uses the opportunity to shove her bikini bottoms off, scoop her mane of wet hair to one side and resettle against Clarke’s thigh. With her hands planted on either side of Clarke’s shoulders, Lexa holds herself up as she starts to work along the tensed muscle.

The slick, molten feel of Lexa, sliding against her skin, riding Clarke, makes her burn. She lurches up into the next kiss, hungrily reclaiming Lexa’s mouth, urging her on with a grip on her ass, and that shaky little hitch of breath in the back of Lexa’s throat whenever the friction gets her just right succeeds in getting Clarke wetter and wetter too. At this rate, she might come before Lexa does, and the odds only increase when Lexa takes Clarke’s hand and guides it between her legs. 

“Use your fingers.”

Another surge of heat floods through Clarke at the instruction, hearing the normally smooth, modulated tone of Lexa’s voice roughed by need.

Clarke studies Lexa’s face, watching for the tiny flickers of reaction as she runs her fingers lower, fascinated by each and every twitch and jolt and slight gasp as she explores. She dips in and drags the wetness up to swirl around Lexa’s clit and is rewarded by the sharp jerk of Lexa’s hips and quite possibly the dirtiest kiss of Clarke’s entire life. She needs no prompting to slide through slick heat to tease at Lexa’s entrance again, fingertips doing a couple of slow swirls before she pauses. 

For a beat they remain suspended in a freeze frame of anticipation. Each holding still, a breath caught in their throats. 

On the exhale Clarke pushes inside.

And fuck, she missed this. Touching yourself is great and all, empowering, fantastic for stress relief, et cetera. But nothing beats the sound another woman makes when you enter her for the first time, when you hear that shaky intake of breath and you feel her clench around your fingers.

“Good?” Clarke asks. 

Lexa nods, bottom lip held between her teeth as she looks down at Clarke with hooded eyes, the green of her irises nearly eclipsed by black.

Part of Clarke can’t quite believe this is her reality. That she’s buried to the knuckles and Lexa is moving on her, rolling to meet the steady pump of her wrist. 

She glances between their bodies and a groan escapes, another sharp twist of lust coiling in the pit of her stomach once her eyes fasten on her own two fingers coated with Lexa’s arousal, fucking into her. But Clarke pries her eyes away, roving over tight abdominals, taking in the curves of Lexa’s tits and the jut of her nipples, torn between wanting them in her mouth and watching her fingers disappear inside again.

It’s Lexa’s half-stifled whimper when Clarke’s thumb finds her clit that sharpens her focus. 

Winding her arm around Lexa’s lower back, Clarke sits them upright and swiftly brings their lips together. The abrupt change of angle has Lexa gasping hotly into her mouth. Again, louder, when Clarke’s palm rubs in. Lexa grips her by the shoulder and the back of her neck, blunt nails digging in as Lexa grinds down harder, faster, speeding towards the climax—the first of many, if Clarke has her way—sucking in short, sharp gasps while Clarke keeps pace, despite it being hell on her wrist.

They’re hardly kissing at all now, mouths hanging slack and sharing the same air, noses pressing into cheeks as they pant against one another’s lips.

She soon feels the first flutters, the growing tension in Lexa’s form, the choppy motion of Lexa’s hips and the careless scratch of her nails at Clarke’s nape. She curls the tips of her fingers on each partial drag out then slams back in, lifting Lexa an inch off her lap with each thrust. Clarke keeps the heel of her palm tight against Lexa’s clit, the pressure firm and constant, and in the next collection of halting, rapid breaths, Lexa’s whole frame pulls taut. A ragged cry is torn from her throat and she clenches hard, coming in a hot spill around Clarke’s fingers. Lexa shudders through it, a tremble in her jaw when she catches Clarke’s mouth in a fierce, bruising kiss, licking into her with a groan that makes Clarke gush in turn.

They remain in a heavy lip lock long after the tremors subside, neither inclined to separate. Restless hands weave through Clarke’s hair then seek out her curves, roaming down her chest with purpose, pushing under the top half of her swimsuit. She gives a low hum of approval when Lexa’s thumbs roll over the tight tips of her nipples, the ache mirrored in the dull, pulsing emptiness between her legs.

She feels close to orgasm already, like if she got even the tiniest bit of friction she’d go off like a rocket. Just a small shift of her hand to grind against her own knuckles would do it. But the way Lexa is touching her breasts, palms running all over, teasing her nipples into stiff, hypersensitive points, might be enough to get Clarke there.

And all the while, she’s still inside Lexa. Fucking her lazily with slow presses of her fingers, incapable of much more vigour when her wrist is screaming. She’s debating what to do next, whether to withdraw and flip Lexa onto her back for round two or continue like this, when a distant droning noise intrudes, faintly audible above the gentle lap of water, the thick, wet squelch of Clarke’s hand working between Lexa’s thighs, and their combined heavy breathing.

Growing more distracted by the second, Clarke draws her mouth away. She squints at the horizon beneath the shade of her free hand while warm lips meander along her jaw and down her neck.

She ceases her movements, despite Lexa’s meaningful buck of her hips and the subsequent small growl of complaint when Clarke fails to take the hint.

“What’s—” Teeth nip at the fading hickey on her throat and she gasps, hand flying to tangle in Lexa’s damp, curling hair. But as the object begins to resolve itself, Clarke tenses for a different reason. “Is that a boat?”

Lexa abandons her sulk to look too.

A white shape is rapidly approaching, throwing up sea spray, sunlight glinting off the surface and the waves and making it difficult to discern from this distance until… oh. Oh, yeah.

Letting out a string of (presumably) expletives in her native tongue, Lexa scrambles off Clarke to scoop up the clothes strewn across the deck. She pulls on her tank top, yanks the shorts up her legs, and has just enough time to arrange herself into a casual pose beside Clarke before the other boat reaches them. The occupants are obnoxiously young; late teens or early twenties, as far as Clarke can tell from a distance; a bunch of bikini-clad girls and lanky guys in board shorts hanging off one another as music blasts.

She sighs inwardly. Grits her teeth and refrains from giving them the middle finger while they whoop and cheer in passing, beer bottles held aloft as they thunder towards the wooden jetty.

So much for the sexy beach idyll. Clearly, not everyone has such reverence for the tranquility of this spot.

“Shall we stay a while or…?” Clarke hedges. 

Lexa purses her lips and casts her stormy gaze around, jaw working side to side in rotation, but a gentle touch on her leg pulls her focus back to Clarke. 

Consternation softens into regret.

“You didn’t even get a chance to swim or feel the sand between your toes.”

“I’ll cope. Besides…” Clarke wets her lips and drops into a huskier register. “It wasn’t a total bust.”

Lexa’s mouth twitches, clearly fighting a smile, and to Clarke that’s a win.

“Come on, don’t let these pesky teens ruin our hot date,” she continues in a playful tone. “I bet you have a few aces up your sleeve; other favourite haunts to wow the ladies with.”

One shoulder lifts in a slight shrug. “We do have the boat for the rest of the day. I could take you somewhere else. For lunch, if you’re hungry yet?”

Clarke gives a noncommittal hum, lightly trailing her wet fingers along the soft skin of Lexa’s inner thigh. “I could eat.”

The suggestive undertone isn’t lost in translation. Their eyes meet and Clarke dares to make it explicit.

“But lunch wasn’t what I had in mind… unless we’re counting pussy as a food group.”

Lexa loses the battle against keeping her smile under control. The tips of her ears are tinged pink. “Are Americans always so forward?”

“Um, I don’t recall any shyness on your part two nights ago.”

Dainty little ears burn brightly while Lexa’s smile grows, becoming toothier, and Clarke just wants to smooch that perfect face all day long.

“Anyway, I prefer the term ‘go-getter.’ As in, I see someone I want and I go get her.”

A pained groan. “I should leave you stranded on the beach for that.”

“Hey!” Clarke swats at Lexa’s knee in retaliation, but Lexa catches her hand, holding it captive. Clarke sniffs for dramatic effect. “I was going to let you strip me out of this bathing suit later, but now I’m strongly reconsidering.”

“If it helps sway your decision, I’d definitely appreciate seeing you naked again.”

“And how would you show your gratitude?”

“Mm. At least three times, and maybe twice more with the strap if you’re into toys.”

God.

“Okay. Alright. Well, lucky for you, I’m kind of dying for you to fuck me so I guess that clinches it.”

It’s about as far from playing it cool as could be, but Clarke doesn’t care. The truth is she’s soaked, aching for relief, and she isn’t picky about whichever method Lexa might use to get her off, as long as it happens soon.

Eyes flashing dark, Lexa cups a hand behind Clarke’s neck and pulls her mouth to hers. Clarke reacts without thought, already opening up to accept the slide of Lexa’s tongue before her brain catches up and she remembers they’re not alone.

Cracking an eye open, she’s relieved to see nobody on the other boat appears to be paying them any attention. She attempts to evade the next kiss, only for Lexa to pursue it more doggedly, and that makes Clarke smile even as she lays a palm on Lexa’s chest to gently hold off her advance. The mini pout on Lexa’s face when they pull apart is a treat, and Clarke can’t conceal her enjoyment of it. Unable to resist the lure, she steals one final peck. 

For a few indulgent seconds, she luxuriates in the softness of Lexa’s full bottom lip, until it dawns on her that an hour-long return journey stands between them and more orgasms, and she sighs. 

“Why isn’t teleportation a real thing yet? Having to wait a full 60 minutes to get you under me is so unfair.”

Slowly, with the greatest delicacy and patience, Lexa brushes their noses together, one side then the other, nudging the tip before she withdraws. Despite the sun beating down on her back, it gives Clarke chills, shivers running down her neck and arms. For the duration she just holds still and melts while her stomach flips, and the butterflies that had lain dormant return in full force. 

When she opens her eyes, she’s greeted by the slight, sloping smile on Lexa’s lips and her stomach does another somersault.

“I’m starting to think you’re only interested in me for sex,” Lexa says lightly.

Clarke lets out a small scoff. “You’re the one with a one-track mind. I was minding my own business, soaking up the rays, until you pounced.”

“Can you blame me?” 

Lexa’s heated stare roves over several inches of cleavage before she forcibly drags her eyes back up. 

“Actually… I have a confession to make.” She draws that plush bottom lip, still slightly swollen and red from kissing, between her teeth. “I dropped a tray of drinks at work yesterday because I had a flashback to you sitting on my face. Anya yelled at me and I didn’t even give a fuck that she deducted it from my tips.”

Heat rises in Clarke’s cheeks, triggered by her own vivid recollection of events. She won’t forget it in a hurry and she’s flattered to hear it was just as memorable for Lexa too. But also, it feels like a point of pride that she made Lexa’s cool girl veneer slip, even if she wasn’t there to witness it in person.  

“Now I feel partly responsible for this tragic loss of earnings and broken glassware.”

“I said you were trouble.”

They inch closer, eyes glued to lips, their breath hot on one another’s faces.

“How can I make it up to you?” Clarke asks.

“I have some ideas.”

Her mind can’t help going to the aforementioned strap.

All smiles, they surrender to the magnetic pull. The world around them recedes. There’s only Lexa’s mouth on hers, soft yet urgent, and the tingles that erupt all over, Clarke’s pulse accelerating when long fingers thread into her hair again.

And it’s sublime. 

Close to perfection.

She can almost hear the swell of imaginary violins soundtracking the moment—until a smattering of shrill wolf whistles pierces through the bliss. 

The kiss breaks on a huff of shared, quiet laughter. Clarke’s eyes slide across to the jetty, where they’re being enthusiastically toasted by their neighbours. She groans and drops her forehead to Lexa’s shoulder, breathing in the saltwater, sun-warmed scent of her before showing her face again.

“I believe that’s our cue to leave,” Clarke says.

The long, lidded look Lexa favours her with, eyes shaded darker by desire and the hint of some deeper emotion that feels altogether too big, too soon to acknowledge, has Clarke battling the urge to launch herself at Lexa’s lips again, regardless of the unwanted spectators nearby.

“Keep that up, Lex, and they might really have something to holler about—and possibly livestream on the internet.”

A faint smile reappears. “What am I doing, Clarke?”

“Looking. Giving me those” - she gestures vaguely - “eyes.”

It loosens a small laugh. Lexa lowers her gaze and Clarke regrets mentioning it now, because it feels like the sun momentarily disappearing behind the clouds when Lexa’s thrilling, singular focus isn’t on her.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” 

Lexa looks up, and the restored eye contact makes Clarke’s blood pump faster.

She lets out the breath she was holding. “Maybe I like it more than I should, considering.”

“Considering…?”

“I won’t be here next week.”

Pragmatic; matter-of-fact. A reality check and a casual reminder they both need to hear before they throw themselves headlong into… whatever this thing is between them: it has an expiration date.

In the lull, Lexa scans every millimetre of Clarke’s face and she hopes the nerves don’t show through the front she’s putting on.

After a moment, the corner of Lexa’s mouth lifts into a smirk, but it seems slightly forced. Her eyes are more pebbly, neutral grey than green. “Then let’s make sure you have good memories to take home with you.”

[bobfloydsbabe]

yours | eccentric professor!bob floyd x oc

a gold rush fic

SUMMARY: Professor Bob is working on his next book when Imogen comes home and suggests they try something new.

WARNINGS: academia au, age gap (mid 20s/late 30s), power imbalance, SMUT, cockwarming, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, possessive bob, discussion of birth control and protection, intimacy, and a little fluff. strictly 18+/minors dni.

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

PROFESSOR BOB MASTERLIST

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SPECIAL THANKS to @up-thereinthesky for the Lew pic and to @attapullman who sent in this delicious ask that set my horny little brain on fire. What was supposed to be a short blurb took on a life of its own, so here we are. Thank you for loving Bob and Imogen as much as I do. Enjoy ✨

He’s sitting at his desk, staring at the blank document on his laptop, when he hears the front door open and close.

He smiles to himself as her stomping footsteps get closer. She’d never survive as a spy with those heavy footfalls.

“Hey,” she says when she appears in the doorway to his office. “You still at it?”

He hums, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Getting nowhere.” 

“Maybe you should take a break,” she suggests and crosses the room, placing her ass right in his lap.

“Perhaps I should,” he agrees and presses his lips to her shoulder. “How was lunch with your parents?”

She scoffs. “A disaster,” she mutters, snaking her arms around his neck, and presses her forehead against his temple. “I don’t know why I expected it to go well. It never does.”

He squeezes her waist, turning his head so their lips can meet. It starts off slow and sweet, a little lazy, just kissing because they can. He’s so lost in her, he barely notices when his cock hardens.

She grins into their kiss. “Someone’s excited to see me,” she mumbles against his lips.

“Just ignore it and kiss me.”

He means it. He doesn’t want to start something when she’s just come home from a bad meeting and he’s supposed to be working on his next book.

She does as he says and keeps kissing him, but after a minute, she pulls away. He sees her eyes dart down to his growing erection.

She looks almost shy when her eyes meet his again. “Do you want me to keep you warm?”

He gapes a little. “Are you asking if you can cockw–”

“Cockwarm you, yes,” she finishes for him, and he detects no hint of joking in her tone.

“Baby,” he whispers, placing his palm against the back of her head. “I’d never ask you to do something you’re uncomfortable with.”

She frowns, lips pursed in an adorable pout. “I’m not uncomfortable,” she insists. “I want to.”

“I don’t have a condom.”

She shakes her head. “We don’t need one.” He opens his mouth to argue, but she beats him to it. “I have an IUD, and you’re the only person I’ve been with.”

“Baby, are you sure?” He’s stroking her hair even as she nods.

“Okay,” he agrees and kisses her lips.

She slides off his lap. He rids himself of his joggers and boxers, and strokes his cock to full hardness while Imogen slips her black panties off. She tosses them aside and they land on his laptop keyboard.

As she climbs back in his lap, a sudden thought strikes him. “I don’t have lube either,” he says, trying not to sound disappointed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Smirking, she reaches for his free hand and guides it to her pussy. “Not a problem, Professor.”

She’s already soaking for him.

He holds back a groan as he runs his fingers up and down her folds a few times. He pulls back, looks into her dark doe eyes, and sees love reflected back at him.

He loves her. She loves him.

“You ready?” The hand that isn’t holding on to the base of his cock snakes around her body and rests on her ass.

She nods. “I’m ready.”

She rises to her knees, and he guides his cock to her entrance. They moan into each other’s mouths as his tip slips inside, but then she hisses and Bob’s eyes shoot open.

“You okay?”

"Yeah," she assures him, but her face contorts into a tight grimace. “You’re big.”

He smiles, a breathy chuckle escaping as he leans forward, brushing his lips against her cheek. “I know, baby,” he mutters. “Take your time.”

She nods, biting her lip as she sinks further down on his cock. “Mmm, feel so full.”

“I know,” he repeats. “You’re taking me so well, keeping me nice and warm.”

Stifling a moan, she tightens her grip on his hair. “Keep talking,” she whispers.

“So good for me,” he mumbles, groaning as she slides even further down his cock. “So fucking tight, so warm.” She’s whimpering now. “Almost there, baby. You can do it. My good girl.”

Then their hips come flush with each other, and he’s seated all the way inside her. 

Even though she said it was fine, he can tell she’s feeling the stretch. Bob always makes sure to prep her to take him, and often they don’t need lube, but right now he sure wishes they had. He doesn’t like the face she’s pulling.

Leaning forward, he kisses her lips gently. “You did so good, baby,” he assures her.

It’s quiet when the tension leaves her body, and she sighs deeply into his mouth. His fingertips run up and down her spine, and she shudders at the sensation.

They stay like that, foreheads pressed together. Skin to skin in the most intimate way possible, pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly together.

“How was lunch with your parents?”

She jerks back, a deep dent between her brows. “You really want to talk about my parents while you’re inside me?”

He can’t help the chuckle that passes his lips. “I never want to talk about your parents,” he explains. “But you came home from lunch upset.”

She sighs, rests her head in the crook of his neck. “They asked me to break up with you.”

He hums, not surprised in the least. After almost a year of being together, you would think her parents would give up and just accept it, but they haven’t. Bob knows they likely never will.

“Hey,” he mutters, making her raise her head to meet his eyes. “I love you. You know that, right?”

Unexpectedly, or perhaps not entirely, she clenches around him. “Fuck, baby,” he groans into her neck. “Don’t do that or this won’t be cockwarming anymore.”

“Maybe it was an excuse to get you inside me,” she says, her tone sounding a little too innocent. She leans down and her lips graze against his ear. “Maybe I just wanted your cock.”

He lifts his head as his hands travel down her spine. “Oh, yeah?”

She nods, biting her bottom lip with her doe-like eyes wide and innocent, as if she isn’t greedy for him, and he’s sure she’ll be the death of him.

Grasping her ass, he plants his feet solidly on the ground and thrusts up into her. He revels in the sound that escapes her, gasp turning into a breathy moan as her fingers scrape across his scalp.

“Do it again,” she whines, eyes closed in pleasure and pussy holding him in a vice grip. “Fuck me, Professor. Make me yours.”

“Open your eyes,” he demands. “Look at me.”

She does, pupils wide with desire and desperation, a delicious flush rapidly spreading across her cheeks and down the column of her throat.

“You are mine,” he growls, punctuating the statement with another deep thrust. “All mine.”

likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are golden

TAGLIST: @attapullman, @bobgasm, @joaquinwhorres, @kmc1989, @bcarolinablr, @cremebruleequeen, @xoxabs88xox, @auroraseddie, @roosterforme, @bluezraven, @sio-ina-bottle, @bradshawsbaby, @sweetwhispersofchaos, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @keyrani, @cherrycola27, @just-in-case-iloveyou, @seitmai, @solo-pitstop-vibes, @millieb-3199, @hangmandruigandmav, @sebsxphia

[peanutbutterwafer]

May or may not have fucked around and made a kid detective au, where its 5 years after tender treats and its up to skid and pump to get to the bottom of the whole cult situation. Bob is still alive, being a fucked up fella as usual, and Frank is an irresponsible uncle that will fund their endeavors and help put pieces together. The hatzgang and spooky gang at this point are on good terms and the hatzgang helps a little bit

[writtenbyjeanofarc]

Kira’s Way.

Thinking of an AU where Kira wins and finally employs underlings into his ever-growing business of private investigators and detectives out to track criminal activity all over Japan. After putting an end to the lives of officers and literally anyone who dared oppose his rule, he saw potential in you after proving yourself worthy of working under him. However, there are plenty of consequences of becoming Kira’s favorite.

You were promised a life of luxury and security considering you were in safe hands. After all, you were deemed special in the eyes of an infamous, yet feared figure in all of Japan — someone capable of killing whoever was deemed a threat to his sense of right and wrong. Ever since Light Yagami admitted to becoming Kira, the warmth and affection he expressed back in the day were now rendered nonexistent. “He used to be so innocent,” you thought, stealing a glance off of his figure who was working on his desk.

The man didn’t even come from an abusive or troublesome childhood. In fact, he was raised as a typical, yet idealistic son with a bright future. A soft, heavenly figure he was. Being from a middle-class household who lived harmoniously was quite an understatement to describe his life.

Often perceived as a genius in his own right, you admired him from the outside and looked up to him. Up until you were looking up at him…..literally.

Although he was admittingly friendly and reassuring towards the new employees, it was only you who saw a darker version of him — one you can’t escape despite your attempts to break free from his touch. What you saw was no longer the Light Yagami you knew whenever he was in……that kind of mood. No, he wasn’t pissed off, and he surely wasn’t angry at you. Honestly, it was the opposite.

What you saw was a predatory gaze looming over you, one that fell short of a reputable, charismatic leader. He was no longer the family’s treasured son who happened to be a role model of any kind, but someone with dangerous intentions. Someone who had other…..motives for you. Though he tried to repress his desires to take control for months, his red, glowing eyes never lied.

The next thing you knew, Kira grabbed a fistful of your hair’s roots, slowly pushing your head down as it sank into him inch by inch. All he could rejoice about in that moment was face-fucking you in all angles as you could only look up at him. He wasn’t even doing this to please you, but rather, to please only himself. In fact, he’s grown far too self-absorbed to think of pleasing you.

Your tongue rested on the surface of his throbbing length as the friction decreased, making your head bob up and down in a sloppier fashion. You thought the idea was disgusting, humiliating, even. But doing the deed itself made you feel something different, an urge of wanting to serve a higher power hit you right as you were fucked in the mouth. And this wasn’t the first time you experienced this. You were always the type to reject Kira’s advances, but this newfound feeling always crept up onto your mind.

And in that office was where you let your intrusive thoughts win.

Kira groaned in pleasure out of you milking the fuck out of him, his cock growing more needy as the clock ticked. All he wanted was to have you desperate for his attention, and what was better than hosting an under-the-desk service for you.

“There, there,” he chuckled condescendingly. “Suck me off like your life depends on it. Nice and slow.”

Trying not to release a sputtering gag, you complied with his demands.

Who knew getting a raise meant having to please your superior in office? Or better yet, having to please God?

[lalunanymph]

Riding on the nanami brainrot!!!! dawn as a bewitched!au enthusiast, it had me thinking about retired army general!nanami and a geisha!reader 🫶 what if after leaving the gojo clan, he settled down and became reader’s patron and they lived happily ever after 🥰

- 🍎

i couldnt get this idea out of my mind and had to write something for it grrr thank you sm apple nonnie ily and your beautiful brain

tw for love making and suggestive themes

The ex-general of the great Gojo clan should be a man who was intimidated by many.

For truly, his countenance, stoic mien, and even the shock of fair hair on his head (so unnaturally light and a contrast to every common passerby on the street) would’ve marked him as a man who would not be into foolhardy pursuits.

But, in your months of living under his roof, you had come to find that General Nanami Kento was indeed an incredibly kind man.

“What are you doing?” 

Kento had awoken from his slumber, padding into the kitchen to find you standing by the stove, hair still in a disarray. A light scruff shadowed his chin, and his face was pinched with fatigue.

In answer, you tightened your silk sash, a teasing grin pulling on your face. “About to surprise you, of course.” 

The general is not a man to be trifled with. Hence, when he tilted his head to the side, unsure of what your coy entendre was supposed to mean, you were slightly terrified of his rejection.

What would he say to your next plan? Would he ridicule you and find it foolish? 

“Surprise?” His rough, low voice involuntarily sent shivers down your spine. “What kind of surprise?” 

The general does not like to be blindsided. Your answer was meek, almost like a girl who was about to be berated by her superior.

“I wanted to… I wanted to dance for you, Kento-san.” 

Now, his attention was piqued. Nanami’s back went ramrod straight, those dark eyes widening infinitesimally. “Dance for me? Why ever for?” 

He did not sound disappointed or peeved. Instead, you detected a note of curiosity in his genuine question—the first stirrings of a man who had never been indulged in such finery.

You had to hide a smirk behind your fall of hair. Only General Nanami—a man who brought an infamous geisha under his wing—would be taken aback by her natural want to charm and appease him. 

Your smile was partly patient, partly abashed. “Because,” you started, and walked over to him slowly. Nanami did not cringe back or let himself be bowed over by your sudden proximity; keeping his reactions fastened to his chest. “I want to do it.” 

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. You could see the ripping flow of emotions erupting across his handsome features; a thread of desire overshadowed by his strict samurai stolidity.

“You do not have to do this.” His voice was soft, cottoned with gentleness. Giving you a route of escape should your mortification catch up with common sense. 

You shook your head. “Please, Nanami-san. Let me do this for you. I wanted to show you some lessons I remembered.” 

It had been a considerable amount of time since you last put on a Natsu wa Hotaru for men. Your nerves were getting the best of you, but you strapped on your armour of gratitude towards this man who had housed, fed and clothed you with little to no expectation of any returning sentiments. Why General Nanami had chosen you—perhaps you may never know. But, you had learned to never question providence whenever it fell into your lap like a sleepy, curling kitten. 

Kento was in no obligation to give into your whims, but he eased himself into a cross-legged position onto the tatami floors, the split in front of his striped blue yukata showing off a web of whitened scars. 

You didn’t have any music to accompany you, but Mama-san always did say you had a beautiful humming voice. 

Graciously picking up the uchiwa fan—one of the only items you had taken from your old life in the okiya into your new one as part of his household—you held it above your head, warming up with a low hum. 

Your arm arched overhead, easing in front of your body with a slowed, graceful swoop. You recounted the steps perforated deep into your subconscious from Mama-san’s rigid lessons—spinning on your heel, lifting your head and eyes to the sun to give thanks for the summer. All the while, your voice never broke or petered off, rich and warm like the rays streaming through the paper thin shoji windows. 

Nanami did not move nor you suspected, breathed. He was hewed of stone, fists clenched atop of his lap. The only sign of movement were his eyes, steadily following every motion of your body. Men would often compliment how you moved like water—Mizu no Megami—they called you. 

The water goddess.

There was a fluidity to your motions which would put rainfall to shame, and Nanami was starting to believe why his comrades used to say geishas were the spirits of grace put right onto this earth. 

From the arch of your back, to the curve of your arms in midair, spinning the fan in your lithe fingers like you were one with its fluttering disposition, made him firmly believe you were an otherworldly being. 

And your voice… it never faltered. A sweet, rich octave which brought goosebumps to his skin.

All too soon, your performance ended. You were bright-eyed and warm in your cheeks, waiting for him to thaw, frozen in your ending position of knees bent, arms curved close to your waist. 

Instead of applauding, like rowdy men were wont to do, Nanami slowly got to his feet. 

He approached you, careful not to scare you with too quick of a movement, and soft as down, his large, scarred palms cupped your face. 

You were petrified, not with fear, but with baited desire. He stroked your cheeks, rough pads of his thumbs soothing on your far softer skin, and there was a look you knew all too well on his dear face. They reminded you of watching your onee-sans stagger back into the okiya, drunk and whispering that they would kill you if you told Mama-san of their evening whereabouts. Not much of where they had been, but who they were with.

Older men. Soldiers. Politicians.

Everyone of them wore a secret, satisfied smile like they were sated from a huge meal after starving for decades. Now, years later when you were free from the constrictions of tight obis and etiquette, you could see desire plainly in the open air—finally free to indulge in it.

His lips touched yours in the softest of caresses, and you didn’t fight him off when he swept you into the seam of his embrace. Your body fell against his—like two pieces of Go flushed together, slotting perfectly in each other’s spaces, finding a clear path towards a release of intensity which brimmed and brimmed; eventually bubbling over.

Nanami removed your obi, pulling down your simple, sakura-patterned sobe panels, revealing the tender rise of your shoulders to his touch. He kissed a pathway down your neck, marking his territory right on your collarbones; bold enough to touch his tongue to your pulse point.

Your soft gasp thrilled through the morning air, drops of unfettered desire clinging between both of your bodies like a film of sweat. 

“Tell me to stop,” Kento’s gruff voice breached through the fog in your mind, drawing you down into deeper depths of rapture. “Tell me to stop whenever you want me to.” 

“I do not,” you replied back, heavy in breath and intention when you softly rested your palms on his scarred chest. Without a lingering second for him to chart your intentions and misconstrue them, you unwound his own yukata sash, feeling more of his rough, pale skin under your wandering touch. “I want you, Kento. I want you, it burns.” 

That was enough for Nanami to discard years of training to tame his emotions. The beast within was roaring to claim you, his blood singing like it would whenever he was about to rush into a battlefield. But, this time, it wasn’t severed limbs or broken bones awaiting him, but the terrains of your body drawing him to unleash his brute desire. 

Nanami was brash when he lifted you up, your feet dangling in midair, only to be swept into the crevice of his arms. He brought you to the bedroom with barely any effort exerted, not a droplet of sweat rolling down his sharp cheekbones and sunken temples. 

Gently this time, he laid you on the futon, covering your entire body with his bigger build. You had never noticed how starkly a man towered over you, until you were in this position to look up at him. Wonder stained your sighs, those wide eyes gleaming with a girl-like innocence charming as it tugged on his soul. 

Kento felt a warmth unlike any other he had ever encountered in his arduous life; like a thousand bees were swarming in his chest, warming up the cavities of his austere ribcage housing his equally stony heart. 

His large hands swept down your shoulders, parting your kimono further apart, until the panels were splayed around your naked body. Those dark eyes appraised the crease in between your thighs, memorising them like it was his next terrain to conquer. 

Nanami was never a man who gave into the screamings of flesh, but in this instance, he felt like his veins were sparked with gunpowder—igniting from the base of his spine to the tips of his toes. 

“You are beautiful.”

That lavish praise tumbled freely from his parted mouth, burying itself underneath your blooming affections. 

However, his next words sent you reeling, like a bare branch tumbling in a storm, when he uttered: 

“I want to ruin you.”

His lips descended back onto yours, kissing with an ardour that would’ve frightened a more modest woman. Modesty—thankfully—was not part of your script, and you returned his kiss with an equal zeal that many men would find loose and unbecoming. 

From the ends of your hair to the crest of your toes, your body pulsed with an unbridled heat for him. You were soaked in between your thighs. 

Such simple kisses were making you unravel, unlike a tapestry whose loose thread had the power to undo the striking masterpiece. You were crumbling for Kento, relenting to his relentless passion. 

The taste of sleep and his skin was strong with every curl of his tongue on yours. Something hard and foreign was poking your thigh, and Kento’s strong hips undulated, his mind losing control of his body.

“Fuck,” he swore lowly, eyeing the lines between both of your bodies with a gleam in those dark, unfathomable eyes. 

You cupped his face to yours, admiring every instance of those beautiful features with their scars and faint wrinkles. A part of you wondered—as he shoved his yukata off to one side of the room—if your children would have his blonde hair. 

Nanami’s cock was imposing and resting on your thigh. His kisses were unhurried now, and they were traversing lower and lower down your body. He nipped your collarbones. Kissed your jaw and scraped his teeth on your pulse point. That same mouth roamed in between your breasts, finding the peaks of your stiff nipples and sucking on them tenderly, mouthing on them like he was attempting to extract some deeper essence from your willing body. 

Your breathing hitched when he dared to roam lower—right towards the apex of your body where your lust was undeniable. 

Kento gently parted your thighs, resting deeper in between the promised crease. His mouth touched your pelvis first, sending what felt like hot flashes up your spine. And the moment you felt his mouth on your tender parts, you were sure you moaned loud enough to wake up the old teamaker next door. 

“Kento,” you gasped, disregarding all of your etiquette training to succumb to the lust like you were no better than the harlots walking down cobblestone pavements at night. “Oh! Oh…” 

His tongue was working you into a frenzy, and those thick fingers ran through the seam of your sticky heat, parting your folds to get to the heart of your desire. One thick, calloused finger rubbed firm circles on your sensitive nub, eliciting a tremble in your thighs you had only experienced when standing for too long on a hot day. 

“Kento,” you gasped out, almost purring his name like a wanton whore. “Oh—I-I’m—” you broke off, unable to speak past the pleasure knotting underneath your sternum, making you stutter and choke. Your eyes watered, tears dripping down your cheeks; smeared by loving kisses from the man above you who watched your fall with pure rapture. 

How your brows knitted together, how your mouth fell open, a scream rebounding across the room…

“Shit,” Kento cursed, unable to help himself from driving his hips deeper and deeper into your body. “Shit, shit, shit—I’m—”

His stuttered moan was heralded by a well of warmth filling you up. The ecstasy of belonging to Kento; of feeling him melt into your walls, was the sweetest sin unlike any other. You lived for his flushed cheeks, his feral snarl, his handsome face contorting like it was in pain…

He slumped atop of you, pushing you further into the futon until your chest was smothered from the full weight of him. But, deprivation of air was not your main concern, not when Kento was kissing down your forehead, cheeks and jaw like you were a precious jewel he had just found out was real. 

Your giggle was a sweet sublime balm for his soul, and he smiled like the first warm rays of a summer morning. 

A tenderness unlike any other rooted itself in your soul, and for the first time, you figured out why men would go to war for love; why women sacrificed parts of their souls and bodies for a mere sliver of hope that their love would bloom eternally. 

Your eyes were open, and your heart welcomed every drop of his presence. 

Kento brushed the back of his knuckles down your cheek, expression softening when you began to grin.

“I did not hurt you?” 

Soft as down, you pressed his knuckles to your lips, kissing them softly. “No.”

The stoic samurai tried his best to hide how pathetically his heart raced at your tiny gesture, but his growing smile told the full truth, slowly coming to light like the indentations of a secret message upon paper being shaded in with charcoal. 

“We should be getting up for breakfast.” Ever the worrier, Kento was concerned about your lack of nutrition; if you were already starving and he had overtaxed you. 

But, your returning grin was part deific and part exasperation for the older man before you; filled with a gentleness your scarred and scared heart had never felt in her lifetime.

“We should,” you hummed in agreement. Neither of you made a move to leave each other’s embrace, and the morning sun continued speckling dancing shadows of waving sakura branches against the shoji windows.

©️ LALUNANYMPH

[reallypleasanttree]

@strarri After reading chapter 10 of Kimetsu Academy I was inspired.

Obamitsu-Kimetsu Academy AU 🐍🩷🍡

It started with a snake scarf and an embroidered pair of socks. Mitsuri always gave Obanai gifts, but over time they started exchanging gifts on nearly every date. They ranged from sweets to bitter drinks to plushies and more. 

Mitsuri sipped on her bubble tea enjoying the brown sugar boba as she thought about what she could give Obanai next. She had been so busy with graduation coming up that she didn’t have time to see him. He was supposed to come to her graduation with her family. It’d only be the second time they met him, but they seemed to get along. 

Mitsuri frowned thinking about the last time she saw him. They went to the strip mall for drinks and a movie. It was a drama film about a boy raised in the woods by a boar. However the mama boar died at the end and the boy was left alone. Mitsuri ended up crying and Obanai passed her his handkerchief with her cat drawing. 

They left the theater holding hands and then venturing in and out of all the stores. Cooking, accessory, jewelry, pet, and plant shops. Kaburamaru enjoyed the pet shop the most and bobbed his head up and down excitedly when he saw another white rat snake. After Mitsuri saw that she forgot about the sad ending. Obanai smiled at the white snake and Mitsuri. He wasn’t a man of many words, but his eyes were expressive enough. 

Hmmm…Mitsuri chewed on her straw. On that date Obanai bought her succulent plant after she said she liked them. Though when she said she liked them she had been looking at a necklace with a succulent at the jewelry store. She flushed at the memory. The necklace was way too expensive and when she saw the price tag she pulled Obanai out of the shop. He’d never given her jewelry before.

Should she give him a plant in return? She wrinkled her nose and kicked her feet in the chair. No. He wasn’t the type to like plants. What else had he mentioned recently needing? Or did Kaburamaru need something? 

Obanai said his first lab coat was getting frayed on the cuffs. Maybe she could mend them. She could add black and stripes! Or maybe a snake pattern! She giggled at the idea. Obanai normally wore his cuffs over his hands. He’d be so cute with new ones. How would she be able to get his lab coat without raising suspicion? Maybe she could invite him over directly after work or ask his students to help… the ones who delivered her letter. 

Mitsuri tapped her temple. Tanjiro and Zenitsu loved Obanai. Of course they would be willing to help. 

———-

Zenitsu glanced at the chemistry lab door. Miss Kanroji asked him and Tanjiro to get Mr. Iguro’s lab coat. She said she wanted to mend it without him knowing it as a gift. The blonde knew Obanai and Mitsuri loved each other and at heart he was a hopeless romantic. 

Inosuke was supposed to make a distraction that would cause Mr. Iguro to leave the classroom. There was a screech and the clash of glass. Then Inosuke ran down the hallway with feral gremlin energy. The chemistry teacher opened the door as Zenitsu turned to hug the lockers. Tanjiro would run interference if Zenitsu couldn’t find the lab coat. 

“Get back here, Hashibira!” Mr. Iguro charged past Zenitsu without seeing him. Zenitsu crept to the door trying not to make any sound. He closed the door behind him and started looking through the desk drawers. The first drawer had office supplies, the second drawer had his lunch box and a post-it note with a heart on it(Mitsuri must have given it to him), and the third drawer had treats for the snake. 

Zenitsu glanced at the door and his heart raced. He heard Inosuke screaming still and the chemistry teacher chasing him. Sweat poured down his forehead. He was not made for covert missions like this. Except he was the one with the best hearing, which made it easier for him to detect someone coming back. He spun around to the file cabinet and pulled open every drawer. At least he could be grateful for how organized the teacher was. Everything had a place and-

His brown eyes widened as he noticed a small velvet box with a silver clasp on the front. Was that what he thought it was? Because if it was then Miss Kanroji’s gift would pale in comparison. He reached to the box despite his better instincts telling him to keep searching for the old lab coat. The anxious student opened the clasp and it was indeed what he assumed. He gasped and hurriedly put it back where he found it. 

“Lab coat,” Zenitsu muttered to himself and continued searching until he found the old lab coat in the bottom drawer of the second cabinet he searched. Tanjiro was approaching with the chemistry teacher. 

“I don’t want to buy any trinkets for a fundraiser, Mr. Kamado,” the black haired man bristled. 

“But I need to raise more money so Nezuko can go to Kyoto with her classmates,” Tanjiro continued. Zenitsu stuffed the lab coat under his uniform’s sweater and edged towards the door. He could slip by if Mr. Iguro had his back turned. The student chanced a glance out the small window on the door. The teacher had his back turned to the door and Tanjiro spoke louder as Zenitsu gave him a thumbs up. 

“Think of my little sister,” the boy repeated, but the teacher shook his head. Zenitsu glued himself to the wall and exited the classroom. 

“I don’t have any money left to give away. I just bought something for-” Mr. Iguro paused and began turning his head towards Zenitsu. Without fail, Tanjiro grabbed the teacher’s face to hold it in place. 

“Wait, you’ve got something in your eye,” the maroon haired boy said with all the sincerity he could muster. The white snake around the man’s shoulder hissed. “I think it could be doubt,” Tanjiro nodded as if agreeing with himself. Zenitsu inched further away. If he could get to the bathroom, he could pretend he had been there the entire time. 

“Get your hands off of me,” the teacher said firmly. Zenitsu could feel the air change. A certain aura darkened the hallway. He saw Mr. Iguro grab Tanjiro’s wrist and push him away. “If you ever touch me again, you will have three times more homework than everyone else until the end of your school days here,” he threatened. Tanjiro instantly dropped his other hand. 

Keep going, keep going, keep going, Zenitsu repeated to himself as he all but ran to the bathroom. This mission was worth it though. In honor of true love, it was worth it. Zenitsu grinned. If everything went well, Miss Kanroji would soon be Mrs. Iguro. 

———-

Graduation went smoothly. Mitsuri went through the line to shake hands with the university president and almost nearly tripped one time over the threshold between the stage and staircase. Her mom probably caught it on camera much to her embarrassment. Obanai told her her clumsiness was adorable and her face turned into a cherry. 

After dinner with her family, Obanai asked if she wanted to take an evening stroll through the park. They walked hand in hand as the sun started to set. He led her towards the fountain as she babbled about her new job. 

“I’m sort of nervous about working for her, you know? I worked at the pizza shop for so long, I’ll probably start listing off pizza toppings instead of plotlines,” she said. “I’m honored to collaborate with a best selling shojo artist, but it’s wild to think I was picked out of a thousand applicants.”

“Because she knows you’re the most talented upcoming manga artist,” Obanai reassured her. She was lucky to be with such a kind gentleman. The water fountain was coming into view. It was at the center of the park and one of Mitsuri’s favorite spots in the city. It was so pretty with the mermaid and koi fish statues decorating the centerpiece. The mermaids held vases to pour water out of while the koi circled the perimeter. 

“Do you want to sit down for a bit?” Obanai asked and she nodded. She bounced up to the stone bench next to the fountain. Mitsuri sat down and flashed her boyfriend a smile. This was the perfect end to her day. Graduation, dinner with her family, and an evening with her boyfriend. She would give him his mended lab coat when they got back to her car. He was going to freak out when he saw it. Just thinking about it made her giddy. 

“I could spend every day like this,” Mitsuri commented. “Seeing my family and then hanging out with you. You’re my favorite person. Oh, remind me I have a gift in my car for you.”

Obanai was still standing and she gently tugged on his hand to have him sit down. His sweet eyes focused on her. His brows were relaxed and he was smiling under the mask. With his free hand, he reached up to remove the white mask. Mitsuri tilted her head. His allergies were especially bad during the summer. 

“You shouldn’t take off your mask! The pollen count is really high today,” Mitsuri panicked, reaching up to put the mask over his face again. “I don’t want you to get sick or have a coughing fit.”

“It’ll be fine for a second,” Obanai cleared his throat. His palms were sweating now from the humidity. “You’re my favorite person too. When I’m with you I forget about all my problems and just have fun.” He pulled something out of his pocket. A small maroon velvet box. Mitsuri covered her mouth as Obanai got down on one knee. Was he going to- Water already started leaking from her eyes. 

“I want to spend every day with you. From this day to my last. I want to see your bubbly face each morning. Each afternoon I want to see you eating sakura mochi and each evening I want to kiss you good night. Will you marry me, Mitsuri?” Obanai asked. His voice began to shake towards the end. Hesitantly, he opened the jewelry box to reveal a golden ring with emeralds surrounding a pink diamond to match her hair. 

“Yes!” Mitsuri screamed and threw herself on him in her excitement. His back hit the pathed ground and she draped herself over him. “Yes, yes, yes,” Mitsuri said, green eyes flashing. She brought her lips to his, giving him a peck. He didn’t like public displays of affection, but she couldn’t control herself. Obanai returned her smile before coughing. 

“Oops, sorry,” Mitsuri climbed off of him and sat on the ground beside him. Obanai sat beside her and took the ring out of the box to place on her left. “I think you just gave me the best gift possible,” she said admiring the glimmering jewels. “This is so much better than what I got you.”

“Doubtful,” he said. “You just gave me the best gift of all. The promise to marry me and live together until we’re old and gray,” he ran a thumb over her cheek. Now she sucked in her breath as large tears rolled down her face. He stole her words.

[brokecorviknight]

Hatchetfield Pokémon AU - Partner List:

Main Characters:

TGWDLM:

Paul Matthews - Exploud

Emma Perkins - Porygon

BF:

Tom Houston - Donphan

Becky Barnes - Comfey

Lex Foster - Zigzagoon (Cressellia is also here)

Hannah Foster - Mew

NPMD:

Pete Spankoffski - Stoutland

Steph Lauter - Luxray

Grace Chasity - Hatterene

Max Jägerman - Passimian

LIB:

Wiggly (Wiggog Y’rath) / Wendell (Dark/Psychic)

Nibbly (Nibblenephim) / Nicky (Dark/Psychic)

Pokey (Pokotho) / Porter (Dark/Psychic)

Blinky (Bliklotep) / Blaine (Dark/Psychic)

Tinky (T’noy Karaxis) / Theo (Theodore) (Dark/Psychic)

Webby (Queen in White) / Wendy (Psychic/Dark)

Important Characters:

TGWDLM:

Ted Spankoffski - Volcarona

Bill Woodward - Leavanny

Alice Woodward - Skitty

Prof. Henry Hidgens - Liligant

Gen. John MacNamara - Genesect

BF:

Ethan Greene - Cyclizar

Linda Monroe - Vespiqueen

Tim Houston - Cubone

NPMD:

Richie Lipschitz - Gallade

Ruth Fleming - Sprigatito

Solomon Lauter - Honchkrow

Detective Shapiro - Pikachu

NT:

Henry (Fake Prof. Henry Hidgens) - Mimikyu

Lucy Stockworth - Gholdengo

Wooly-Foot - Galrian Darmanitan

Konk (Ted Spankoffski) - Darmanitan

Pryce Perkins (Paul Matthews 23) - Ditto

Emilia Matthews (Emma Perkins Android) - MissingNo

Time Bastard / Homeless Man (Ted Spankoffski) - Iron Moth and Slither Wing

Jane Houston (Perkins) - Revaroom

Miss Holloway - Hypno

Duke Keane - Snorlax

Gerald Monroe - Vivallon

Perky (Emma Perkins) - Aribolva

Ziggy - Shiftry

Jeri - Nidoqueen

Jerry - Nidoking

Lumber Axe (Lil’ Jerry) - Witchwood Haxorus

Shelia Young - Froslass

Rose - Toxtricity

Melissa - Meowstick (Female)

Puss - Espeon

Named Characters:

TGWDLM:

Greenpeace girl / Harmony Jones - Shaymin

Ken Davidson - Grumpig

Charlotte Sweetly - Oinkalogne

Sam Sweetly - Braviary

Nora - Minccino

Zoey Chambers - Alcreamie

Deb - Liepard

BF:

Frank Pricely - Sableye

Sherman Young - Salazzle

Gary Goldstein - Meowth

Uncle Wiley / Wilbur Cross - Tentacruel

Man in a Hurry / Barry Swift - Yanmega

Dude with Peanut - Pachirisu (Peanut)

Xander Lee - Empoleon

President - Unfezant (Male)

NPMD:

Mark Chasity - Flapple

Karen Chasity - Appletun

Off. Bailey - Skarmory

Kyle - Chesnaught

Brenda - Oricorio (Electric)

Jason - Bastiodon

Caitlyn - Altaria

Ms. Mulberry- Audino

Ms. Tessburger - Corsola

Rudolph - Sawsbuck

Brook - Finneon

Trevor Lipschitz - Magcargo

NT:

Allison - Lanturn

Madame Iris - Reuniclus

Craig - Tropius

Barker - Coalossal

Rupert - Gigalith

Jonathan Brisby - Tyrantrum

Sylvia - Floatzel

Andy / Executive Kilgore - Aggron

Jenny - Milotic

Dan Reynolds - Karrablast

Donna Daggit - Shelmet

Tony Greene - Klingklang

Jacqueline Frost - Glaceon

Pamala Foster - Komala

Roman Murray - Morpeko

River Monroe - Combee (Male) or Teddyursa

Trent Monroe - Venomoth

Seaton Monroe - Ninjask

Jordan Monroe - Shuckle

Malone - Octillery

Hailey - Skuntank

Zach Chambers - Gogoat

Liz - Beartic

Judith - Butterfree

Martha - Clawitzer

Mary - Bibarel

Mima Chambers - Drampa

Bob Metzger - Witchwood Aegislash

Carl Metzger - Witchwood Doublade

Larz Metzger - Witchwood Doublade

Louie Metzger - Witchwood Honedge

Mary - Medichan

Noah - Furret

Gabe - Sudowoodo

Marco - Copperajah

Kale - Chatot

Thrash - Noivern

Skud - Rillaboom

Courtney - Zebstrika

Russ - Scovillain

Beth - Centiskorch

Eddie Chiplucky - Krookodile

Stopwatch / Daniel - Phantump

Spitfire / Sophia - Blaziken

Charles - Type: Null

Bruno - Pangoro

Otho - Flamigo

Freddie Biggs - Corviknight

Mina - Pyroar (Female)

Chrissy - Alolan Persian

Aubrey - Purugly

Teddy Bear - Mabosstiff

Jerrie - Golurk

Different Actors:

Hot Chocolate Boy (Peter Spankoffski) (TGWDLM) - Polteageist

Pete Spankoffski (AC) - Aromatisse

Prof. Henry Hidgens (HQ) - Jigglypuff

Prof. Henry Hidgens (WB) - Spinda

Max Jägerman (TGWDLM) - Cinderace

Ethan Greene (YJ) - Goodra

(I’ve been working on this for a few weeks. I thought it would be fun to share. Hope you all enjoy it)