#Thank you so much for this and I hope YOU enjoy reading also!

[symbiomancy]

magic shop —tentacles ft. slime

—summary: A client brings you a thank you gift. It fucks you within an inch of your sanity.

—warnings: slime + tentacles x human, piv sex, deepthroating, bondage/restraints, anal, double (triple?) penetration, creampie, overstimulation, stomach bulge, size difference

—word count: 3,2k

—AO3 version

You stare at the box on your shop counter. It’s completely unassuming, glossy black with golden details engraved into the wood. On top of it, a little folded card with your name drawn in intricate loops and flowy handwriting.

Thank you for the love potion. I hope you enjoy this gift from my family’s slime farm.

Ah, love potions. Very much a dubious business but a business that pays well. And hey, it’s not like they can artificially make people have romantic feelings. Whoever named them love potions didn’t have their head screwed on right.

You trace the carvings on the shiny black box with your finger.

It opens smoothly. Inside, an almost translucent blue dildo rests on a velvet pillow. Oh, my, you think. It’s smooth to the touch, soft and almost jelly-like. It jiggles when you tap the pad of your finger against it. You giggle and tap it once more just for the sake of poking it. The slime flops its head against your fingers.

Oh, it’s… alive? Sentient? You don’t know exactly what to call its state of being. The slime dildo jiggles once and jumps in place once. Oh, okay, you think and hold up a finger. “Let me just close the store, yeah?” It doesn’t respond, doesn’t move again but the head of it is tilted your way, as if staring at you as you move through the store to lock the front door and flip the sign on the window.

It patiently waits where you left it. You stop in front of it and cup your hands. “I don’t want the store to get messy. Or break anything. There’s uh—” you swallow and holy shit, you’re having a conversation with a dildo-shaped slime you’re not sure is actually alive, “we can go upstairs.”

The slime doesn’t move for a moment as if considering your offer. Maybe? Shit— you make a mental note to read up on slimes and slime farms. Your teacher did briefly go over slimes while you were under her apprenticeship but that was also the day you’d latched onto the idea of customizing your wizard robes if you ever graduated. Oh, you can recall the original designs you’d drawn up in class even now, something more lingerie-adjacent than the long and heavy robes of her discipline. Where’d you put that babydoll-inspired robe you’d unpacked the other day?

You nearly startle out of your skin when the weight of the slime lands in your open palms. It wobbles in your hands briefly before it assumes its shape. You take that as a yes to your proposal and weave your way through your store towards the stairs to the second floor. Your heart is beating against your ribs like a wild horse as you ascend the stairs, turning off the lights as you reach the top.

You place the slime onto your coffee table. Your nerves are wrecked already. “So,” you start, fiddling with the rings on your fingers, “is this good enough? How is this even going to— What are we — me — we? What—” you press your lips together and take a moment to gather your thoughts. “Now what?”

The slime leaps forward until it reaches the edge of the coffee table, just a hair’s breadth away from your thigh. It jiggles, its head pressing against the slit in your wizard’s robe. You reach down and drag your fingers along its shaft, the bulging vein on its back and swallow around the lump in your throat. You want to lean down and drag your tongue across it.

The slime presses forward, between your thighs and rubs its head against your clothed cunt. You drag your fingertips down the length of its smooth shaft. It jiggles and pushes harder against your body. It’s pleasantly cool to the touch. It’s a little too thick to wrap one hand around, but you do your best. You move your hand slowly up and down the thick shaft. Precum pools at the tip and dribbles down the curve of the head and you feel compelled to lean down. You drag your tongue up the slime’s shaft — feel the slightly tacky cum on your tongue — from its balls to the very tip and dip your tongue into the slit. The slime jiggles in your hand. That’s good, you assume. It hasn’t pulled away or melted into a puddle yet. Slowly, you wrap your lips around the mushroom head tip and take it into your mouth.

The slime jiggles and pulls out of your mouth abruptly. “What?” You wipe at your mouth with the sleeve of your robe and the slime jiggles again. It swings its whole weight forward and flops pathetically at your robe. “Oh.”

You shrug off your robe and hastily pull down your underwear, kick them out of sight. The slime jiggles as if appreciating your nudity and pushes itself against your body again. The sensation is odd. It’s both firm and soft, almost like you could run your fingers through its body. It burrows between your thighs and wiggles upwards until its head hits your clit. You gasp and reach to rest your weight onto the coffee table before your knees give out. It pulses, wiggles, dragging its smooth body against your clit. You wrap your legs around it and slowly lower your hips.

The slime jiggles, wiggles against your thighs, almost as if thrashing around and you unlock your legs with haste. You stare at it, legs open, pussy wet and waiting for it, so many questions on your tongue. Maybe there’s a spell somewhere to get over this language barrier because it’s clearly intelligent and your skin is on fire and if it starts teasing you now, you might just smite it and finish the job yourself.

It positions itself against your hot, wet cunt and you exhale a breath of relief, head thrown back. It moves, positions itself, the head pressing against your entrance and you roll your hips minutely to beckon it.

It sheathes itself in your cunt with one harsh thrust. You yelp, try to reach for the edge of the table to find an anchor but its pace is too much, too harsh. The table legs drags against the floor from the force of its thrusts into your waiting cunt. Your mouth drops open, stifled, breathy moans escaping your lips as you try to pull yourself together and figure out which way is up, where to grab. It thrusts harshly and you nearly topple off the table, manage to grab onto the edge and roll knot your stomach for more leverage. Your knees drop to the plush carpet. The edge of the coffee table rams into your hips with every thrust from the slime buried into your cunt, bullying it like a jackhammer. Your sweat-slick skin drags across the glass surface. It’s thick and big and you swear you feel it in the back of your throat. Your head is spinning, the pleasure overwhelming. The coil in your core snaps abruptly.

You cum with a low moan, pussy clenching around it like a vise but the slime doesn’t stop, just keeps rutting into you as you come down from your high and spills. It’s warm and gooey and it dribbles from your cunt as the slime eases itself to a slower pace until it stops, buried inside you to the hilt. You feel full, so deliciously full and fuck, maybe it’ll stay there forever. You wouldn’t mind it, you think. It could rut into you while you’re talking to a customer and you’d be forced to keep your poker face or fold like a goddamn house of cards with your client watching your depravity.

Your cunt flutters at the thought.

Slowly, you lower yourself off the coffee table and onto all fours, ass up in the air, and press your face against your folded arms, take deep, even breaths to get your head on straight again.

The rug underneath you feels nice. Smooth. Soft, if not a little gooey. It moves, undulates underneath you, rises until it brushes against your collarbones.

Wait, what?

You pull your face away from your arms and blink a few times to get rid of the shapes in your vision. Your rug isn’t your rug. It’s dark blue, almost liquidy in consistency and it bubbles and laps at your body like waves at the beach. It’s cool to the touch.

Your cunt feels strangely empty all of a sudden. You clench around thin air with a frown and slowly sit up. The slime-like liquid on the floor wiggles as you adjust your legs — it’s the same blue hue as the slime that should be buried into your cunt. Oh, so they don’t last forever. You feel a strange sense of loss at the realization; they’re just here to fulfill an itch, then. And then they’re gone.

You should pull yourself together, get up and clean this mess up. No point in crying over something that’s over.

The slime warbles and then, something breaches it. A single thick tentacle rises from the pool that’s overrun your living room. It turns its head as if looking around and you take that time to reorient yourself. The slime gift from your client has melted into a puddle that’s overrun your living room. Something not quite of this world has used it as a portal. That opens another can of worms about slimes and portals and you should really write down how a tentacle appeared from the melted body of a slime from a nearby farm but— it looks remarkably phallic in shape. Its head is pronounced, almost mushroom in shape like male genitalia. The light streaming in from the window next to you illuminates the ridges on its body, the texture reminds you of snake scales.

You shift on your knees, your cunt aching.

The tentacle snaps around. It slowly crosses the space between you and itself, more and more of its body rising from the pool. It’s tall and thick. There are ridges on its back, and you swear they would feel so good dragging against your clit —

It lowers its head in front of your face where it hovers for a few long moments. Slowly, you reach out and drag the tip of your finger down its body. Bingo. Scale-like small ridges decorate its body.

There is movement in the corner of your eye. More tentacles rise from the slime, these ones smaller and leaner. They slither across the mass of slime and glide onto your skin, wrap themselves around your legs, creeping towards your pussy. You rise onto your knees to give them more leeway.

More tentacles shoot out from the pool on your floor and tangle around your arms, pull them together over your head. Others latch onto your skin. They traverse the expanse of your body, warm and slick, prodding and poking and squeezing. One slides underneath your breast and loops over it. Its tip circles your nipple and you gasp at the sensation, throw your head back and arch your back, nearly hitting the coffee table. A thin, glimmering tentacle shoots out, wraps around your torso and across your neck before the back of your head can actually collide with glass. It pulls you forward just as quickly, onto your knees.

The large tentacle is hovering right in front of your face now. It bumps its tip against your forehead, your cheek, your nose and then against the seam of your lips. They part involuntarily and it dives in. You feel the ridges on its stomach against your tongue but the moan gets stuck in your throat.

It eases itself out of your mouth and you nearly whimper at the loss of contact. Seriously, what’s with these things not wanting your mouth? It’s an extra hole for them to use and abuse so why are they rejecting it?

The tentacle dips down and you feel the ridges caressing your skin as it glides towards and across your cunt, dragging the ridges on its stomach against your clit and something between a moan and a gasp escapes your throat involuntarily.

You’re suddenly hauled up and backwards until your back collides with your couch. Your legs are pulled apart to expose your weeping pussy to the head tentacle. It lowers itself to your cunt’s level as if studying it. It gives an experimental nudge against your slit and then presses forward harder. The very tip slides in with little effort and then it’s pushing ahead, wiggling like it’s trying to force itself inside.

Your chest is heaving, short, shallow breaths escaping you as you desperately try to push against the tentacle but the others keep you rooted to the spot. It’s torture and agony and bliss all at once as the thick tentacle prods at you. Just a little push and it can fuck you within an inch of your life, until you beg and beg and beg it for more, to fill you up and keep you stuck on it for as long as it wants, do whatever it wants.

The head breeches your cunt and it slides all the way in with one thrust. You gasp at the sensation, chest heaving and try to breathe through the obscene stretch, the obscene sight of its shape in your stomach but it has other ideas. It starts moving, slow and deliberate as it pulls back and then dives in again, setting a ruthless pace. You’re so wet, so slippery and it almost slips out of your cunt. You dribble around it, the sound so obscene and lewd in your ears. It’s the only sound in the room other than your moans, your babbled begging for it to just take you already.

Its size is overwhelming but it feels so good, bullying its way into your cunt and drawing those ridiculous wet sounds and moans and gasps, pleading from your lips. You’re almost in tears at the euphoria, at the way this tentacle claims your cunt for itself, at the way the others hold you back and spread out to take and take and use you up like the goddamn fleshlight you are. You’d let it use you as a fleshlight again and again, fuck, maybe this one can stay and display you as a freak show to any potential client. The thought of someone staring at the way this thing defiles your holes, their cock in hand, maybe even trying to join — it sends you over the edge.

You cum with a swear on your lips, a half-baked cry stuck in your throat. Moments later, the tentacle spills into your cunt. You’re so full, you’re so incredibly full. Its cum, as translucent and pearly as itself dribbles onto your couch, slipping out from around its thick body. Your chest heaves as you try to pull yourself together, tears brimming in your eyes.

The tentacles around your legs tighten. They pull your body along like dead weight, off the couch and onto the slick floor. Your hands are maneuvered with your body but there’s no weight left in your arms and your jaw nearly collides with the floor. The tentacles yank your body upright at the last moment, tightening around your limbs to hold you on all fours without leaning any weight on your weak limbs.

Your legs are pulled apart. Tentacles press against the skin of your ass, massaging and groping and prodding.

The thick tentacle still buried snugly in your cunt purrs. Something prods at your ass. Its smooth tip presses against your puckered hole and you do your best to relax every muscle in your body. It teases for just a moment before it slides through slowly. You moan at the sensation, at being so full.

It moves first, slow and deliberate, delving deeper into your ass and then pulling back. The head tentacle in your cunt moves in tandem with it. They’re so deep, so slick you want to cry because it’s too much but they feel so good, fucking you so thoroughly in tandem. They move, they all move, every single goddamn tentacle wrapped around your body, your limbs, your tits, their tips move, sliding back and forth across your skin. One pinches your nipple and you mewl, mouth agape to take in air and cry out.

A tentacle roughly pushes into your mouth, slides down your throat and pulls back to fuck it. Your face is wet and your vision is blurry, it’s too much, one stuffing itself and its pretty cum back into your aching cunt like it wants to live there, another thrusting into your ass with vigor, you feel them both, at the way they rub against your walls, against each other. Another in your mouth, pumping into your throat, so many caressing your body.

They pause for a fraction of a moment but it's enough to have you crying out for any stimulation. They dive in with newfound vigor, like they haven’t been fucking you stupid for who knows how long now, stuffing themselves so deep into your pussy and your ass and your throat. Your eyes roll back and your whole body tenses for a moment before you come the hardest you’ve ever come. You clench down at the tentacles, and nearly scream. The tentacle in your mouth pulls back and you hear your own pathetic voice, begging and pleading and babbling for more, more, please, please, please before there is a weight on your tongue. The tentacle spits its cum onto your tongue, thick and glossy, dribbling past your open lips and down your chin.

The world comes back to you in small increments. The sound of birdsong on the other side of your window. The feeling of something pumping into your ass at a languid pace before it stops and slowly pulls out. Something shoved deep inside your cunt so far you feel like you’re about to burst. The grip on your body is tight but pleasant, almost massage-like. You blink the tears from your eyes and sniffle, try to breathe.

A wail escapes your throat when the head tentacle pulls out of your pussy with an audible pop. Its cum shoots out of you, an obscene amount dribbling onto your rug, pooling between your legs, running down your skin, hot and sticky. Your breath shudders in your throat as the tentacles ease you onto your knees. More and more dribbles out of your gaping pussy, and you almost want the tentacle to shove itself back in and take you until you can’t think anymore, pump you full of its cum again and again and again until the world comes to an end.

The tentacles on your body loosen their grip. The one around your tit gives it another squeeze and flicks your nipple and it shoots a jolt to your core. More cum dribbles from your pussy as the feeling passes and your muscles relax, fatigued and aching and sore.

The pool beneath your knees shrinks. You turn despite your screaming muscles to see the tentacles retreat into a summoning circle in the middle of the pit of slime one by one. Before long, the pool dries up entirely and the circle on the floor disappears.

You should really write down a note to get in contact with the slime farm to get to the bottom of this. Instead, you scoop up a handful of pearlescent cum from the floor, and try to shove it back into your cunt.

—a/n: anon is on, feel free to comment, go nuts, describe how many times this made you cum, god I hope it made sb cum

banners by @/cafekitsune

[formulaonecrumbs]

hi!! i’ve just like binge read all of your stuff and it’s so beautifully written

do you think you could do a charles fic with the co-parenting to lovers trope? like their kid helps them get together or like he flys out to see their kid and realizes that life is so much better with them? i have a whole like plot im sorry 😭

stay a little longer 🕯️

Charles Leclerc x ex(?)!reader

summary: co-parenting finally turns into something more when their daughter decides it’s time for a date.

warnings: co-parenting to lovers, kid matchmaker, suggestive content, kissing, car makeout, implied smut, love confessions, second chances

A/N: thank u anon for the requuessttt!!! i feel like i still don’t write charles very well 😭 like yes i believe the guy is romantic but i think i made that his whole personality in this WHOOPS. random but i love when drivers have girlfriends cuz now i got sm material for the mood-boards. i hope u enjoy it and as always love u ❤️

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

you never expected him to show up.

not like this, not without warning, not with that soft look in his eyes and a suitcase in his hand.

it’s been almost six months since you saw charles leclerc in person. six months since he kissed your cheek at the airport and promised he’d try to visit more. six months of facetime calls with your daughter holding your phone too close to her face, grinning with her tiny teeth and telling him she lost another one. six months of you pretending that you were completely fine raising her mostly alone while he chased podiums around the world.

but now he’s standing on your porch like it’s nothing. like he’s not the father of your child and also the person who once broke your heart in the softest, most unintentional way.

“hi,” he says.

you blink. “charles? what—what are you doing here?”

he looks down at his shoes. he’s wearing sneakers that used to live in your hallway. the ones your daughter would trip over every time she tried to run to the door. “i had a week off. i wanted to see her.”

you let him in because you always do. because she misses him even when she doesn’t say it, and because you’ve never been able to fully close the door on him.

your daughter screams ‘daddy!’ the second she hears him. he drops his bag and catches her mid-run, spinning her around in the tiny living room you’ve made your home. you watch from the kitchen, hands still on the mug you were making, heart doing something stupid and warm and dangerous in your chest.

“you’re not leaving tonight, are you?” she asks him, small hands on his cheeks.

he shakes his head. “not tonight. not for a few days, actually.”

and you swear, you see her little face light up with something more than excitement. something like hope.

it’s not supposed to be easy, but it is.

charles fits back into your space like he never left. he sleeps on the couch and does the dishes after dinner. he drives her to school in the mornings and makes up silly songs about brushing her teeth. he folds laundry while you’re at work and lets her paint his nails on the weekends.

and you keep waiting for it to feel like a mistake. to feel like a tease, like you’re slipping back into something that already ended.

but instead, it feels like healing.

like late nights where he sits across from you, whispering stories about races she’s too young to hear. like laughing over wine after she’s gone to bed, both of you tipsy on nostalgia and something heavier. something that tastes like maybe.

he doesn’t flirt. not really. but sometimes, he looks at you like he remembers every moment you ever shared. and sometimes, when he thinks you’re not paying attention, he stares at you like you hung the stars.

it happens on a tuesday.

you’re rushing to get out the door for work. your daughter can’t find her other shoe and you’ve already yelled twice, which always makes you feel like a terrible mother. charles is standing in the kitchen, packing her lunch like he’s done it every morning for the past year instead of the last five days.

and then she says it.

“daddy, are you staying forever now?”

you freeze. so does he.

“because i think you should,” she continues, completely unaware of the tension she’s stirred up. “you make mommy laugh again. and you’re really good at pancakes.”

charles doesn’t look at you. he kneels down and kisses her forehead. “i love you, chérie,” he says quietly.

you don’t talk about it.

not until later, when she’s asleep and you’re both sitting on the back steps with a blanket around your shoulders and the sky full of stars.

“she wants us to be a family,” you whisper.

charles’s voice is soft. “i do too.”

your chest tightens. “charles…”

“i know,” he says. “i know i left. i know i haven’t been here like i should have. and i’m not trying to ask you to just forget it. but i want to be here now. not just for her. for you, too.”

you stare at your hands. your heart. the little cracks that never quite healed after he left.

“why now?” you ask.

he takes a breath. “because every time i see her smile, i see you. and every time i talk to her, i wish you were beside me. and because… i thought i was doing the right thing. giving you space. letting you live your life without the mess of mine. but i’ve never been more wrong.”

you look at him. really look. and he looks scared. vulnerable in a way he never is behind the wheel. and you realize, in this quiet moment under the stars, that maybe you’ve been scared too.

you don’t say anything. you just reach out, take his hand, and let your fingers intertwine like they never stopped knowing how to.

he moves in slowly.

a toothbrush at first. then a drawer. then he’s picking her up from school without you asking, buying groceries like he knows the list by heart. you fall back into love like it’s muscle memory. slow, steady, familiar. this time, without the fear.

your daughter starts calling you her “mommy and daddy house.” she draws pictures of the three of you holding hands, all smiling with the sun in the corner.

one night, she asks if you and daddy are married again.

charles chuckles. “not yet, chérie.”

you shoot him a look. “not funny.”

he leans in, his voice low against your ear. “it could be.”

and you feel it again—that dangerous, stupid hope that maybe this time, it’s real.

because he came back. because he stayed. because your little girl believed in love enough to put it back together. and because this time, you’re ready to believe in it too.

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

she catches you holding his hand in the kitchen.

it’s not a big deal, really. just fingers brushing as you pass him the milk. but charles catches your pinky with his, gives it a gentle squeeze, and you smile in that way you only ever do with him.

your daughter sees it all from her seat at the table, eating cereal like it’s the most important meal of her life.

“are you guys in love again?” she asks, spoon halfway to her mouth.

charles pauses, milk almost spilling over the edge of his glass. “what?”

“you heard me,” she says, chewing dramatically.

you shoot charles a look. he shrugs, trying not to laugh.

“i think you are,” she continues, totally unfazed. “you look at each other like the people in mommy’s movies. and you sleep on the couch together sometimes. and daddy made you pancakes in a heart shape.”

you can’t even deny that one. he really did.

“okay,” she says, pushing her bowl away. “it’s time.”

“time for what?” you ask, even though you already know.

“you’re going on a date.”

charles raises an eyebrow. “we are?”

she nods. “yes. i’ll stay with mamie. and you two can go somewhere fancy. with candles and music. and then you’ll kiss.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “what is it with you and kissing lately?”

she grins. “uncle pierre says it’s how people fall in love.”

charles makes a face. “i’m going to block his number.”

you get ready while she helps charles pick out a shirt. you hear her scolding him for choosing the boring grey one and insisting he wears the one with the tiny flowers because “mommy likes when you look like a soft boy.”

you come out in a dress that hasn’t seen the light of day in years and charles just stands there, looking like he forgot how to breathe.

“wow,” he says softly. “you look…”

you raise a brow. “like a soft girl?”

he laughs. “like the girl i’ve been in love with since before i even knew it.”

you blink.

he smiles, nervous and sweet and very charles. “too much?”

“no,” you say, cheeks warm. “just enough.”

you drive to a little italian restaurant tucked away in the quieter part of town. it’s dimly lit, with fairy lights above the patio and old music playing inside. it’s romantic in a kind of unintentional way. the kind of place that doesn’t try too hard because it doesn’t need to.

charles pulls your chair out for you and keeps glancing across the table like he’s still trying to figure out if this is real.

“this feels weird,” you say, sipping your wine. “in a good way. but weird.”

he nods. “like we’re pretending we’re not already a family.”

you smile. “yeah.”

“but i want this too,” he adds, eyes soft. “the dating part. the butterflies.”

you meet his gaze. “you still get butterflies?”

he reaches across the table, lacing your fingers with his. “every time you look at me like this.”

and god, you feel it too. that flutter. that full-body warmth that only ever comes when you’re really, really falling.

after dinner, he takes your hand and suggests a walk. it’s chilly but not cold, and the stars are out like someone painted them just for tonight.

“this is the part where we kiss under the moonlight,” you joke, bumping your shoulder into his.

charles stops walking.

“what?” you ask, turning.

he steps closer. “i was waiting for the right moment.”

your breath catches. “is this it?”

he nods, eyes flicking to your mouth. “yeah. i think it is.”

and when he kisses you, it’s slow and soft and everything you’ve been missing for years. it’s full of promises and apologies and second chances. it tastes like wine and laughter and home.

you stay like that for a long time, under the stars and the streetlamp, kissing like you’re twenty and just discovering how good it feels to be wanted.

when you get home, the lights are low and the house is quiet. your daughter is asleep, curled up in her bed with her stuffed giraffe and the nightlight glowing faintly beside her.

charles shuts the door gently behind you.

you turn to him, heart racing, still a little breathless from the night.

“so…” you whisper.

he walks toward you, slow, eyes locked on yours. “so.”

“was this the part where we’re supposed to kiss again?”

he nods, grinning. “definitely.”

he backs you into the couch and kisses you until you’re both laughing and gasping and tangled in each other. his hands in your hair, your arms around his neck, the world spinning just slightly off its axis in the best way.

“we probably shouldn’t wake her,” you mumble against his mouth.

“then we’ll be quiet,” he whispers back, kissing down your neck.

you end up in the car—because it’s late and you can’t quite make it upstairs, and also because there’s something wildly thrilling about being wrapped around each other in the dark leather seats, trying not to fog up the windows too much.

his hands on your thighs, your lips tracing every freckle on his collarbone, his voice low and hoarse as he says your name like a prayer.

after, you sit in the front seat, legs curled into his lap, his hand resting gently on your bare knee.

“we should do this again,” you say, grinning against his shoulder.

charles kisses your temple. “i plan on it.”

and you believe him. completely.

because this time, he’s not just here for the night. this time, he’s here to stay.

THE END :>

[coveofsecrets]

the platonic burning spice x child reader fiction WAS SO GOOD. maybe you could do a part 2 pls? you don't have to! 🤍

─── ✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

"𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗"

-> Platonic! Burning Spice Cookie x reader

-> Warnings: Spoilers for Beast Yeast chapter 6, mentions of major character death, mentions of death

-> Word count: 966

-> waaaahahahahhaaa thank youuuuu <<33!! Not gonna lie, this was super challenging to do! Figuring out what Burning Spice would do as a character, and also his dialogue, was super difficult, but really fun! I hope you enjoy, Anon! This fic is a direct part two to this, so to understand this fic, please read the other one!

─── ✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Whispers in cracked corridors.

Rumors within dusty floors.

Stories spun along the breeze.

“Have you heard about the child Lord Destroyer’s been keeping?” Purple tail swaying, brushing against the owner’s fur.

“Yes…” Tongue flickering between fangs. “I have, but nobody’s allowed to see them, not even the general.”

“Well, I’ve seen the thing once, through the crack of their room door.”

“Really? What did they look like?”

“Weak.” A grunt. “Puny. If not protected, they would not survive even a second in this land.”

“Impossible! Why would The Great Destroyer allow a weak thing in his temple? There must be something about that child, if he's keeping it.”

“That’s what I’m thinking, too! Our lord prohibits any sort of interaction with that weakling, keeping them barred in there like a princess, so why does he have something like that?”

“Hmph. I’m not sure. Possibly untapped potential?”

“Plausible, but Lord Destroyer is not the kind of beast to recruit somebody for that…”

Red paws tapping against the floor, followed by a bark, “Are you two questioning Our Lord’s choices?”

The two squeak, “G- General-!” 

“You both,” The Nutmeg Tiger growls, “I will not hear another word from either of you. The Great Destroyer’s thinking is something both of you cannot possibly comprehend, and for you to even try and grasp it is almost laughable. This could very well go for treason!”

“General, we weren’t meaning to go for treason-”

“Do not speak when you are spoken to, weakling!”

Purple mouth snaps shut, red eyes narrowing in almost defiance.

The tiger centaur pays no mind to it, instead choosing to continue. “Whatever Our Lord is doing, surely has reason behind it. I will not stand for you two questioning his divine plans. Is that clear?”

“Yes....” This time, the Cilantro Cobra speaks. “Our… apologies, general. We won’t do this next time…”

“Hmph.” A huff, “I hope you don’t. The Great Destroyer’s ideas are much greater than you lowlives.”

Burning Spice has no idea what he’s doing.

He should’ve killed you.

He should’ve crumbled your existence.

He should’ve laid waste to your form like he did before, once again leaving behind what he loved.

Yet, with his paranshu raised above his head, your eyes fearfully staring at the bright thing…

“Baba, baba!” 

He remembers those same eyes looking up at him, as if he had hung up the stars themselves; your sweet voice calling for him as your bare feet violently pad over to reach their father.

God.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t do it.

Burning Spice couldn’t kill his child.

No matter how much he wanted to, his body could not follow his command.

So what does he do now?

Burning Spice cannot kill you, so perhaps he could kick you out of here?

No, the spice storms will tear you apart.

If he lets you wander, his troops will reave your being.

Why does he care so much?!

His head has this horrible ache from all this thinking, so to make the confusing part of his brain happy, and to make this pain disappear, he sends you away.

To be more specific, he locks you in a room to which only a few cooks can come in to place food far away from you. Now, some part of him will be content, and also, he can stop looking at your pathetic self.

It takes months before he’s able to face you again.

Months before the Beast has to stop facing the present, and turn back to the past.

“Child.” Water hitting the sandy floors, he speaks. “Are you bored?”

…huh?

Sitting in front of this unfamiliar man, to the question, you pause.

Months of being held captive, with nobody except your own thoughts to keep you company, and when your captor speaks to you, it’s… this?

“Excuse?” You cannot help but ask for clarification, wondering if somehow you misheard.

To your question, though, the Beast’s eyes twitch. “I asked-” The sand starting to dry out- “if you are bored, child.”

Bored?

You heard right, which… only confuses you further.

“I am… confused on what you mean?”

“Do you need entertainment?” The desert is no longer blessed by the gentle touch of the rain, but it is not angry. “I presume that sitting in a room with nothing but your thoughts to occupy yourself is boring.”

Why is he asking that?

If you need entertainment?

What’s his goal?

You decide to echo your thoughts: “Why… are you asking that-?”

Only to be met with a scowl, lips pulling back to reveal sharp teeth, the yellow things glinting off of the little light in the room. His eyes are narrowed, lashes blanketing red irises, barely concealing his fury. Soon, though, as if he saw something in your face, the creature forces his expression to flatten, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I would prefer-” he growls after a few seconds. “To not answer that question. All you need to know is if you’re bored. Is that clear?”

…huh… best not to press.

“Good. Now, answer my question: are you bored or not?”

“I… guess so, yes.”

Being stuck in a room for months on end, with nothing to do is not… fun, at all.

“Then what entertainment do you wish for?”

Entertainment?

You blink.

What entertainment is there? Actually, why is he asking if I must be entertained? Mm… I feel like I shouldn’t ask that.

“Conversation with you?” You eventually request, “I’d like to ask a few questions as to where I am.”

The beast’s nostrils flare, a corner of his lips twitching, but he acquiesces. “Alright. But if there is anything I do not wish to divulge, I shall not. Is that fair?”

Huh.

How easy.

Once again, you nod.

He's not being violent in me towards any way, and he hasn't made me do anything... if so, then why's he keeping me here against my will?

What does he want from you?

[cressidagrey]

I am IN LOVE with white horse! Every time I get a chapter notification I RUN to read it! What is your upload schedule because omg you pump out chapters like crazy and I hope you’re not overworking yourself!

I am soooo excited for the Leclerc boys and mom to get their dues. Since A03 shows 25 chapters intended, do you know if they find out sooner or does it draw out a while? I also love how every chapter seems to have a new person find out!

Ahhh thank you so much!! 🥹💛 The image of you running to read each chapter honestly makes me smile so big — I’m so happy White Horse has you hooked!!

So to answer your questions: There’s no official upload schedule — I just post whenever a chapter is finished and feels ready to go. I try to be consistent, but I also promise I’m taking care of myself and not overworking (I appreciate you checking in though, seriously 🫶🏻).

The 25-chapter count on AO3 was more of an early estimate — I can already tell it’s probably going to be more than that (because apparently I have no self-control lol).

And yes 👀 the Leclerc boys (and Pascale) should be finding out somewhere around June or July in the timeline — so it’s coming. And it’s going to be messy.

I love that you’re enjoying the slow burn of the reveals — it’s been so fun sneaking them in little by little, like emotional landmines 😂

Thank you again for being here and reading — it means the world!! 💛

[notiddygothgf]

xii

★ pairings: aki hayakawa x fem reader

★ ❝ You're a devil ❞

★ c.w.: public foreplay, vibrator, smut, confusion again (thank you aki, we all say in unison), lovemaking ( uh ohhhh ), an epiphany. not beta'd

★ a/n: I'M BACKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!! omg i have been writing this chapter for like weeks now. it's been so hard. honestly i'm not even entirely sure if i'm happy with the way it turned out, but it was necessary, i'll say that. y'all are gonna have a lot of fun! until shit gets real. not saying tm but enjoy my lovelies ;) (also, if you wanna be on the same wavelength i was on when i wrote this, stream 'My All' by Mariah Carey)

★ w.c: 20k

pornstar ; chapter index

FRIDAY EVENING, after work, after taking a long, relaxing shower, you pulled on some loungewear and wrapped yourself in a cardigan, but you couldn't quite settle. Your thoughts kept drifting back to tonight.

Aki hadn't called it a date, not exactly. He had only said, Are you free Friday at 7?. That was it. No real details. No mention of where you were going. But something about the way he had said it—calm, deliberate—had made your stomach flip.

Now, as you made your way downstairs to the mailroom, you felt a strange nervousness settling in your chest. It was ridiculous, really. It was just Aki. You had spent countless hours with him, had some... late nights together, had made more drunken mistakes with him than you were willing to admit. But tonight felt different. Like something was shifting, tilting into unfamiliar territory.

You ran a hand over your arms, trying to shake the feeling as you entered the mailroom. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you rifled through your usual stack of bills and junk—until something unexpected made your breath catch.

A box.

You froze, staring at it for a moment before picking it up. It was light, unmarked except for your name printed neatly on the label. No return address. No clue where it had come from.

Your heart gave an uneasy thud. You didn't remember ordering anything.

A prickle of curiosity ran through you as you carried it back upstairs, your fingers gripping the edges a little tighter than necessary. Once inside your apartment, you set the box on your bed, hesitating only a second before peeling away the tape.

The flaps folded open easily, revealing something soft inside.

A dress.

Your breath hitched.

Beneath it, a folded letter. Handwriting – neat and deliberate. Calm, calculated slopes and curves of pretty cursive lettering. You recognized it from the post-it note Aki had handed you the other day. Clean. Concise. Him.

I hope this gets to you on time. Wear this on Friday. I'll be around to pick you up at 7 PM.

No explanation. No unnecessary words. Just a simple request.

You read it again, something warm and nervous blooming in your chest.

Your fingers brushed over the dress again, lifting it from the box. It was beautiful. Black, sleek, form fitting in all of the right places without giving too much away. The fit looked perfect, which meant—

Aki had asked someone about your size.

The thought sent a quiet shiver through you. Maybe he had checked the uniform orders at work. Maybe he had gone through the trouble of asking someone. Either way, it meant he had thought about this. About you.

A nervous, fluttering feeling stirred in your stomach as you held the dress up to your body in front of the mirror. Your reflection stared back, wide-eyed, lips parted.

Was this a date? It felt like one.

You traced your fingers over the fabric, smoothing it down over your waist, picturing Aki standing in a store, picking this out for you. Would this suit her? Would she like this?

The thought made your breath catch.

And suddenly, the nervousness shifted into something else.

Excitement. The giddy kind, the kind you hadn't felt in a very long time.

What the hell is he doing to me?

The room seemed to hold its breath as you stood before the mirror, the dress clutched in your hands. The soft fabric felt almost foreign against your skin—smooth, delicate, but somehow heavy with meaning. You had barely noticed the tremble in your hands as you slipped it over your body, as though something deep inside you was already anticipating what tonight would hold.

As the dress settled, the sensation of being clothed in something that wasn't just meant for you, but for him, sank in. It wasn't about just looking good—it was about being seen, being chosen, being claimed. The way the dress hugged your form, the way it shaped you just perfectly, it felt like it had been made with him in mind. And suddenly, the nerves were no longer nerves. They were something else, something thrilling.

You traced your fingertips over the fabric again, feeling it stretch across your curves as you imagined him standing behind you, his eyes on you. The thought made your heart beat faster, the anticipation building as you imagined how he would look at you. This is for me, you thought. You belong to me tonight. The thought sent a surge of heat through you, a rush of excitement so powerful it almost made your knees buckle.

He had chosen this dress. He had seen you in it, imagined how it would feel against your skin, how it would look under his touch. This wasn't just a gift—it was an ownership of you, a declaration that tonight, you were his in every way. The dress was a symbol of that, a quiet but deliberate statement that you were being taken, in a way that made your pulse race.

You couldn't help but admire yourself, and it wasn't vanity. It was the feeling of being something to him—something special, something his. You wanted to look good for him. You wanted to embody everything he had imagined, to fulfill his desire for you. You weren't just getting ready for a date. You were preparing yourself to be his. And that thought made your breath hitch.

The mirror reflected your image, but it wasn't just the fabric of the dress or the way it accentuated your body that caught your attention. It was the way you felt in it—controlled, owned, desired. The weight of the dress felt heavy with that unspoken promise, and the excitement only intensified. Tonight, you weren't just dressing for yourself. You were dressing for him. You were preparing for what he had planned. The thrill of his expectations made the anticipation damn near unbearable.

You slipped your fingers into your hair, tugging it back into an intentional style, something that would look just right when he finally saw you. Every touch felt deliberate, as though you were getting closer and closer to being the vision he had in mind.

Your makeup, too, was done with the same careful attention—nothing extravagant, just the subtle touches that made you look like his. A hint of blush to highlight your cheeks, a soft dusting of mascara to make your eyes appear just a little more doe-like, just a little more vulnerable. You wanted him to see that. You wanted him to see you, but a prettier versionof you, the one that was his to look at, to control.

The sound of your flip-phone ringing snapped you back to reality. You glanced down at it, at the small computer that held so much weight. Slowly, you reached for it, turning the thing over in your palm and flipping it open.

Aki Hayakawa.

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you hit answer and held it up to your ear. "Hello?"

His voice replied to you – deep, smooth, sexy as all hell. "Hey. Did you get the package I sent?"

You glanced down at the smooth, buttery black fabric draped over your legs, fighting back a grin. "Oh, that was you?" You teased. "Didn't have a return address. Figured it must have been a secret admirer."

"Very funny," He replied, not sounding the least bit entertained. (Okay, well, maybe a little bit). "We're going out to dinner tonight. I don't know if you figured that out by now."

"Where?" You asked. You surmised that it would have been somewhere nice, given the sleek nature of the dress he had sent you.

"That's for me to know and for you to find out," He replied, leaving your question unanswered. "I'll be heading out within the hour. Be ready for me."

Gently, you set your phone down on the counter. Then, taking a deep breath, you sighed – a dreamy, breathless one. A dangerous one.

He finally showed up, and the sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. That damned suit—you knew it well. You had seen it many times before, perfectly tailored, sharp against the broad line of his shoulders. But tonight, it looked different. Or maybe it was the way he stood in the doorway, framed by the dim evening light, holding a bouquet of fresh flowers in one hand and an elegantly wrapped gift box in the other.

Flowers – freshly cut. A bundle of red and pink roses, speckled with white flowers in between. They were swaddled in brown wrapping paper, tucked neatly in his palm.

Your heart stuttered.

"Oh my God," you murmured, stepping forward as warmth spread through your chest. "Come in, let me put these in a vase."

He handed you the bouquet, his fingers grazing yours for the briefest moment—just enough for a flicker of warmth to pass between you, a silent awareness neither of you acknowledged aloud. He didn't move right away, watching you as if memorizing your reaction, as if uncertain whether he had done enough to make up for his absence earlier.

You held the flowers close, inhaling their delicate fragrance, then looked up at him with something between wonder and quiet amusement. "Would you believe me if I told you no one's ever given me flowers before?"

He let out a low chuckle, something soft threading through it. "I'm glad I could be the first," he said, his voice gentler now. His gaze searched yours, unreadable for a moment before he added, "It's the least I can do after leaving you hanging at the office."

You turned away, busying yourself with the flowers, though you could still feel his presence behind you. There was something unbearably tender about the way he stood there, waiting, watching you as though he was trying to piece together the right words, the right way to express what he couldn't say outright.

And then, just as you reached for a vase, his voice came again, quiet but certain.

"You look beautiful, by the way."

Beautiful.

Your breath hitched.

This is a bad idea, you thought. It was a very, very bad idea. You knew how your brain worked – going on a date with the man of your thoughts would do nothing to quell the storm of emotions he seemed to leave in his wake.

Still... he thought you looked beautiful.

The compliment settled over you like a warm, unexpected touch, igniting something deep in your chest. You swallowed, feeling the heat bloom along your neck, your cheeks—an involuntary response, no matter how hard you willed yourself to stay composed.

You turned slightly, your fingers tightening around the vase as you fought to keep your voice steady. "Thanks," you murmured, though the word felt too small to contain the way your heart fluttered.

Nothing about this seems very casual, you thought. Not when he smiled at you, not when he moved to take a seat at your kitchen table, and certainly not when he nudged the pink gift baggy towards you with two fingers.

"I got you something for tonight," Was all he said, sitting back in the chair and watching you while you filled the vase up about halfway with water and plopped the flowers inside – after cutting them free from their wrapping, of course.

With a smile that could have powered a fucking car, you hesitated before reaching for the box. Then, as slowly as you had picked it up, your trembling hands undid the little bow sealing it closed at the top and let it fall open. You reached into it, past the layers of pretty, pastel-pink tissue paper, until your fingers brushed up against something – a box.

Curiously, you cast him a glance. His expression, of course, gave away nothing, so you pulled the thing out anyway, and nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

It was a pretty pink vibrator. One that looked like it was supposed to go inside of you.

You snapped the cover of the box shut, jaw flying open. Wordlessly, Aki grinned, as if this was all a part of some plan you had yet to understand.

Still, the image of him pursuing the aisles of an adult store just for you, fingers skimming over the boxes in search of something that would fit you – like that fairy tale with the three bears. Not too little, not too much, but just right – did something strange to your gut. You weren't entirely sure you hated the idea.

"Something else for you to wear tonight," He added casually, eyes raking themselves over the dress he had carefully picked out just for you. "Thought it might be fun if we had a little challenge."

"Challenge?" You reiterated, face flushed with embarrassment. "So, what– you want me to just... like– keep it in... me...? The whole time?"

"Something wrong?" He asked. His tone was genuine, but his eyes... his eyes burned with a challenge.

His brows lifted slightly, and then, with a smirk just shy of smug, he said, "Just the other day, you were on your knees below my desk." He tilted his head, considering. "With a coworker in the room." He let that hang between you for a moment, savoring the way your breath caught before adding, "I think this might actually be pretty tame compared to that."

Your face burned as he pushed himself to his feet, moving with slow, deliberate purpose. It was a short distance between you, but somehow, it felt like he crossed an entire mile just to reach you. The space between you shrank to nothing as he reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was gentle—unbearably so.

Then, with the same ease, he pried the box from your grasp.

"Unless, of course," he mused, his voice impossibly soft, "you don't think you can handle it."

A sharp pulse of heat curled through you, something electric buzzing beneath your skin. Without thinking, you snatched the box back from him, your fingers curling around it with quiet defiance.

His smirk deepened.

"I could put it in for you, if you'd like," he offered, his voice dipping lower, silkier, as he took half a step closer.

"No, no—" You laughed, shaking your head. "No. Let me do it."

His gaze lingered, amused, knowing. But he leaned back, conceding.

You brushed past him and walked towards the bathroom, keeping the box tucked beneath your arm as if that would make this whole ordeal any less embarrassing. Then, once you had closed the door behind you, you set the thing on the counter, staring at it.

Intimidating – it stared right back at you.

Momma didn't raise no bitch, you thought.

Then, you were hiking the skirt of your dress up over your thighs and letting your panties drop to the floor. Once that was done, you reached for the box and pried it open. The thing was... kind of cute, actually. You turned it over in your palm, taking a moment to admire it.

You had used your fair share of vibrators before, but this one was different. It was longer than your finger, and was crooked up at the end. The base was flared, and looked as if a part of it was meant to sit outside... pressed up against your clit to provide even more stimulation.

And... well, there was no button.

Maybe this isn't a vibrator at all, you thought.

Still, that didn't stop you from getting a little nervous at the prospect of having it in you the entire night. Holding it up to your lips, you spit on it, letting your saliva run down its shaft, smearing it around. Then, you reached down, between your legs, and...

"Shit," You gasped the moment the cold silicone brushed up against you.

You pressed a little deeper, until the thing broke past the first layer of flesh, until it pressed right up against your entrance. You took a deep breath, willing yourself to see it through, then you pressed in a little deeper.

Do it for him, you thought.

It slipped in a little deeper.

Before you knew it, the entire thing was seated neatly inside of you, pressing up against all of the right spots, and–

"How the fuck am I supposed to walk with this thing?" You whispered to no one in particular, shifting your hips from side to side, just to test it. It would be possible, sure, but not without giving you a limp.

This feels so fucking weird, you thought. Still, you felt... full, and that was enough to have you squeezing your thighs together. Uncertainly, you slid your panties back up over your legs, holding it in place.

You smoothed down your dress, inhaled deeply, and stepped out of the bathroom.

Aki was waiting in your kitchen, seated casually, fingers drumming lightly against the counter. The moment he saw you, his gaze flickered down, then back up, slow and deliberate.

A smirk played at his lips. "Did I tell you that you looked great, by the way?"

You rolled your eyes, but the grin that tugged at your lips betrayed you. "Once or twice."

You reached for your bag, adjusting the strap over your shoulder. "Feels weird, but... I think I'm ready to go."

Aki hummed, standing up, his movements easy and unhurried. His eyes never left you. As he stood to his full height, you fiddled with your hair, reached for the purse you had left on the counter.

"So..." You slid the purse over your arm. "What exactly is this thing supposed to– like– do...?"

Aki didn't answer.

Instead, he held up the remote.

Your stomach dropped.

Before you could protest, before you could even process, he flicked it on.

A sharp jolt of sensation tore through you, white-hot and overwhelming. Your knees buckled, and you caught yourself against the counter with a strangled gasp, doubling over as your breath hitched in your throat.

"Oh—God—" You choked out, shaking your head, gripping the edge of the counter like a lifeline. "No, we can't... we can't do this."

"Of course we can." His voice was maddeningly smooth, entirely too calm. He took a step closer, tilting his head as if he were enjoying the way you trembled under his control. "As long as you don't make a sound, who would know?"

You glared up at him, biting back a whimper, your body still reeling from the sudden, unrelenting pulse.

"You're a fucking devil, Hayakawa," you grit out between clenched teeth.

Aki only smiled, smug and devastatingly pleased with himself. "You ready to go?"

"You're not gonna press that thing while I'm walking, right?" you asked, narrowing your eyes at him as you adjusted your bag over your shoulder. Your voice was casual, but the suspicion in your tone was unmistakable.

Aki stood in front of you, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the remote. He twirled it between his fingers absently, as if weighing his options. His expression was unreadable, but you didn't trust the way the corner of his mouth twitched—like he was barely holding back a smirk.

"If I fall," you warned, voice firm, "I'm gonna kick your fuckin' ass."

That made him roll his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he murmured, placing a hand at the small of your back as he guided you toward the door. His touch was steady, firm, a quiet reassurance despite the teasing glint in his eyes.

The night air was cool against your flushed skin as you stepped outside, locked up the apartment. The city hummed around you, neon lights flickering against the damp pavement, the distant murmur of voices and the occasional honk of a car filling the silence between you. Aki walked beside you, silent but ever-present, his pace easy and controlled.

When you reached his car, he opened the door for you—always infuriatingly gentlemanly when he wanted to be. You slid into the passenger seat, adjusting your dress as you settled in. The moment the door shut behind you, a tense silence fell over the car like a thick, invisible veil.

Aki started the engine, but he didn't put the car in drive right away. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and rolled it between his fingers before glancing at you.

"You can say pineapple if you want me to stop," he said simply.

You blinked. "...Pineapple?"

He nodded once, eyes flickering to you before shifting back to the road. "Pineapple."

A beat of silence passed. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, your stomach twisting—not with nerves, exactly, but something close. It was one thing to tease, to flirt, to push back against his games. But the quiet, firm way he had said it, the way he made sure you knew you had a way out—it made your chest tighten, just a little.

You turned your gaze out the window, the city lights blurring past as he drove. Neither of you spoke.

The tension in the car was thick, electric, stretched taut between you like an invisible wire. The remote sat in Aki's lap, and you had to fight the urge to glance at it every few minutes, unsure whether he'd press the button just to watch you squirm.

By the time you arrived at the restaurant, your palms felt a little damp against your thighs.

Aki pulled into a private lot, smoothly parking before shutting off the engine. He didn't move right away, only tilting his head to glance at you. The streetlight outside cast long shadows over his face, softening the sharp edges of his jaw, making his expression unreadable.

Then, without a word, he got out.

You inhaled deeply before following suit.

The moment you stepped out, Aki was beside you. He didn't hesitate before reaching for your arm, looping his through yours as he led you toward the entrance.

The gesture was... unexpected. And more than that, it made your breath catch.

You glanced up at him, but he was looking straight ahead, his grip gentle but firm. Your heart gave an unsteady flutter, something warm curling in your chest despite the nerves still buzzing beneath your skin.

The restaurant was stunning—warm golden lighting, sleek marble floors, soft jazz playing in the background. The air smelled of expensive wine and seared steak, and the quiet murmur of voices hummed through the space like a steady undercurrent.

Aki walked up to the hostess stand, his voice smooth as he said, "Reservation for Hayakawa."

The hostess, a polished woman with dark red lipstick and neatly tied hair, checked the list before offering a polite smile. "Right this way."

She led you through the softly lit restaurant, weaving past white-clothed tables and elegantly dressed patrons. Your heels clicked against the polished floor as you walked, your heartbeat a steady rhythm against your ribs.

At the table, Aki pulled out a chair and gestured for you to sit.

You arched a brow. "Such a gentleman," you teased, but you sat anyway, smoothing down the fabric of your dress as you settled in.

He only hummed, taking the seat across from you.

The waitress appeared moments later, offering water and letting you know that someone would be by soon to take your order. Then, just as quickly, she disappeared again, leaving the two of you alone.

You leaned back in your seat, letting the tension ease slightly as you picked up the menu. The prices had you raising an eyebrow. "This place is fancy," you murmured. "Didn't know you were the type."

Aki merely shrugged, looking at his own menu.

You tilted your head, studying him. Then, with a small smirk, you asked, "You take all your playthings out to dinner?"

Aki didn't immediately answer. He closed his menu, setting it down beside his water glass.

Then, he looked at you—really looked at you. His expression was unreadable, his gaze steady and quiet, but when he spoke, his voice was softer than you expected.

"No."

You blinked.

He didn't smirk, didn't tease, didn't roll his eyes the way you had anticipated. Instead, he answered you honestly. And that, somehow, was worse.

You swallowed. "Oh."

A pause.

Then, he tilted his head slightly, observing you, and added, "You're the first."

Your heart skipped.

A slow, warm feeling spread through your chest, catching you off guard. Your fingers curled around the edge of your menu as you tried—tried—to keep your expression neutral, to not let him see how much that simple statement affected you.

You looked away, staring at the flickering candle in the center of the table.

"I should feel special, then," you murmured, voice quieter now, lacking its usual teasing edge.

A pause. You could feel his eyes on you, studying, assessing.

"You are special," he said simply.

Confusing much?

Before you could decide what to do with that, the waitress arrived, all polite smiles and professionalism. You busied yourself with the drink menu, forcing normalcy into your voice as you ordered, though your fingers still gripped the menu a little too tightly. He ordered without hesitation, his voice smooth and confident, as if none of this affected him at all.

As soon as the waitress turned to leave, he shifted in his seat. The movement was small, barely noticeable, except you felt it immediately. A soft vibration, low and teasing, flared to life inside of you. Your body tensed – you bit back a gasp.

Your fingers twitched against the menu.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your shoulders to relax, feigning nonchalance as you slowly lifted your gaze to his.

His lips twitched, just barely.

The buzz lasted only a brief moment, a fleeting reminder, before it stopped as abruptly as it had started. He had only pressed it once, just enough to get a reaction. A test, a warning – a reminder that he had all of the power.

You took a slow sip of water, using the glass to hide the heat creeping up your neck.

"Really?" you said finally, voice low but pointed.

He hummed, tilting his head slightly as he flipped a page of the menu, as if he were deeply invested in his options. "Something wrong?"

You shot him a glare, but he wasn't even looking at you. If you didn't know him so well, you might have believed he was actually deciding between pasta or steak.

The worst part was the way he remained so composed. You, on the other hand, could still feel the lingering sensation against your clit, inside of your walls, a phantom buzz that made your pulse stutter.

You set your glass down with a deliberate clink. "Cut it out."

This time, he did look at you. Slowly. A dark amusement flickered in his gaze, and then the corner of his mouth lifted into something that wasn't quite a smirk, but close.

"No."

Your stomach tightened—not from the toy this time, but from the way he said it, quiet and confident and so sure. It was a single word, but it carried weight, a kind of promise.

You opened your mouth to argue, but just then, the waitress returned with your drinks. You reeled yourself back in, schooling your features into something neutral, ignoring the way your fingers still felt unsteady as you reached for your glass.

She placed a cocktail in front of you, a neat whiskey in front of him. "Are you both ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?"

You were about to say you needed more time when it happened again.

A second buzz.

You sucked in a breath, your grip tightening around the stem of your glass. It was brief, just as before, but somehow more insistent, more purposeful. Your body betrayed you, tensing before you could control it, and his eyes flickered, catching the movement.

He was doing it on purpose now.

You forced yourself to exhale slowly, smoothing your expression as best you could. Your heart pounded against your ribs, but you kept your voice steady as you turned to the waitress. "I'll have the—" you hesitated, the buzz still lingering in your nerves, still pulsing inside of you, "—the salmon."

If she noticed anything off, she didn't show it.

"And for you?" she asked him.

Dear God.

He leaned back slightly, taking his sweet, precious time. "The ribeye," he decided, then added, "medium rare."

She nodded, jotting it down before collecting the menus. "I'll get that started for you."

As soon as she walked away, you let out a slow breath and shot him a look. "You are impossible."

His lips curled around the rim of his glass before he took a slow sip of whiskey.

The rest of the dinner passed by in a similar fashion.

The candlelight flickered between you, casting shifting shadows along the white tablecloth, distorting the reflection in your water glass. Your fingers traced the condensation on the stem, trying to ground yourself in the cold, the solid, the real. But it was difficult when every few minutes, he pressed that damned button.

It wasn't constant. That would have been easier to handle. Instead, he wielded it with precision, pressing it just enough to catch you off guard, to remind you exactly who was in control of this moment.

Like now.

A fresh buzz pulsed inside of you, insistent and teasing, and your breath hitched before you could stop it. You hunched slightly, squeezing your thighs together, fingers tightening around your fork.

"Something wrong?" he asked, the picture of innocence, casually slicing into his steak as if you weren't actively trying to keep yourself from making a sound.

You shot him a glare, heat crawling up your neck. "You know exactly what's wrong," you hissed under your breath.

His mouth twitched, amusement sparking in his eyes as he chewed thoughtfully. "I really don't."

The worst part was that no one around you had noticed a thing. The restaurant hummed with soft conversation, the clinking of cutlery against plates, a low melody playing from unseen speakers. Everyone was completely unaware that under the table, you were gripping the fabric of your dress, fighting for composure.

You exhaled slowly, straightening, trying to salvage some dignity. He was enjoying this too much. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of breaking.

With careful movements, you speared a piece of salmon with your fork and lifted it to your mouth. A distraction. If you just focused on eating, maybe—

Buzz.

A choked noise escaped before you could stop it. It wasn't loud, barely more than a small gasp, but it was enough. He heard it. You knew because his gaze darkened slightly, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table as another wave rolled through you. The vibrations weren't strong, not really, but they were persistent, perfectly timed to make your body betray you.

You bit your lip hard enough to sting, hands trembling slightly as you set your fork down with exaggerated care. "You're such an asshole," you whispered.

His fingers brushed his chin as he leaned in slightly, eyes sharp, interested, voice low enough that no one else could hear it. "You should be more careful with your words. I'm the one with the remote, remember?"

Your breath hitched again as another pulse hit, and this time, you hunched forward, instinctively bracing yourself against the table. It was too much, too sudden, and a small, helpless sound slipped past your lips before you could swallow it down.

Mortification burned through you.

He heard it.

Worse, so did the couple at the next table. Not enough to know why, but enough to turn their heads slightly, their conversation pausing.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, heat flooding your face.

I'm gonna fucking murder him.

He had the audacity to smile.

"You alright?" he asked again, voice perfectly neutral, as if he wasn't the cause of your current predicament.

Your nails dug into your palm. "You know damn well something's wrong."

His smile widened, slow and satisfied. "Do I?"

You wanted to kill him. You wanted to grab the remote from his hands and throw it across the restaurant. You wanted to do something, but it was hard to think when the silicone toy was nestled so perfectly inside of you. Because you were sitting, it crooked right up against that spot that had you shifting your hips for more, rubbing you in all of the right ways.

The buzzing stopped.

Your body was still tense, coiled like a spring, your breathing uneven. But there was nothing. Just silence. No vibrations, no teasing pulses, nothing pressing against your stomach.

You blinked at him, suspicious.

He simply took a sip of his whiskey, regarding you with a look that sent a shiver down your spine.

"That's better," he murmured.

You exhaled, releasing the table from your death grip. The couple next to you had already resumed their conversation, the moment forgotten. You picked up your fork again, taking a small, careful bite of your salmon, hoping to find some sense of normalcy in the simple act of eating.

But the second you started to relax—

Buzz.

Evil asshole. A strangled whimper broke from your throat, too quiet for anyone else to hear, but loud enough for him. His grip tightened subtly around his glass, and you caught the way his jaw tensed for the briefest moment.

The realization sent another rush of heat through you.

Oh.

He wasn't as unaffected as he pretended to be.

You swallowed thickly, adjusting your grip on your fork, as if the very motion could somehow keep you grounded.

"My stomach is killing me," you murmured, barely moving your lips, your gaze dropping to his hands.

A lie, of course. One that anyone would be able to see through.

His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass, slow, measured. "We can leave whenever you want. Just say the word."

You almost took him up on the offer. Almost. The promise of paradise, of being taken home with him... of finally getting this damned thing out of you was almost too tempting to bear. But, then, he looked at you, and you knew what leaving meant.

It meant that you were throwing in the towel.

And you would be damned if you let Hayakawa win.

You licked your lips, feeling lightheaded from the heat, the tension, the thrill of it all. "You're awful."

"And yet," he pressed the button again, just once, just enough to make your body shudder, "You haven't said the word."

You couldn't argue with that.

The candlelight cast a warm glow over the table, flickering against the deep amber of Aki's whiskey. His fingers rested idly on the rim of his glass, tapping a slow, measured rhythm against the crystal. To anyone else in the restaurant, this was just another quiet dinner—a couple engaged in light conversation, enjoying a meal together.

But beneath the table, hidden from curious eyes, something far more dangerous brewed.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself as you picked up your fork. You couldn't let him see how much this was affecting you, couldn't let him have the satisfaction. If you could just get through dinner, if you could act normal, if you could pretend—

Buzz.

Your body jerked before you could stop it. The vibration shot through your core, sharp and insistent, and you had to grip the tablecloth just to ground yourself. Your breath caught, your thighs pressing together in an attempt to suppress the reaction, but it was too much, too sudden.

Across from you, Aki took a slow sip of whiskey, watching you over the rim of his glass. His face was unreadable, composed as ever, but you could feel his amusement, the quiet, patient way he was waiting for you to crack.

You forced your grip to relax, exhaling carefully. "You're quiet tonight," you said, forcing your voice into something resembling normalcy. "That's rare."

He hummed as he set his glass down, tilting his head slightly. "I'm just enjoying the view."

Your stomach tightened.

Buzz.

Your hand twitched violently, nearly knocking over your glass. You barely swallowed down a choked noise, your breath breaking in the middle.

Aki speared a piece of steak, utterly unbothered. "You seem jumpy," he remarked, his voice smooth, unaffected. "Something wrong?"

You shot him a glare, your nails pressing into your palm beneath the table. Bastard.

"No," you said flatly. "I'm fine."

Aki's lips twitched, but he let it go, cutting into his steak with slow, deliberate movements. "Good."

You took a shaky sip of your drink, gripping the stem of your glass tighter than necessary. You could do this. You just had to hold out.

For a while, it was almost normal. You both ate, making idle conversation, the tension beneath the surface like a live wire waiting to snap. Aki asked about your day, and you forced yourself to answer, focusing on each word, pretending nothing was wrong.

But every time you got comfortable, every time you thought maybe he would let up—

Buzz.

Your fork clattered against your plate.

Your shoulders tensed as another wave of heat rippled through you, your thighs squeezing together under the table. Your breath hitched, and you barely bit back the sound that tried to escape.

Aki took another sip of his whiskey, watching you closely. He noticed.

And he liked it.

You wanted to wipe that smug look off his face.

Swallowing hard, you picked up your fork again, though your hands still trembled slightly. You tried to keep eating, tried to act normal, but your body was betraying you, your skin flushed, your breathing unsteady.

You clenched your jaw. If he thought he was the only one who could play this game, he had another thing coming. Quietly, you kicked your heel off of your right foot, creeping towards his side of the table.

Your foot slid forward beneath the table, slowly, deliberately, until it pressed up against his thigh.

Aki's breath hitched.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you caught it—the way his fingers briefly tightened around his glass, the way his exhale was just a little too sharp.

Victory.

You tilted your head slightly, feigning innocence. "Something wrong?"

His jaw flexed, his grip tightening around his fork. His expression was still composed, but now you saw it—the crack in his calm.

Two can play at this game.

He exhaled through his nose, his fingers shifting subtly near his pocket. "Careful," he murmured.

Careful. A warning. A promise.

Your heart pounded, heat curling in your stomach. You knew it was indecent, knew it was reckless, but at this point, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

He was unfazed, calm as ever, while you were strung tighter than a bow, every muscle in your body aching from the strain of staying composed. Your hands, curled tightly around the edge of your glass, trembled ever so slightly. The soft hum of conversation in the restaurant around you felt distant, almost drowned out by the chaos of your own thoughts.

Aki's eyes flickered briefly toward you, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he placed his empty glass back down. He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing, and that knowledge made you feel both exposed and... well, entranced. He was playing with you, a slow, deliberate game, and he was winning.

But you weren't ready to give up just yet.

When the waitress returned to clear your plates, you took a deep breath, trying to gather yourself. You couldn't let him see how badly he was getting under your skin, how every little touch, every playful press of a button under the table, had your body taut with barely contained tension.

The waitress, oblivious to the storm between you and Aki, set the check down gently between you two. "Can I get you anything else tonight?" she asked, smiling brightly.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could form a word, Aki took the check into his hands, pulling his wallet from his jacket with a fluid motion. His fingers slid easily over the leather, pulling out his card with a practiced precision. Without missing a beat, he handed it over to the waitress, his calm demeanor not giving away a single hint of what was happening beneath the surface.

"No, thank you," Aki said, his voice steady and smooth, but there was something in his eyes—a quiet, almost predatory glint that made you shiver despite yourself.

The waitress took the card and left without another word, leaving you alone with him once more.

Your chest felt tight, your heart still racing from the unrelenting pressure. You didn't dare look up at him, afraid that if you did, you'd see that quiet satisfaction written all over his face. Instead, you focused on the table in front of you, picking at the edge of your napkin as if it could somehow anchor you to reality.

Minutes passed in heavy silence, the weight of his gaze never leaving you. Every time you thought you might catch your breath, you'd feel that subtle buzz deep within you, that dangerous reminder that he hadn't let you off the hook yet. The need to break free, to run, was becoming overwhelming, but you wouldn't give in—not yet.

You were wet – an understatement. Practically dripping down your own thighs, in fact.

Aki, on the other hand, was relaxed, at ease as if the world outside this small table didn't exist. He watched you, his gaze never faltering, like he was studying you in a way only he could.

Studying you the way a lion studied its prey before striking.

A few moments later, the waitress returned, her presence bringing a quiet relief. She set the check down in front of Aki, her smile polite and professional. "Here you go, sir," she said cheerfully. "All set."

You glanced up briefly, catching Aki's eyes as he took the check, still unaffected. He gave the waitress a polite nod before pulling the pen from the side of the folder, the small motion sharp against the quiet of the room. He signed his name fluidly, the pen moving effortlessly across the paper. The whole act was so smooth, so routine, but you couldn't help but watch him, feeling the tension rise once more.

There was a stillness in the air as he capped the pen and placed it back in the folder. His gaze turned back to you then, almost casual, but you saw the flicker of something in his eyes—amusement.

You hated him at that moment. Not for the first time tonight, but this time it was different. This time, it felt like the weight of everything was crashing down on you all at once. You were so close, so close to losing it.

How dare he stop? 

Wait... no.

"I hate you," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You didn't even know if you meant it, but it didn't matter. The frustration, the heat, the maddening pull between you—it all exploded in that simple admission.

Aki's lips quirked into a smile, and you could see it in his eyes—he was enjoying every second of this. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, almost affectionate.

You wanted to slam your fist against the table, wanted to scream at him to stop—to just let you be. But instead, you just sat there, your fingers curling against the tablecloth, feeling every inch of your body wound tighter and tighter.

The waitress returned again to take the folder, a small polite smile on her face as she walked away. Aki remained seated, unfazed, as if nothing had happened. But you were still burning. Every part of you, every nerve in your body was screaming for something you couldn't even name.

Aki stood, and the movement was so effortless, so fluid, it almost felt like he'd been waiting for this moment. His fingers brushed against the edge of your chair, the touch so light, so deliberate, that it made your breath catch. Then, before you could react, his hand was at your back, guiding you to your feet. You weren't sure when he'd moved so close, but now, his presence felt like it had always been there, surrounding you. The moment he touched you, a shiver rippled through your spine, curling deep within your chest.

He was careful, but there was no mistaking the firm pressure of his touch, the quiet assurance that he was in control, and you were—somehow—allowing it. You didn't dare look up at him, knowing that if you did, you'd see that knowing smile, that quiet satisfaction he always wore when he had you on the edge.

"We'll see about that tonight," he murmured, his voice so close, so low, it made your heart flutter, the words slipping into your skin and curling there, leaving a mark that felt too tender to ignore.

You wanted to respond, but no words came. Instead, you nodded slightly, as if it was the only thing your body could manage. His hand remained at your back, gentle yet firm, as he guided you through the restaurant. The world around you blurred, the chatter, the clinking of silverware, the quiet hum of music—all faded into the background. The only thing that mattered was his touch, the feeling of him close to you, pulling you along, leading you somewhere that you knew would change everything.

The door swung open with a soft chime, and the cold night air hit you, a stark contrast to the heat simmering between you. It was a relief, a brief moment to collect yourself, but then Aki was there again, his hand still at your back, steady and unwavering. His touch was like a promise. It was like a tether that held you to him, reminding you, pulling you closer, whether you wanted to or not.

You didn't say anything as you walked toward the car. You didn't need to. The space between you was filled with something too complicated for words. His hand never left you, never strayed far enough to make you feel alone. And as much as you might have wanted to step away, to breathe on your own, you didn't. You let him guide you, your steps in sync, your hearts beating in a quiet rhythm.

When you reached the car, Aki didn't release you. His fingers slid along the curve of your arm, a soft, deliberate touch that made your breath catch again, a feeling so intimate it left you dizzy. There was something about the way he touched you, something that felt like it was meant to be. His eyes met yours, and you saw that familiar spark in them—something that made the air between you both crackle with electricity.

He opened the car door for you, a small gesture, but it was enough. You hesitated for a moment, caught in the web of his gaze, before you slid into the passenger seat. The moment your body settled against the leather, you felt the absence of his touch, but it didn't last long. Aki slid into the driver's seat next to you, and the air between you both seemed to thicken, a silent understanding passing between you.

You were wrapped around his pretty little finger.

When the two of you stumbled into Aki's apartment complex, brushing past the desk clerk – who shot the two of you an incredulous look – practically giggling the whole time, it took a great deal of effort to keep yourself from ripping his clothes off right then and there. The car ride had been tense – the good kind. The kind where Aki's strong hand had maintained its firm grasp on your thigh the entire time, occasionally teasing a finger just beneath the slit in your dress. On the outside, you were calm, composed, even, but on the inside? You were dying.

Dying to get in his pants, that is.

Aki led you over to the elevator and pressed the up button with his finger. In the moment that it took for it to arrive, he didn't give you a moment of reprieve – stealthily flicking on the vibrator in a way that had you covering a gasp up with a laugh.

Then, he was ushering you into the elevator's open doors with a gentle tap on your ass. You shuffled in, breathing out a sigh of relief when he turned the thing off, and then settled into the corner furthest away from the buttons, away from where Aki had his back turned to you, fingers pressing into the sixth floor.

Long ride, you thought, swallowing as the doors slid shut with a quiet thud.

Then, there were two.

Subconsciously, perhaps, your eyes raked over the elevator's interior. Aki inched towards you, a devilish smirk on his face. He looked as handsome as ever, of course, and that was the worst part – it wasn't the way he pressed you up against the corner of the elevator like he didn't give a damn if those doors opened and someone saw the two of you. No, it was the way your heart skipped a beat when he slipped a hand beneath your neck, cradling the back of your head and then leaned��down.

Your lips brushed against his tenderly, then again – just barely there, just enough to tease. It felt easy, kissing him – too easy. It felt easy when he tilted your head to the side to deepen the kiss into something more sinful, lick at your lips, your tongue for entrance. It felt too easy to melt into him, letting him press you into the wall, moaning his name into the kiss.

Fuck. I love the way he kisses me.

"Aki," You breathed, the words smothered by his lips.

"Mhm?" He asked, kissing and kissing your skin until he crept closer and corner to your jaw, where he latched on. Not too much, but just enough to have your eyes fluttering shut.

God, he's depraved.

"Aki– the–" You shuddered, looking up at the camera behind him – the one in the opposite corner of the elevator. "There's cameras–"

He seceded, then, pulling back to get a look of you, and you swore you felt the energy change. It wasn't entirely lust anymore. No, the air around the two of you was steeped in something different. His baby blues scanned over the planes of your face, dropping down to your nose, your lips, for just a moment before returning to meet your gaze. Like he couldn't bear the thought of not being lip-locked with you. Like he needed you. Like you were so much more to him than just another hookup.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, and Aki was pulling away. Before you could protest, the elevator dinged, coming to a stop at the sixth floor.

Aki cleared his throat, nodding towards the doors as they opened. Wordlessly, you stepped past him, slipping out of the elevator. Your heels met the carpeted floor of the hallway, and then he was right behind you, ushering you towards the right.

What the hell was that? You thought.

It was silent, in fact, as the two of you walked further and further down the hallway – came to a stop right in front of his door, where he reached into his pocket and stuck a key into the knob.

I'm about to see his apartment. You realized. I'm about to see my captain's bedroom, and his kitchen and probably his bedroom.

This is dangerous, You peered up into his eyes. Without breaking eye-contact, he twisted the key and opened the door for you. Immediately, the scent of him wafted over you. The detergent he used. The hints of nicotine that always seemed to linger on his clothes – something so distinctly unique to him that you wished you could have packed it into a bag and taken it home with you.

You saw a peek of the foyer – the cubby where a few belongings were stashed away, along with a jar full of incense. Certain shoes were organized, neatly tucked away, and certain ones were strewn about. You didn't have to look at their small size to know they belonged to one of the other two.

To the right, a series of doors. Bedrooms, perhaps. There were three of them, all closed. In front of you, the open kitchen, the TV room, the glass-sliding-door balcony. Not a single thing out of place. Neat, as if he had cleaned up before leaving (only for Denji to leave his shoes out).

You whistled. It was way nicer than your old place on the other side of the city. Bigger, too, with a lot more open space to breathe in. "I gotta get a promotion."

Aki kicked off his shoes while you did the same, "Trust me, it's normally a mess. I feel like a single dad with those two freeloading here."

I could play mom with you, the thought – as fleeting as it was – crossed your mind. The thought of spending some time here with him. If he cooked, you would clean the dishes. If Denji was agitating him, you could pry him off his back, if only for a moment. He listened to you better, anyway.

It was a stupid thought, of course. One you tucked away. You were getting way ahead of yourself.

It's just sex, you thought. Our relationship is purely sexual.

Aki deposited his keys in the trinket tray on the empty kitchen counter, saying over his shoulder, "They're gone for the night. Power and Denji."

Oh.

Aki's fingers brushed yours as he led you down the dim hallway, his touch lingering for a moment too long before retreating. He didn't need to pull you along—your feet moved of their own accord, as if your body had already decided to follow wherever he went. The apartment was quiet, unusually so. Just the two of you now.

Alone.

Your finger found its way to the back of his shirt, trailing down the crisp fabric, tracing the line of his spine through the cotton. You felt the shift in his posture when you did it—how he went still for half a breath, muscles coiling just beneath his skin like he was trying not to react. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

He opened his bedroom door with a casual push, revealing a space dimly lit by the glow of the city seeping in through the curtains. It smelled like him—cool and sharp, with notes of cedar and something warmer underneath, like spice and sleep. You'd never stayed long in this room. Just enough to feel the warmth of his body, then the cold of his silence once it was over. But tonight felt different.

Or maybe it was you who felt different.

You stepped inside, hands at your sides as he moved past you, his tie already loosened at the collar. The top button of his shirt undone. Hair a little messier than usual, like he'd been running his hands through it on the way home. He didn't look at you right away, just dropped his keys on the nightstand and toed off his shoes. The moment stretched. You let it.

You stood at the edge of the bed, turning slightly so your back was to him, fingers reaching behind to toy with the zipper of your dress. Just enough to let him hear it. Just enough to make him look.

"Can you help me with my dress?" you asked, your voice soft, almost innocent—but the undertone was anything but.

There was a pause. The air shifted. You felt the heat of his presence behind you before he even touched you.

It was intimate – far too intimate, perhaps.

Wordlessly, he reached for the zipper, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your spine as he dragged it down with deliberate slowness. The sound was deafening in the quiet room—a hushed whisper of invitation. The fabric loosened, slipping off your shoulders with barely a breath of resistance, sliding down your body like it wanted to be rid of itself.

He didn't say anything. Not at first. His hands hovered for a moment before withdrawing, letting the dress fall to the floor with a gentle sigh.

You stepped out of it slowly, deliberate. You had chosen your undergarments carefully tonight—not that you'd ever admit it aloud. Black lace, sheer in places that mattered, hugging your curves in a way that always made his eyes darken.

"You look as ravishing as usual," he said, his voice low, a rasp of breath just against your ear. Then came the pause, the smile you couldn't see but could feel in the way the air shifted again, thick with it. "No, scratch that — much better than usual."

A shiver slid down your spine, and he caught it, the way he always caught those little tells. That was the dangerous thing about Aki. He paid attention. Even when he pretended not to.

With one hand at the small of your back, he nudged you gently toward the bed. You went without protest, letting the mattress meet your knees before sinking back against the soft, dark sheets. The comforter was cool against your thighs, a stark contrast to the heat building steadily inside you.

Aki followed, kneeling on the bed with you, his knees framing yours. He undid the rest of his tie slowly, watching you with that unreadable expression—equal parts focused and detached, like he was trying to memorize you without letting it show. The tie slid free and he tossed it beside you.

He leaned down and kissed you then—slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world, and maybe he did. The kiss started soft, his lips brushing yours with the gentlest pressure, but it deepened quickly, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb dragging along your cheek. You melted into it, into him, letting your hands find the open collar of his shirt, the slope of his neck, the quickening pulse beneath your touch.

"Did you have fun tonight?" he murmured between kisses, his mouth brushing yours, voice barely more than a breath.

You smiled against him, eyes half-lidded. "Yes," you breathed, then paused just as he kissed down your neck, lips dragging heat along your skin. "But you said have... like there's no more fun to be had."

He chuckled, low in his throat, his breath hot where it hit the shell of your ear.

"You wouldn't leave a girl hanging, would you?" you added, letting your nails drag gently down his chest through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Aki pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes darker now, pupils blown wide. That quiet restraint he always carried was still there, but barely. Just beneath the surface, you could feel the tension coiling tighter, like he was holding something back—and you wanted him to break.

He kissed your collarbone, then lower, each press of his mouth deliberate, unhurried. He didn't just want to get you undressed—he wanted to ruin you piece by piece. And you wanted him to.

God, I'm so horny for him.

His mouth trailed down your chest, grazing the swell of your breasts, leaving heat in his wake. You arched into him, just a little, just enough for him to notice.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, voice thick with desire, words vibrating against your skin.

Then he looked up at you from beneath those dark lashes, his gaze searing, his breath ragged. And you knew—you were his for the night.

Maybe, dangerously, he was yours too.

One last time, Aki plucked the small remote from his pocket — cruel little thing, harmless in size, devastating in what it did to you. You were already trembling, breath uneven, your thighs twitching with the aftershocks of his slow torment. You barely had time to protest before he flicked it on again, the soft hum of it cutting through the silence like a warning.

"Aki—" you breathed, but your words melted into a moan as the vibrator pressed deep inside, right where you were already raw and too sensitive.

"Just one more," he murmured, almost mockingly tender. "You can take it."

You wanted to tell him no—you should tell him no—but your hips betrayed you, jerking up into the touch with a desperation that made you feel stripped down to something primal. He watched you intently, jaw clenched, the same composure he always wore hanging on by a thread.

The sensation built too fast, already unbearable. Every nerve felt raw, each vibration slicing through you like heat lightning under your skin. You clenched the sheets, back arching, a helpless gasp escaping your lips.

"Aki—please—"

You didn't even know what you were begging for. For him to stop. For him to keep going. For him to end this exquisite ache that he kept building and building until it felt like you might unravel from the center.

Then, just when your body started to break apart beneath the pressure, just when you were about to fall over that edge—

He turned it off.

The silence left in its place was deafening. Your breath caught in your throat, your body still shaking with the ghost of it, your muscles tensed and coiled, suspended in some cruel, endless moment of not-enough.

He leaned down, slipping two digits beneath the drenched fabric of your lacy panties and reaching for that damned toy.

He pulled the toy away with maddening slowness, then brought it to his mouth. Eyes locked on yours, he licked it clean—deliberately, slowly, like he wanted to savor not just the taste, but your reaction. You felt your stomach tighten, something needy catching in your throat. You could barely breathe through the desire thick in the air, and he was feeding it like fire to oxygen.

Your hands, without thought, went for the front of his pants. You wanted him—needed him—so badly it hurt. The hunger had been clawing at you all night, and now it was a wildfire. You fumbled with his belt, fingertips brushing over the hard line of him through his slacks, and he let you—just for a second. Just long enough for your pulse to spike.

Then his hand caught your wrist, firm but gentle.

"Not yet," he said.

His voice was steady, but just barely. You heard the tightness in it, the restraint. He was just as wrecked as you were. That only made it worse.

You looked up at him, flushed and trembling, eyes wide with disbelief. You'd have begged him, if you thought it would work.

He leaned in, kissed your cheek once—frustratingly sweet—and murmured, "Stay just like that."

Then he stood, running a hand through his hair as he adjusted his shirt, fixing nothing, only stalling. You could see it in his eyes—he was holding onto control by the thinnest thread.

"I'll be right back," he said, voice low.

You heard the soft click of a door, the muted shuffle of movement just beyond the bedroom. He was in the closet, you realized—quiet, deliberate. The room felt colder without him in it, your skin still flushed and humming from where he'd touched you, teased you, ruined you—then left you wanting more.

You shifted against the sheets, trying not to think about the ache between your thighs, or the taste of his breath on your lips, or the fact that every second stretched longer with the weight of anticipation.

When he returned, your breath caught.

He was holding a box. Dark wood. Simple, unmarked. It looked old—worn at the corners, like it had been opened and closed a hundred times. Your heart picked up speed without your permission.

He didn't say anything right away. Just set it down at the edge of the bed and flipped open the lid.

Inside: rope—coiled, soft-looking, pale in color. A spreader bar made of polished black metal, a few small leather cuffs, and some other implements you didn't recognize at a glance. Not harsh. Not intimidating. But your mouth still went dry.

You looked up at him, eyes searching his face.

He was calm. Focused. His expression was unreadable—but not cold. There was a softness in the corners of his eyes, an edge of restraint you knew well. He saw the flicker of hesitation in you. The way your breath caught. He came closer.

"You're okay," he said gently. Not a question. A reassurance. "I'll walk you through it. I'm not going to do anything you don't want."

Your gaze flicked past him—up—and then you saw it.

A mirror. Mounted above the headboard. You hadn't noticed it before, not in the haze of arousal and low lighting. But now it was undeniable. You could see yourself. The rise and fall of your chest, the flush across your cheeks, your legs still curled under you, barely covered.

And you could see him, too. Behind you. Watching. Waiting.

"Come here," he said softly, extending a hand. "Stand at the foot of the bed."

You hesitated only a second before pushing up off the mattress and going to him, your feet unsteady beneath you. There was no smirk on his face now, no teasing. Just quiet intent.

He knelt down in front of you, holding the spreader bar in both hands.

"This is a spreader bar," he said, voice still low, almost clinical in its clarity. "It's adjustable. These cuffs go around your ankles—it keeps your legs apart."

Your throat tightened at the image, the implication of it. Your knees wanted to knock together.

He looked up at you again, watching your face closely. "Do you trust me?"

You nodded. It wasn't even a question in your mind. Not really.

"Use your words," he said, almost a whisper.

"Yes," you breathed.

His fingers brushed your calves as he knelt and gently fastened the cuffs around each of your ankles. The leather was cool against your skin, snug but not tight. Then he adjusted the bar, clicking it into place, widening the space between your legs.

Just enough to make you feel exposed. Just enough to make you tremble.

Oh God

You looked down at him—his hands still on your legs, his eyes lifted to meet yours. He stood slowly, the proximity between you electric.

He didn't touch you again. Not yet.

He let you stand there—open, waiting, your breath coming faster—and let the moment stretch. A mirror above you. A box of rope and silk on the bed. His gaze steady on yours like he could see straight through you.

And in that unbearable silence, you realized: he hadn't even started yet.

You were still standing at the foot of the bed, breath catching with each moment, the spreader bar forcing your legs apart just enough to make the air feel colder between your thighs. The room smelled like him—like cologne and something warm and cedar-rich—and you felt that scent wrap around you, heavy and intimate.

Aki stepped closer, holding something small and smooth in his hand. Another toy.

He didn't put it in immediately—just held it out between two fingers, letting you see it. A delicate, curved shape. Subtle slope. Sleek, purple-colored silicone.

"This one's new," he said, voice gentle, like he was offering you something precious. "It's soft. Stays in place. It's not going to hurt—just curl in deep and tease you a little."

You swallowed. He didn't need to be more specific—you could already feel what he meant. You tried to squeeze your thighs together instinctively, but the bar held you open, a frustrated whimper leaving your throat.

He looked down at your legs, satisfied. "Trying to run from me?" he murmured, then tilted your chin up with two fingers. "Can I put it in?"

You nodded. Then, remembering—use your words—you whispered, "Yes, sir."

He knelt again, slow and deliberate, and slipped it into place with practiced care, fingers brushing against you, warm and unhurried. The sensation wasn't overwhelming—yet. Just pressure. Promise – an ease with which it slipped into place.

You exhaled shakily.

Aki stood again and reached for the box. This time, he pulled out a coil of rope—soft to the touch, red, and carefully wrapped. It looked almost like silk in the low light.

"This is body-safe rope," he said. "It shouldn't hurt. And if it does, I want you to tell me immediately. Got it?"

You nodded, your pulse spiking again.

He unraveled it slowly, letting you hear the subtle swish of the fibers slipping between his fingers. Then he stepped behind you, the heat of him ghosting across your back.

"I'm going to tie your hands behind your back," he said. "But first..." He hesitated. "Pick a safeword."

You blinked. "You mentioned that earlier," you said quietly. "What is a safeword? Is it something I say when, like, I want you to stop?"

"That's right," he answered, stepping to the side just enough that you could see his face in the mirror. "Whenever it gets to be too much, or if anything doesn't feel right—you say your safeword, and I stop. No questions. No delay."

You bit your lip, thinking. He waited, patient.

"How about..." You glanced toward the mirror again. "Red light?"

He paused.

"Like a stoplight," you added, cheeks flushed.

Aki huffed a quiet laugh, fond and breathless. "Okay," he said. "Red light it is."

He stepped behind you again, and you felt the brush of the rope against your skin as he guided your wrists behind your back.

"Is this okay?" he asked, voice low in your ear, threading the rope beneath your arms and across your wrists.

"Yes," you whispered.

The fibers glided over your skin, warm and soft and sure. He was methodical—each loop measured, each knot secure but not cruel. The feeling of your wrists bound behind you made your chest tighten with something more than arousal—it was trust, raw and dizzying, as much as it was submission.

He's done this before.

You watched yourself in the mirror: bare, bound, and spread. And behind you—Aki. Focused. Beautiful. In control, but never far from tenderness. His hands – large, precise – and his blue eyes trained carefully on your body, searching for signs of hesitation.

When he finished, he stepped in front of you again, fingers trailing along the tops of your thighs.

"You look incredible," he said, quiet and reverent. "You're doing so well."

And then, he reached down—flicked on the toy.

You gasped, legs buckling slightly against the bar. It was gentle, at first—a steady pulse deep in your cunt, just enough to tease the edges of your sanity.

You couldn't close your legs. Couldn't cover yourself. Couldn't do anything but stand there and take it as he stepped back to admire the way you trembled.

It felt vulnerable – in a way you weren't entirely sure you hated.

"Do you remember the other night?" Aki asked, voice a low drawl in the stillness. "How you behaved in my office?"

Your stomach dropped. Your breath caught before you could answer, your thoughts immediately spiraling back—too tight skirt, too slow steps as you passed his desk, bending over too obviously to pick something up. Flirting with fire because you knew he'd catch it. You knew he always did.

He didn't wait for your reply.

"Wearing that skirt I specifically told you not to wear?"

A slow smirk tugged at your lips despite the heat already rising in your cheeks. "Maybe."

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer—dangerously close—until his shadow curled over your skin. His gaze dropped over your bound body, taking in every inch of you like you were a puzzle he already knew how to pull apart. The mirror caught your expression, your half-teasing smile, but you didn't miss the way your legs trembled, the subtle shiver you tried to suppress.

"Good," he hummed, reaching for something behind him. "Then you'll also recall that you asked me to punish you."

The words knocked the breath out of your chest.

You did.

You heard the sound before you saw it—a gentle swish of air, and then the soft thunk of something hard against his palm. He brought it forward, twirling it between his fingers like something casual.

A leather paddle.

Wide, smooth. Black letter patterned with red hearts. Firm enough that you knew he wasn't bluffing.

"I couldn't do what I wanted in the office," he said. "Too many ears. Too little space. And I had to show up to my meeting somewhat on time, of course."

Of course.

He tilted his head slightly, catching your gaze in the mirror, and his voice turned low and firm.

"But here, there's no one listening. No one to stop me. And you're going to take what you earned."

You squirmed, the anticipation already crawling down your spine. You tugged instinctively at the rope around your wrists—still tight, still binding—and tried to close your legs again. Useless. The spreader bar kept you open, vulnerable.

"Face the mirror," he said. "Back straight."

You obeyed without thinking, without questioning. Heart pounding in your ears as you craned your neck around to look at your disheveled reflection.

He stepped behind you, the paddle brushing teasingly against the bare curve of your ass.

"You're going to thank me after every one," he said. "And I want you to count. If you mess up, I'll start over again."

The paddle lifted.

Your body tensed.

"And you're not going to come. Not until I say you can."

Then the first strike landed.

A clean, sharp slap echoed through the room, and you gasped, legs jolting slightly in the cuffs. The sting was immediate, warmth spreading beneath your skin like fire licking its way into your core.

It was so much worse than his hand – or the riding crop, for that matter. It was flat, covered more area, and it stung.

But, shit, it felt exhilarating.

"O-one," you stammered. "Thank you."

"Thank you, what?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, "Thank you, sir."

"Good girl."

The second was harder—he wasn't holding back. The paddle cracked across the opposite cheek, the sharp sound punching the breath from your lungs.

"Two," you choked. "Thank you, sir..."

He hummed again, satisfied. Walked his fingers slowly down your spine as if to soothe, only to draw away again, cruel in how gentle he could be between blows.

He's so mean.

Each strike stole more of your control, every count tumbling from your lips between shallow breaths and stifled moans. The toy inside you hadn't stopped—its slow, curling rhythm synced with each rise in pain and pleasure until your whole body felt caught in a current you couldn't escape. Pressing right up against that spot so deep inside of you that you couldn't help but drip down your own thighs.

"Eight," you gasped, knees buckling. "T-thank you, sir..."

Aki stepped closer, his chest brushing your back, his voice like velvet against the shell of your ear.

"You're doing so well, Baby" he whispered, thumb tugging on the rope that bound your wrists. "Twitching, though. You close?"

He called me Baby.

You were. Too close. The pulsing toy, the heat in your skin, the tension in your thighs—it all coiled tighter with every breath.

"Aw... you look so pretty, I almost wanna let you cum," he said. "But, see, that's the problem. Brats don't get to cum. They need to earn it."

He dragged the paddle up the inside of your thigh, so slow, so cruel.

"I suppose I can't stop you. I can always just start the count over."

You whimpered.

Because you believed him.

And God help you, you wanted to behave. You wanted to please him. You just weren't sure you could.

What's happening to me?

"Nine," you gasped, breath hitching around the word, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Thank you, sir..."

The sound of your own voice felt distant, thready. Your knees trembled under the weight of sensation, thighs aching, muscles tight and burning from how long you had been holding yourself upright. The toy between your legs continued its slow, relentless pulse, curling heat deep into your belly.

It was too much. It wasn't enough.

Your wrists were bound tight behind you, arms straining slightly against the give of the rope. You were exposed, every part of you laid bare, trembling and flushed and dripping.

And still, he hadn't touched you.

Not really.

He was standing just a few steps away. Calm. Composed. Controlled, the way he always was when he had you like this—strung out and pleading, held up only by the tension in your limbs and the sound of his voice when he spoke.

"One more," Aki uttered, his voice low and even. "You can do one more."

I want to please him.

You shake your head before you even realize it. "Aki," you whisper, "I—I can't—I don't think—"

His footsteps were slow as he approached, a measured, steady sound against the floor. He didn't rush. He never did. He stopped just close enough for you to feel the heat of his body, the way your own ached for his, like your whole being was reaching for him.

"You can," he said softly, almost like he was speaking it into you, willing you to believe it. "You've already come this far."

Tears stung the corners of your eyes. Not because you were in pain, but because you were so close to breaking, and the only thing you wanted was him.

Him, him, him.

"I don't want—" Your voice cracked, catching on the words. "I– Can't take it."

His brows drew together, gently, not out of confusion—but recognition.

"You can. I know you can," he murmured, stepping closer. One of his hands settled at your hip. The other rose, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek, his knuckles warm against your skin. "You're not alone. I've got you."

Your heart felt full. Your face was alight with warmth.

What am I feeling right now?

You shuddered at the contact, the gentleness of it breaking something loose inside of you. Your lips parted, and before you even knew what you were saying, it was pouring out of you—unfiltered, needy, raw.

"Aki," you breathe, desperate, aching, "I just want you. Please—please, I need you. I can't—I can't do this without you—"

You make my heart feel weird, The words built up on the back of your tongue – shocking you, forcing your eyes to widen. What's going on?

His hands were on you now, steadying you, holding you upright when your legs threatened to give.

"I got you," he said.

"I need to feel you—just—please, touch me, please—" You weren't even sure what you were begging for anymore. His hands, his mouth, his voice, his presence—you would have taken anything. You just wanted him. Only him.

He exhaled softly, a sound that carried both restraint and affection.

"You've been so good for me," he breathed, gently, firmly. "You've taken everything I've given you."

Your wrists were shaking behind your back. Carefully, Aki undid the knot, unraveled the rope from your arms with slow precision. He didn't rush—he never did. His fingers were gentle, deliberate, like he was undoing something sacred.

The second the rope slipped away, your arms fell forward, weak. You collapsed into the bed, burying your face in his sheets that smelled just like him, just like home, hands curling into the fabric.

He soothed you easily – one arm around your back, the other cupping the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair.

Don't leave me.

"Don't go," you whispered.

Don't ever leave me.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replied. "I've got you."

The toy had long since stopped its humming, but you didn't care anymore.

I need him.

You tilted your head up, searching his face. "Can I... have more?"

Aki studied you curiously. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, where a tear had tracked down.

"You want... more?" He asked, seeming thoroughly surprised by your request.

"Yes," you breathe. "Want you."

For the first time that night, something cracked in him. His eyes went darker, softer, deeper. His thumb lingered against your jaw, then dipped down to graze your lips.

"You're insatiable."

You trembled at the words.

His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting you with ease. He lifted you onto the bed—finally, finally—and laid you down like you were something fragile.

But the way he looked at you... hair disheveled, blue eyes peering into yours, chest heaving up and down like a wild animal...

Just sex.

It's just sex.

Nothing more.

He set the toy to the side – again, finally – and you whimpered, not from the loss, but from the anticipation.

"I've got you now," he smiles, pressing a kiss just above your knee. "You can have whatever you want."

Your mouths met in a messy, breathless rush—more instinct than intention, a blur of teeth and lips and too much feeling. He stumbled a little, catching himself on his forearms, laughing softly into the kiss as you both nearly tumbled back.

You laughed too, surprised, lightheaded. For a second, it felt easy. Like maybe this didn't have to be so heavy. Like maybe you could float in the in-between forever.

But then your heart fluttered.

And you knew. You knew how dangerous that was.

You weren't supposed to feel like this.

Even when your hands rose of their own accord — shaking, unsure — and tugged at his shirt, dragging it up and over his head with a sudden burst of urgency, he didn't rush. He didn't make a sound. He just let you.

The sight of him unraveled you further. Pale skin dappled with old scars, lines of healed violence mapped across his ribs, his abdomen, as though his body had collected every storm he'd ever walked through. You reached out before you could think better of it, fingertips skimming the faintest line along his side — one you hadn't noticed before. A scar, thin and jagged, raised ever so slightly.

Your touch paused there.

You didn't ask where it came from. You didn't need to.

He tensed, just slightly, as your thumb brushed it. But he didn't pull away.

The silence was thick, a held breath stretched between heartbeats. You let your hand fall back to the bed, watching him watch you — your chest rising, falling, your lips parted in some half-formed thought you couldn't speak aloud.

Because this wasn't just desire. Not anymore.

It was everything you weren't saying. The things you needed but couldn't admit. The way your chest ached with the simple truth of it: you wanted to be known. Wanted to be seen — and you knew, without him ever saying it, that he did. He saw you. All of you.

And that's what scared you most. You had never let anyone in like that before.

He moved again, this time smoother, more sure. He pressed you into the mattress, hands finding the dip of your waist, your hips, your thighs. His touch was reverent — like he was memorizing you by feel. He looked at you like you were something holy and wrecked at once. Like he wanted to worship and ruin you all in the same breath.

And you wanted it. You wanted him.

Your breath hitched as his weight shifted over you, settling into the space you hadn't realized you'd made for him. He hoisted your legs up onto his hips, and the sensation hit like fire and wind — devastating, electric. A gasp escaped you, unbidden.

He didn't move right away. He just held you there.

The moment stretched — your legs trembling where they rested against him, your palms gripping the sheets in desperation you couldn't name. There was something terrifying in how still he was.

Maybe all of this — the tension, the ache, the way your body answered his so willingly — was just a way of saying what you didn't have the words for.

That you wanted him.

That you'd always wanted him.

That you didn't know where this ended, and for once, you didn't care.

"You're not gonna take 'em off?" You teased, nodding towards your black panties.

He quirked a brow, "And ruin this pretty outfit you put on just for me? That would be a crime."

So, rolling your eyes – with no real amount of venom – you gripped the zipper on his slacks, rolling it down slowly, tentatively. "That's a shame, because I plan on taking these off."

And, a little breathlessly, a little flushed – he let you. He let you unzip his pants, cobalt gaze tracing your fingers as they undid his belt, grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled them down. There, before your hungry gaze, his boxers were strained with the pressure from his erection. You took a moment to admire him, admire the way the thick bulge stood out against the fabric – the way it was tinted darker where he had leaked a bit of precum.

"What's the matter, Baby?" He teased, "You need something?"

Baby.

Your eyes flitted up to him. Then, wordlessly, you reached for the elastic waistband, slipping your fingers beneath and tugging them down – just enough to free his cock from its constraints. The damn thing nearly hit you in the face when it sprung free, pink tip glistening the way a blade of grass held dew in the morning.

And you couldn't help the way your body reacted. No, you couldn't help it when you wrapped your hands around him, or when you licked your lips. And you certainly couldn't help it when you leaned forward – keeping his gaze the entire time – and wrapped your lips around the flushed head, sucking him into your mouth with a satisfied hum. The bead of precum melted onto your tongue like butter, salty and real.

Instinctively, perhaps, his hand went for the back of your head – fingers tangling themselves into your hair, gripping you by the base. Gently, of course, but just enough for it to sting.

The pain balances the pleasure.

"That's it, pretty," He groaned – low and relieved, like he had been aching for you all night. "Get it nice and wet," Above you, his head rolled back. Below, you hollowed your cheeks, pushing him a little deeper into your throat. "Fuck, just like that."

Call me a good girl.

Tell me I'm a good girl.

You moved, back, then forth – going a little deeper each time. Your saliva did a great job at getting him wet. In fact, as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him once more, you could hear it – hear how wet you had gotten him every single time he met the back of your tongue, your throat.

"Shit," He huffed out.

And the word only motivated you to suck him in harder, faster. You had long since forgotten your goal of teasing him. No, now all that remained was the desire to please, the desire to make him feel good.

The desire to be good for him.

"Your mouth feels so good," He purred, guiding your head while simultaneously allowing you to set your own pace. "Deeper, Baby, just like that."

You felt that fire in your core reignite, making you press your legs together while you pulled back for a moment to slurp on the tip, spit dripping down his shaft. You tilted your head to the side, wrapping your hands around what you couldn't fit into your mouth to work the rest of him.

As you braced your hands on his hips to sink your head the rest of the way down, you met some resistance, eyes watering as you felt yourself gag on him.

What? He was big.

Above you, the muscles in Aki's arm tensed. With a blissful sigh, he leaned his head back. He ran a hand over his hair and down his face, lashes fluttering shut. He was so fucking pretty, it made your heart skip a beat.

That's normal. Totally normal.

His chest rose and fell steadily. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, which parted soon after to release a trembling sigh of your name.

Then his hand fisted itself tighter in your hair, and you moaned – really moaned, none of that fake shit. You never would have guessed that you were into hair pulling, but... well, here you were.

Just when you went back for more of him, he tugged you off. His dick sprang free with an uncharacteristically funny pop.

You knitted your brows, peering up at him through lust-ridden eyes. "W'happened?" You asked, still a little breathless.

"If you keep going the way you're going–" He panted, catching his breath softly, gently. "I'm not–" He paused again. "I feel like... if I can't be inside of you, I'm gonna go fucking crazy."

Well, shit.

Deciding that you couldn't have agreed more, you climbed back on the bed – back, back, until your head hit the headboard. His eyes trailed you the entire way, not at all unlike the way a cat's eyes might have trailed its prey. Then, when you parted your legs slowly, savoring his reaction, his eyes darkened, pupils dilating at the mere sight of you.

He climbed back onto the bed with you. His lips met yours in the middle – but only briefly before he was kicking his boxers off somewhere to the side and pressing himself right up against you.

Right where you needed him.

He teased the head over your heat – hand gripping the base while the tip smeared an obscene mixture of your spit and his precum over your needy pussy. You jumped when he brushed up against your clit, back arching up off of the bed.

And, of course, cruel man that he was – he smirked, rubbing your clit back and forth, back and forth with his dick. It was as if he couldn't have cared less about how dirty it was. And you could do nothing but mewl, cry out, arch... rut your hips down to chase more of that sweet, sweet stimulation.

When you decided you'd had enough, you reached down between your body and his. His gaze flicked up from the place where the two of you met for a moment – just briefly enough to catch your eyes as you steered the head of his dick down against your dripping cunt.

And, when it caught on your entrance, the head slipped in with ease. (You had been teased all night, after all). The two of you released a similar sound, gasping in perfect tandem with one another as he finally breached the surface.

Then, he was sliding in the rest of the way, and fuck, the stretch felt good.

Your hands flew up to his back, fingernails digging into the muscular planes of his shoulder blades. He slid out a little bit – only slightly, like he couldn't bear the thought of not being inside of you – and then back in. Out, then in.

The slow tenderness wasn't something you were used to. In fact, your pussy was clenching down on him already, heat boiling up in your stomach at a rapid pace because you had been waiting all night for him to fuck you like this.

He rolled his hips down, back, down again – and then something wildly embarrassing happened.

You came. You came with a warning cry of his name, legs twitching around his waist. You came, spilling arousal onto his dick and his bed. You came only a few thrusts in.

The world seemed to tip on its axis as you came down from your high. Through it all, he kept you pinned down, eyes boring into yours like watching you fall apart all over him was his favorite pastime.

And, then, he laughed. It was a little breathless, a little impressed, but a laugh nonetheless. "You missed me that much?"

Kill me now.

You covered your face with your arm, slapping him on the chest. "Fuck you."

"If you say so," He grinned – you decided that you loved his smile.

And then he was moving again.

Not hurried. Not careless. Just slow — so unbearably slow — pulling back like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Like he felt the ache coiled beneath your skin, the anticipation building, rising, threatening to spill over.

Your body tensed before you even realized it, back arching, a silent plea written in every trembling inch of you. And he answered — with pressure, with presence, with that rhythm only he could find. He returned to you all at once, all heat and weight and tension, and you met him there, instinctively, helplessly, grounding yourself in the friction where your bodies aligned and moved and pressed together.

It wasn't frantic. It wasn't rushed.

It was tender.

It was the kind of closeness that blurred the lines between pain and need, between comfort and desperation. His breath ghosted against your cheek, your shoulder, your throat. Every part of you lit up where he touched — and where he didn't.

You couldn't separate yourself from him anymore — not in this moment, not in this movement, not with the way your hips rose to meet his. Not with the way your fingers curled into his shoulders like you needed to hold onto something, anything, just to stay grounded.

Because it was too much – and it still wasn't enough.

The world narrowed to this: the press of him, the tension winding tighter, the heat pooling deep in your belly as your body moved in sync with his, again and again. Like a language only the two of you knew. Like breathing.

Like wanting. Like need.

He felt like too much, all at once.

His weight over you, his breath against your skin, his hands clutching your hips like he couldn't get close enough—you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't stop. Your bodies moved in frantic rhythm, messy and hungry and loud. Skin slapped. Your spine arched. Your thighs trembled where he held you, kept you, pinned you down like you were something he needed to ruin while he fucked you past the point of hypersensitivity.

And maybe that was what you wanted. Maybe you wanted to be undone, to have something else tear you apart so you wouldn't have to deal with the noise building behind your ribs. It was easier to focus on the pull of his body, on the rough, perfect friction, on the sound of him groaning under his breath when you moved just right.

It was easier to pretend that was all this was.

Because anything more—anything deeper—felt too dangerous to name.

You clung to his shoulders, nails biting in, eyes fluttering shut as he drove into you harder, again and again, like he couldn't get enough. He felt so good it was almost unbearable, like pleasure was too thin a word for it, too neat.

No, he was fucking the shit out of you.

But your body betrayed you. The way you gasped his name was a dead giveaway. The way your arms wrapped tighter around him.

I wish I could keep him here forever.

Buried inside of me.

You shook the thought out of your head.

It didn't mean anything. He didn't mean anything. It was just the heat. The urgency. The way he made your nerves light up and your stomach twist in on itself.

He shifted his weight and grabbed your thigh again, rough this time, pulling your leg up and over his hip in one practiced motion. You gasped—sharp and startled—as he sank deeper, pressed closer, sweat slipping between your skin and his.

"Aki, fuck," You cried out.

It felt so good. God, it felt right. And that's what scared you the most.

Because it shouldn't. It wasn't supposed to.

This was supposed to be simple. Just release. Just bodies. Just a way to burn off the ache.

So why did your chest ache?

You squeezed your eyes shut, desperate to block it all out – the thoughts, the tightness in your throat, the strange warmth curling in your belly that had nothing to do with his touch – and just focus on him. You could hear the rush of his breath, the rasp in his throat, feel the way his muscles tensed under your fingertips. It made you dizzy, made you want to dig in deeper, to hold him there and never let go.

But no. You wouldn't go there. You couldn't.

Because the second you thought about what this might mean, what it might become—you'd lose control completely.

And he wasn't looking at you like someone who was seeing you. Not really. He was looking like he always did: focused, sharp, lost in the moment. Not in you. Not in what this was doing to you inside.

So you matched his rhythm. You moved with him, against him, chasing sensation, grounding yourself in it. Anything to drown out the noise in your chest. Anything to ignore the unfamiliar tightness wrapping itself around your ribs like a question you didn't want to answer.

"You take me so well, pretty," He commented.

Your head fell back. He followed, pressing in deeper, his hand splaying against your thigh like he owned it. You let him. You wanted him to. Because if he touched you like that—rough and hungry and full of intent—maybe it would mean you didn't need anything else.

Maybe you could pretend that was enough.

But even now, tangled together, breathless and shaking, some part of you whispered that it wasn't.

Still, you didn't let yourself listen.

You just held on tighter. Let your nails drag across his spine. Let your body move in time with his, fast and reckless, until all that existed was this—the blur, the heat, the tension stretched thin between your lungs every single time he fucked into you.

You couldn't think.

Not clearly.

Not with him buried up to the hilt in your tender pussy.

Everything had bled into sensation — too much and not enough all at once. The drag of his hands down your sides. The weight of his body over yours. The sharp snap of his hips against yours that made your back arch, made your vision spark at the edges, made you cling to him like you'd fall apart if you didn't.

You didn't mean to be this far gone.

But he was relentless.

And now you were just feeling — mouth parted, breath caught somewhere in your throat, pulse beating fast beneath your skin. You felt yourself spiraling, unraveling, losing track of where your body ended and his began. Every inch of you was taut and burning. Everything about him — the sound of his breath, the strength in his grip, the way he moved with precision like he knew what you needed before you even said it — it overwhelmed you.

It was raw. It was animalistic.

You couldn't hide how much you wanted it.

Worse: you couldn't hide how much you wanted him.

He pressed his forehead to yours for a second — brief, heavy — before shifting his angle again, and the noise you made at the sudden change was nearly a sob. You reached for his back, nails raking over damp skin, trying to ground yourself in something. But nothing grounded you. You were weightless, untethered.

It was just pleasure, you told yourself. That was all.

It had to be.

But then you looked at him — really looked — and the ground tilted under you.

His eyes were locked on your face, not your body. And he looked ruined in a way you hadn't seen before — jaw slack, brow furrowed, hair sticking to his temples, like all of his focus was in this. On you. He wasn't talking. He never did during moments like this. But there was something in his silence that made it worse — made the tension snap even tighter in your chest.

"Oh god," You breathed out, like it was a prayer. Like he were some divine entity and you a devout follower.

A sound caught in your throat. A broken gasp. You didn't even recognize your own voice anymore. Every moan, every breath, it all felt like something you weren't controlling. Just responding.

God, he was everywhere.

His hands gripped your thighs and pulled you in closer, hoisting your legs high around his hips, and you felt him sink deeper — all the way in — and everything inside you locked tight around it. You cried out. Clung to him like you were drowning.

The worst part wasn't the desperation.

It was that you didn't want it to stop.

You weren't thinking of after. You weren't thinking of the mess or the confusion or the fact that, when he walked out that door, you'd be left with nothing but the memory of how close he'd made you feel.

You were thinking about the way his eyes flicked to your mouth when you gasped.

The way he held you like you were something he wanted to touch, not just something he needed to use.

The way your body burned for him — not just with want, but with something you didn't have a name for.

You tilted your head back into the pillows and shut your eyes, trying to focus on the rhythm, on the pace. He gave you no time to catch your breath — kept driving into you, deep and sharp and perfect, like he knew you were right at the edge and wanted to hold you there, stretch it out.

"Fuck me!" You pleaded with him. "God, Aki– fuck– don't stop!"

You needed more.

"Aki—" His name slipped out again before you could stop it, broken and hoarse and filled with too many things you didn't want to unpack.

He grunted — just once — like the sound of it meant something to him. Like he liked hearing it from you.

And your stomach turned again.

Not in discomfort.

But in that way that told you you were spiraling toward something you couldn't undo.

He leaned over you more, mouth brushing your jaw, and the way he was panting — hard, wild, desperate — almost made you forget he was the one in control. That he always was. You could feel it in the tremble of his arms, the way his hips faltered just once, just barely at the sound of your voice.

It made you feel powerful and helpless all at once.

"Keep saying my name like that," He begged you. Commanded you.

You clutched at his hair. Pressed your face into his neck. Tried to disappear into his body, into the moment, into anything but your own thoughts.

Because something inside you was starting to crack.

Not from the heat. Not from the building pressure.

But from how right it felt.

It was just sex. Contractual. It wasn't supposed to feel like being wanted. It wasn't supposed to feel like a connection.

You weren't supposed to care.

But your chest was tight. Your hands were shaking. Your breath was caught somewhere between a sob and a moan and your body was begging for release, for him, for something you couldn't even name.

What the fuck?

His pace quickened, erratic now — like even he was on the verge of losing it — and you whispered something against his skin that you couldn't even hear.

"Close–" You exhaled shakily, digging your nails into his back so hard that you knew you would leave marks. "Don't stop– Aki, Baby–"

You didn't mean to say his name again.

You didn't mean to sound so needy.

But everything about this was out of your hands now. Out of control.

You were burning. Blinding. Drenched in heat and confusion.

You were unraveling.

Every breath came fast and uneven, your body stretched so taut it felt like even the smallest push would break you open. Aki moved with a focused intensity, deliberate and unrelenting, like he knew exactly how close you were—like he could feel the way your body clung to him, how you trembled under every thrust, every shift of his weight against yours.

You gripped at him blindly, hands slipping up his back, over his shoulders, fingers pressing into sweat-damp skin like you were trying to memorize him by touch alone.

He's so beautiful.

You couldn't think. You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe.

But feeling—you felt everything.

Every inch of him. Every sound he made. Every glance he gave you between half-lidded blinks, his brows furrowed like he was trying not to lose himself too soon. Like he needed you to stay with him through every second of it.

It should've been just your body reacting.

Just nerve endings firing, just heat and friction and the way he filled you so completely that you forgot how to hold yourself together.

But it wasn't.

It wasn't just that.

You looked up—just for a moment, just to see his face—and the sight of him, undone and gorgeous, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world—

That was when it hit you.

It was like being slammed in the chest with a truth you didn't want to see. Your breath caught. Your heart stuttered beneath the pressure of it.

You wanted him.

Not just like this. Not just the physicality of him or the way he made you feel like you were burning alive.

You wanted him. The person. The man. The quiet steadiness, the rare softness, the way he touched you like you meant something even when he didn't say it out loud.

"Fuck– 'M gonna cum–" Your legs trembled around his waist, eyes fluttering shut. "Akiiii– Oh, God."

You'd been trying not to name it. You'd buried it under desire, under the illusion that this was just about chemistry, just about two people using each other to escape.

But it wasn't. Not anymore.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Not when your body was seconds away from shattering around him and all you could think was I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose him.

"Aki–" You breathed.

He replied back like he meant it, "I got you, Baby."

The sensation built inside you, unbearable in its intensity. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to hold it back, to keep some piece of yourself from slipping out along with it.

But it was no use.

Your body was already tipping, pushed past the point of no return.

And this time, when the pleasure surged through you—hot and sharp and consuming—you didn't fight it. You didn't hide from it. You let it take you.

You came for the second time that night, crying out for him as you did so – colors and shapes dancing behind your eyelids. You gripped him like a vice, like you would die if you let go.

He wasn't far behind you – hips staggering only a few more thrusts later. When he tumbled over the edge after you, he buried himself as deep as he could go, nestling his head into the crook of your neck, brows furrowed. He came with the prettiest sigh of your name – the syllables tumbling off his lips like they were meant to be there. Like you were the only name that had ever been there. And when the warmth came – an explosion like fireworks deep inside of you – you arched up into him one final time, wrapping your arms around him and cradling his head to your chest. It was something so intimate– so off-limits.

Sexual intimacy? Easy. But having him pressed up against your chest, back rising and falling with the weight of his breaths... that was something else entirely.

The heat between you both hadn't faded. In fact, it lingered, curling around your skin like a soft burn, more familiar now than the fire that had taken over you earlier. Every breath you took, every small movement of his body against yours, sent waves of warmth flooding through you.

His chest rose and fell against yours, slow and steady, but you could feel the slight tremor that still lingered in his muscles, in the way he gripped you, as though you might slip away from him. You didn't want to slip away. Not from him. Not now.

You let your fingers trail over the lines of his back, tracing them absentmindedly, though you could feel the weight of it pressing into your chest. The tenderness of the moment felt like it was seeping into you, something quiet and unexpected. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded it, yet it felt so much deeper.

It didn't come all at once. It wasn't some sudden revelation, but more like something deep within you slowly unfurling, pushing itself out into the light.

His fingers lightly brushed the side of your face, gently guiding you to look up at him. You couldn't avoid the look in his eyes—the raw, unguarded tenderness there, the way his gaze softened the edges of the world around you. It wasn't just affection, not just care, but something deeper. Something that made your heart beat erratically, something that you couldn't hide from, no matter how hard you tried.

"You okay?" he whispered, voice barely above a breath.

You could only nod as you held onto him, wrapped your arms around him as though he were the anchor in a storm, trying to ground yourself in the moment

And as you did, that terrible, rotten truth bloomed fully in your chest.

You were catching feelings.

The bed felt too empty when you woke, a coldness that you hadn't expected wrapping around you. The comfort of his touch, the weight of his body against yours, had faded like a dream. You didn't want to move. Didn't want to acknowledge that you were alone again.

But the absence of him—his warmth, his presence, the steady rhythm of his breath beside you—was undeniable. And in that moment, the pull of loneliness, sharp and raw, snaked its way into your chest. It felt different than the quiet isolation you were used to.

You ran your fingers through your hair, your skin still flush with the remnants of him, and with a reluctant sigh, you rose from the bed. The silence in the room was almost suffocating, pressing down on you like a weight you couldn't shake off. Above all else, you were dressed in one of Aki's sweaters. Nothing else.

The air was cool against your bare legs as you moved toward the window. The quiet outside seemed to mirror the stillness inside you, and the moment your eyes landed on him—leaning against the balcony railing, cigarette between his fingers—you felt that same pull.

You hadn't meant to look, hadn't meant to stand there, watching him like that. But there he was, his back lit by the dim glow of the streetlights below, the faint haze of cigarette smoke curling in the air around him. The darkness seemed to swallow him whole, yet he stood there.

You hadn't expected to find him like this. But here he was, alone, like he didn't quite belong in the world around him.

The door creaked as you stepped outside. He hadn't noticed you yet, lost in the quiet world he had made for himself on the balcony. You hesitated, uncertain of what you even wanted. To speak? To retreat? You couldn't tell. The pull was too strong, though, and before you could stop yourself, you stepped further into the night, closer to him.

Even though you knew you shouldn't.

The soft scrape of your feet against the ground was the only sound between you, and Aki turned slowly, his gaze meeting yours. It wasn't an angry gaze, or even a surprised one—just quiet, a little weary, and with something you couldn't quite place.

"Did I wake you?" His voice was low, but it had a softness to it that caught you off guard. It was just a question, simple and harmless, but you felt the weight of it settle over you, heavy and almost intimate.

"No," you said, shaking your head. You weren't sure why you felt the need to lie. But it was more than that. You didn't want him to know. The vulnerability of the moment, the strange way your chest felt so full and yet so hollow, was something you wanted to hide.

He nodded, taking another drag from his cigarette, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something in the quiet between you that made everything feel fragile, like the air itself might shatter if either of you said too much.

The night was cool, the stars hidden behind the haze of city lights. You stepped closer, but even then, there was a distance between you. Not a physical one, but an emotional divide you couldn't cross. You felt it pulling at you, making every movement feel like a decision.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you," you began, your voice faltering slightly. You didn't know what you wanted to say. You didn't even know why you were standing there. But the question hung in the air, and the tension between you two only grew.

Aki's eyes softened slightly, his lips pulling into a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's fine. You're not interrupting anything," he said, his voice a little lighter. But there was something heavier in his tone now, something that wasn't there before.

Does he... feel it too?

No, you corrected yourself. Don't be an idiot.

For a moment, you both stood there, the cigarette smoke lingering between you like an unspoken barrier. His gaze never wavered, but it wasn't the usual guarded look. There was a softness to it, something open, but only barely. And that, more than anything, made you feel more vulnerable than you ever had before.

"So... you gonna tell me where you sent Denji and Power off to for the night?" You teased, elbowing him before leaning over the balcony. "Or are you gonna keep pretending they just so happened to be out for the night?"

The ghost of a grin lingered on his lips. He looked so pretty beneath the moonlight that – for a moment – you wondered if this was all even real.

"I don't know what you're talking about," He replied.

"Bullshit," You jabbed back. "Not like they have friends."

With a sigh, he tapped the end of his cigarette, casting his gaze onto the empty streets below, flicking ash off of the end of it. "Alright. I might have sent them to Himeno's."

The answer should've been funny. It should've made you roll your eyes and laugh and call him out for how goddamn obvious he was. But the words just sort of sat there between you, too heavy to move.

You nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. "Why?"

A beat passed. Two.

"I told her I needed a break," he said finally. His voice didn't waver, but it wasn't guarded either. Just honest. "But, to be honest, I knew I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off of you the moment I pictured you in that dress."

You didn't know what to say to that.

Your brain was still buzzing. Your body ached in places you didn't want to think about. You could feel the remnants of everything—the closeness, the heat, the way he'd touched you like he meant it. And it should've been simple. You'd done this before. You knew how to compartmentalize.

So why didn't this feel like all the other times?

You reached for a distraction.

"I should probably head home," you murmured, arms tightening across your chest. "While I can still catch a taxi."

You didn't move.

Aki turned his head just slightly. "It's late. Just stay the night."

Oh. Okay.

Your throat closed up for a second, because the way he said it wasn't casual. Not really. Not cold either. Just quiet. Just like him.

You should've said no. You knew that. Knew you'd already crossed a line somewhere in the dark, maybe back in his bedroom or maybe before that—maybe when he looked at you across the table earlier tonight and you'd caught yourself smiling like a damn idiot. Somewhere in all of this, the rules had changed, and you didn't remember agreeing to it.

But you stayed.

Fuck, you always did.

So you just gave a small nod, barely visible, and leaned back against the railing beside him.

It was quiet again. The kind of quiet that felt like it should've been peaceful, but instead it settled in your chest like static—like the edge of something unsaid scratching at your ribs.

You didn't know what any of this meant.

You didn't know what he meant.

Aki wasn't looking at you, but you could feel him anyway. The space between you was loaded. Not tense, but not easy either. It was just... too much. All of it. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you.

It was messing with your head.

You weren't supposed to care like this. You weren't supposed to look at him and feel your stomach twist like that. You weren't supposed to want more. Hell, you weren't even sure what "more" looked like. But you knew what it felt like—this pull in your chest, this ache just under your skin.

You closed your eyes for a moment and tried to breathe past it.

And when you opened them again, he was looking at you.

Not with the flat, impassive stare he gave everyone else. Not with the vague irritation he usually wore around Denji and Power. No, this was something else.

He looked at you like you were a puzzle he didn't want to solve. Like he didn't want to break whatever fragile thing was happening here.

And, shit, neither did you.

So you didn't say anything.

You just leaned in, hesitant and slow, until your shoulder brushed his. And then, after a long pause where neither of you breathed, you let your head tip gently against him.

He didn't move.

Didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.

And you didn't know what the hell that meant either.

All you knew was that the words "I'm falling for you" were sitting on the edge of your tongue, heavy and stupid and dangerous.

You didn't say them.

Not because they weren't true, but because you weren't ready to give this – whatever this was – up.

You decided you would do whatever it took to keep him next to you like this, his scent surrounding you, hand tracing shapes on your arm. You would do whatever it took to keep this train chugging, keep him looking at you like that, even if it meant lying to yourself a little along the way.

You looked up at him, into those pretty blues of his, like he could be so much more than what he was – like you and him could actually amount to something. And, maybe it was the lighting, but you could have sworn he looked back at you with the same glint in his eyes.

No harm in catching feelings if I keep them tucked away, right?

a/n: im sorry yall. things were going too good. it had to be done lol. (lmk what yall thought in the comments thooooo, maybe even what yall THINK will happen lol ;P see u in the next one mloves! wish me luck on exams)

credits: einruji__ on twitter . I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @acethebrave , @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @mrshayakawaa, @xxpr3ttyk173rxx

wanna join the taglist? | pornstar ; chapter index

(i finally fixed the taglist so it should work now!!!! click away!!!)

[shaiyasstuff]

hiii, I love your writings so so much and every time I open the app I hope to see a new post of yours <3 usually I don't ask for stuff because I know writing is difficult and demanding, I write for myself sometimes just for fun and it takes a lot of brain working that I do not have lmao but if you do something similar to what I'm craving for I would be really really happy!

Basically I'm just a big nerd woman, I love anime and video games the most, it's the joy of my life besides doing art, and recently I've been thinking of my past bcs my birthday is in 8 days and reminding how bullying was a thing for girls like me (I'm over it now I'm almost 26 lol but some scars are permanent) and I would love to know how you vision the lads man enjoying/inserting themselves in their partner world of likings, maybe thrilled with how much knowledge you have about it all? bcs again, I'm reeeally into it and I love knowing/reading everything lol lore obsessed for sure (if possible something with valorant/league of legends/star rail if you know some of them but it can be anything seriously, and please nanami from jujutsu kaisen especially for zayne because they are my husbands 4 life and I love them the most ><) also I love your pfp, frieren is AMAZING!!!

Anyways, thank you very much for sharing your hardwork and beautiful mind, you're amazing and I hope you never stop writing what is in your heart <3 love you

SKSKSK ANOTHER FRIEREN FAN!! Hot take: Frieren deserves AOTY i dont care what others say XD Thank you so much for requesting this!! This was so much fun to write and honestly so so so so cute! I giggled a little too much imagining our boys just being with us (not mc, US, the real us)

So here is your request written below!! Do tell me if it’s not satisfactory >.< (I don’t play Star Rail so I did some research, if it isn’t accurate pls dont kill me) @goddamn-it-girl

Sylus

Sylus never really got video games.

“Why waste time in virtual battlefields when the real world demands strategy?” he’d say with a dismissive wave of his hand, like he was too good for flashy pixels and keyboard tapping.

But then one night, you’re in your usual spot, headset on, deep in a League match. You mutter under your breath, almost without thinking—

“God, I wish Sylus was more like Kayn’s Shadow Assassin form.”

And just like that, he’s behind you.

No warning. No hello.

Just standing there, arms crossed, eyes glued to your screen.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just watches.

“Hm,” he hums thoughtfully as your fingers fly across the keyboard—Q, Q, D—blink forward, another kill.

“It doesn’t seem that hard.”

Next week, you walk into the room after a long day—bag dropped, shoes kicked off—only to find him hunched at your desk.

Your computer’s on. He’s wearing your headset.

You watch, amused, as he furiously taps keys with a strange kind of intensity. His brows are furrowed.

And then you catch his champion.

You cross your arms, smirking.

“I cannot believe you got jealous over a video game character.”

Sylus scoffs, not even turning away from the screen.

“I wasn’t jealous. I’m learning to jungle. That way I can protect your lane.”

You laugh, falling into your spot beside him like it’s second nature now.

Because you know that’s not really why.

He just likes the way your eyes light up when you win.

Rafayel

Rafayel shares your love for video games.

He gets your obsession with Star Rail.

He’s the type to sit right next to you as you ramble about lore for the hundredth time, nodding along like it’s the most important story he’s ever heard.

“I’m telling you, Natasha is literally the coolest—like, hands down.”

“Hm. No,” he says, already smiling. “Himeko’s the coolest.”

Cue the dramatic banter.

You clutch your chest like you’ve been wounded. “How dare you.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules.”

So you fake a cry, full-on pout and teary eyes.

He sighs dramatically, hands in the air. “Okay! Okay! Natasha’s the coolest! The best! The queen!”

You flash him a smug smile. Victory.

Then, one afternoon, you finish cooking lunch—something warm, something he usually comes running for the second it hits the air.

But today? Nothing.

Frowning, you head to the bedroom.

The door creaks open and—

There he is, slouched over the study table, completely zoned in. His brows are drawn together, pencil in hand, the quiet scratch of graphite filling the room.

“What are you doing?” you ask, curious.

He jumps like he’s been caught red-handed and slams the sketchbook shut, hugging it to his chest.

“Nothing!” he says way too fast, flashing you that boyish grin. “Is lunch ready?”

You laugh, shaking your head, and motion him to follow.

But back in the room, the sketchbook still sits on the table, forgotten in his rush.

One page left open—just enough for you to see it.

A carefully drawn sketch of you, soft and radiant, dressed as Natasha.

Of course he thinks she’s the coolest.

She looks a lot like the person he loves.

Xavier

Xavier would be insanely good at Valorant.

He saw you play once. Literally once.

And the next weekend?

There’s suddenly a whole PC setup right next to yours—dual monitors, custom keycaps, matching chairs.

He’s ready.

You blink at the setup, suspicious.

“What is this?”

“I figured we could grind to Immortal together,” he says like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

And he means it.

The first time you watch him play, you’re slack-jawed.

“How are you so good at this?”

He just shrugs, smug. “I’ve got good hand-eye coordination.”

Cheeky bastard.

But he’s not just good at the game—he’s good at being with you.

He’ll pull you into his lap on the couch after a long match, your legs draped over his, your hands gesturing wildly as you talk about Omega Earth lore like it’s gospel.

And he’s right there, nodding along with genuine interest.

He treats your passions like art.

When you draw your Reyna and Gekko ship, he’ll lean in over your shoulder, voice soft.

“You know what would be cool? What if Agent 7 wasn’t Reyna’s little sister, but actually the real founder of Valorant?”

You pause.

“You can’t just—drop lore like that—”

“Oh, and did you know if you wallbang that corner on Lotus with a Sheriff—”

“That makes so much sense!” you gasp, and then immediately groan. “No wonder I’m hard stuck Gold.”

He just grins. Because he doesn’t just drop into your world for the weekend—

He builds a home in it. Right beside you.

Zayne

Zayne wouldn’t just support your love for anime—he’d understand it.

He’d see the depth in it the same way you do.

You’d spend nights curled up on the couch, Jujutsu Kaisen playing on loop, your eyes wide and shining with every fight scene, every emotional beat.

He’s right beside you, always—arm slung around your shoulder, fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm as he watches with quiet attention.

He’d chuckle softly whenever you’d throw yourself back dramatically, clutching your chest and declaring, “I can’t do this,” after every tragic death.

He’d never mock it—he’d just pull you closer.

Then one night, he wakes up to an empty bed.

It takes him seconds to notice your absence—your warmth, the subtle weight of your presence.

He pads into the living room quietly, finding you exactly where he expected.

Curled up on the couch, legs drawn to your chest, your face softly lit by the glow of your phone screen.

You’re scrolling through endless fanart of Nanami—

Nanami glowing with cursed energy.

Nanami, suit wrinkled, tie loose.

Nanami, unwavering, standing tall even as the world tries to break him.

Zayne doesn’t say a word.

Just walks over and gently lifts you into his arms, settling you onto his lap like you belong there.

Let’s be honest, you do.

You hesitate, then murmur, almost shyly, “He reminds me of you.”

Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt.

“Not just the suit thing. It’s the way you carry yourself. How you protect the people you love. Even when it costs you.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then nods.

“I see myself in him too.”

You giggle, already scrolling to show him more—

“Wait, look at this one. And this one. And oh my god this—”

He just smiles. Soft. Reverent.

Because he doesn’t just tolerate your love for anime—

He sees the soul of it reflected in you.

And maybe, just maybe, in him too.

[del-stars]

hii I'm back!

one of prongsfoot's first sexual encounters was sirius, who was struggling to finish on his own, so James talked him through it without touching him because "it's not gay if I don't touch him."

I think that's kind of the summary of their relationship in my mind. (I'm not a prongfoot expert, I only got into them after reading your posts so perhaps this idea is super inaccurate to their dynamic. idk😭)

-🪐

hello saturnon!!!! you got into prongsfoot bc of my posts i am tickled PINK....

explicit!

okay YES incredibly sexually repressed sirius who was taught absolutely nothing about his body/how it erm... will change as he grows up vs james who received a sex ed pamphlet and was wholly unafraid to ask questions.... james chronic oversharer potter is like sirius how many times a day do you jack off and sirius is like. what the fuck are you talking about. every time i get horny i close my eyes and hope it goes away. it does start as james genuinely trying to help a guy out - he gives sirius some general tips, but then sirius is too uncomfortable to do it, so james suggests that they try it together. they sit on opposite beds and don't look at each other, but james can only really focus on whether or not sirius sounds like he's enjoying it, which can't be right. so, pants-less, he goes to sit on sirius' bed to watch him and, as expected, sirius is doing it all wrong. james coaches him, as bros do, and gets so irrationally horny by the look on sirius' face once he hits the right angle and pace that he has to also touch himself - not without asking first, of course, as he is a polite young man, and sirius lets out this desperate, panicked please. the flush on sirius' pale cheeks, the little gasps he lets out, and the tremble of his wrist are nearly enough to drive james insane. after they cum all over one another, sirius makes him promise that they can do it again sometime - and they do, almost every night. james pretty much stops jerking off on his own, because he always finds himself wishing sirius were there. they find each other every night, most mornings, and frequently in the middle of the day to sneak off to the nearest bathroom and jerk off together. it isn't gay, thank you very much, because they aren't actually touching each other! just staring at each other. and listening to each other's moans. and maybe leaning their heads against one another's shoulders. but that's just guys being dudes! that's giving bro a hand! that's spending quality time with your best friend! absolutely nothing gay to see here :)

[betterinvienna]

ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ, ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ, ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ

caleb x gen!reader

masterlist ao3 requests

synopsis:

Caleb is sick. So very sick. He loves you so much.

The gunshot, this time, still doesn’t wake the neighbors.

He loves you too much.

How could anyone deserve you? Will you stay? Please?

Say yes.

[ 3.8k words — dark(?) romance — warnings: murder, drugging, kidnapping ]

author's note:

it's my first time writing something like this, but i love caleb so i'm trying my hand at it and hoping that i get better at it. oh. and im a lore skipper so please forgive me if anything is ooc here. please listen to angel by massive attack while reading. thank you for reading!!! i hope u like

It’s Tuesday, and it’s your only day off.

Four years in an esteemed university, a marketing degree, and top-notch grades, and you’re working at the same firm as your high school ex-friends. You’d berate yourself for the pathetic nature in which you’ve ended up, but you’re much too tired often days to think much past what you’re having for dinner. Spoiler: it’s pizza, again.

On your days—sorry, day—off, you enjoy hanging out with friends or simply staying home. Something as simple as a spaghetti dinner with an extremely corny Netflix Original is enough to satisfy you. This Tuesday, your friend Caleb has offered to take you out to the pier down south. You declined, though, because you’re going on a date with your boyfriend today. Caleb isn’t trapped in the same whirlpool you are—after high school, he went to pilot school and now flies commercial airplanes for a living. You bite your lip in envy, wishing you had taken the same path. Alas, you didn’t, and your company laptop bings with an email. You decide not to check it, instead opting to lazily dip your hand into a party-sized bag of Doritos.

You met Caleb one day in the library, studying for your seemingly useless marketing degree. You spoke, exchanged your then high opinions on your paths of study and interests, and waved each other goodbye. From then on, he found you each time you were at that library, offering to study with you but instead, each time inevitably going into an unrelated conversation. This continued until you exchanged numbers and graduated—you figured you wouldn’t see Caleb after that, but he persisted in maintaining your friendship. 

In a way, you’re thankful for him. You’re thankful, even though you don’t tell him, that he’s stuck around so long.

You pop your fingers into your mouth to clean the Dorito dust off of them as your boyfriend, Nate, texts you. Nate is a good guy, sure. But your relationship feels more like a friendship nowadays. You love him; you really do, and you’ve tried to mend the bond. Over-the-top Valentine’s day gifts, excessive PDA, constant love declarations—needless to say, the deterioration of this relationship simply cannot be accredited to your laziness, but rather, his. You know this, yes, but you also hope the date today will fix everything. Will make him love you again. You reluctantly check your phone, fearing an apology rather than an “are you ready?” message. Instead, it’s a simple two word message: “call me.”

So you do.

Nate picks up after two dials. “Hello?”

“Nate?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He says, as if he forgets his own name. “Look…”

You sigh. “No,” you deny hearing whatever he’s going to say, “I already made the reservations.”

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he says the baby hesitantly, as if it's a curse word, “something came up. I just can’t make it.”

You shake your head and rub your temple from beyond the screen. “It’s fine.” You mumble and respond in a tone much softer than the last. “Call me when you’re free, okay?”

Nate does not respond. He hums an illegitimate answer and hangs up, leaving you to your own devices and sticky Dorito fingers.

As if it was second nature, you take those Dorito fingers and use them to dial Caleb instead, not wanting your reservation to be completely wasted. Like he was waiting for your call on the other end of the phone, he picks up immediately.

“Hey, pip-squeak,” he chirps, “what’s up?”

You mournfully groan. “Are you busy today?”

Caleb takes a pregnant pause, as if he’s doing something right now. Something clanks in the background, confirming your suspicions. “No.” 

“You’re lying.”

“Not. Whaddya wanna do?”

Selfishly, you offer the schedule anyway. “My boyfriend cancelled on me.” On the other end of the line, Caleb makes a sympathetic noise. You continue. “Had a reservation at that restaurant down at the pier today. Are you coming?” 

“Abso—yeah, I am. When?”

You sigh, preparing to be met with further pities. “Three hours. I know it’s short notice, I don’t expe—”

“I’ll pick you up?”

You scoff. “Yeah. Thank you, Caleb, really.”

“Anytime, pip-squeak.”

—

Beggars can’t be choosers is the mantra you repeat when Caleb picks you up on his motorcycle again. The helmet forces your hair into an ugly shape, the speed of the bike shifts your insides, and the perilous nature of it all is an extreme deterrent. 

Unfortunately, Caleb just ruffles your hair as you pout at your mode of transportation. 

“It’ll be just 5 minutes,” Caleb assures you, “hop on.” He pushes a helmet onto you and flips the glass part of it down, giving you a stomach-churning smirk as he does the same for himself and pats the area behind him. You reluctantly get on, wrapping your arms around his waist as he revs the motorcycle. 

“Hang on, pip-squeak!”

You yell over the engine. “I’ll try!”

He punctuates your words by letting his foot off of the brake, finally sending you two down the street. “You okay?”

You rest your jaw in the crook of his neck, closing your eyes and trying not to throw up. You hum a response, but you don’t know if he hears you. A motorcycle isn’t exactly prime time for in-depth conversation, so instead, he begins to cruise and cautiously rubs your knee to soothe you. “Almost there.” 

You groan, unconsciously pinching his shirt rather than holding around his waist. He corrects your form, taking the hand that was on your knee and flattening it against your hand on his stomach. 

“Hold,” Caleb concisely assulerts, guiding your hand to the edge of his waist, “nearly there.” 

The movement borders on hand-holding, but he doesn’t interlock your fingers together. Your face begins to feel hot—or maybe it’s the humid weather—and you pull back slightly from Caleb, silently hoping your heart isn’t beating hard enough to be felt against his back.

The excruciating ride comes to an end with Caleb parking the motorcycle near the entrance of the pier. He dusts himself off, then adjusts his shirt sleeves and takes your helmet off, ruffling your hair up. You mumble a grievance, but he brings his finger up to his lip to hush you and he pokes your cheek. 

He points to the time on his phone as you two walk the remaining distance to the restaurant. “Look at that. We’re early.” He chuckles at your annoyed expression and promises a car ride next time. 

“No—it’s fine,” you quickly respond, “we can still take the bike.”

Caleb gives you an inquisitive look. “Oh?” He pushes open the door to the restaurant with his shoulder, still looking at you. “Coming around to it?” You give him a look, and he puts his hands up in faux surrender. 

The restaurant’s hostess waits at the turn on a podium and cheerfully greets you two. “Hi! We’re a bit full. Do you have a reservation?” 

Caleb puts his hands in his pockets and lets you do the talking. You give the waitress a warm smile, telling her your name and your reservation time. 

The hostess beams with another round of performative, customer service joy. “Right! And this,” she gestures to Caleb,” is the boyfriend you mentioned?” You expect Caleb to deny the assumption, but he just glances at you.

“No, he, um, cancelled. This is just my friend.” You look away from Caleb, but out of the corner of your eye, you can see his breath begin to shallow. The hostess doesn’t notice the shift in his demeanor and offers you two a high-pitched, realizing “oh!” and ushers you to your designated table. 

When Caleb slides into the seat across from you, he improperly puts his elbows on the table, flipping through the menu and looking up at you through his lashes every now and then. The waiter comes around to take your drink orders, and you awkwardly order a water. Caleb follows suit in the ordering with some tastier sounding drink, and the air is even stuffier than the preceding hour. 

Why is the air stuffy?

“Water?” Caleb leans back a bit in his chair, letting out a laugh. “Are you onna diet, pip-squeak?” 

You silently thank and bless him for breaking the tension, because you certainly wouldn’t. You shrug and sigh heavily, although it comes out a bit shakier than you’d like. “My stomach’s a bit flippy,” you lie, toying with the edge of the table, “I probably shouldn’t have invited you—I know you’re busy.”

Caleb leans forward and tugs at his sleeves. “I’m free now, aren’t I?”

The waiter, a tall, skinny redhead, returns with your two drinks. “Are you ready to order?” He prompts. 

You look towards Caleb, who is already pointing out obscured menu items to the waiter and mumbling something you can’t hear from the other side of the table. The waiter scribbles them down, looks at you expectantly, and leaves when you tell him you’re having what Caleb is having. 

You scratch your forehead, checking your phone every couple minutes to see if Nate had texted. Of course, you opened your phone each time to an empty lockscreen apart from your phone’s Settings begging you to free up space.

You decide to make conversation. “How’s flying?”

Caleb looks up from his phone, shaking his head from side to side, as if to say so-so. “Pretty boring. What do you think about me being in the air force instead?” He fiddles with the napkin. “Feelin’ like commercial really isn’t my thing.”

Images of Caleb in a well-fitted air force uniform flicker like a dull light in your head, and you close your eyes and laugh it off. He thinks you’re laughing at him, though, so he grumbles playfully and mumbles something about him being destined to do aerial tricks in the sky. 

“I think you’d do great, Caleb.”

He chuckles. “Knew you’d say that, pip-squeak.”

The frail waiter comes back, balancing your two plates on one even thinner black platter. He lets out a sigh of relief when the plates find their way to their owners and tells you both to enjoy.

The dish in front of you is nothing like Caleb’s—but it’s everything like yours. You make a hmm? sound, and Caleb parts from slicing away at his way-too-well-done steak to point at your plate of pasta. “Also knew you’d say, ‘whatever he’s having,’ so I took care of that. Is that alright?” He scans your face for discontent, but you give him a smile and a heavy sigh, finally putting your phone away.

“Yeah, it is. Thanks, Caleb. How’d you know what I’d like, though?”

He simply laughs and nods, stuffing steak into his cheek as if winter is going to come and take it from him, leaving the answer ambiguous.

—

Your time at the restaurant with Caleb dragged into the late hours, and the chill of the night hits your face as you ding your way back out of the restaurant. Your phone buzzes again, for what seems like the twentieth time tonight, and again, you ignore it, rubbing your hands up and down your arms to produce some illusion of heat. 

Caleb shrugs his jacket off of his shoulders, draping them over yours. You open your mouth to protest, but he promptly interrupts you. “Uber or the motorcycle?”

Your face contorts in confusion. “How’re you going to get your motorcycle back then?” 

He glances at you and gestures for you to follow him to another side of the curb. “Uber back later.” He says it matter-of-factly, as if it was a given. 

You breathe out an oh, the puff of air visible in the cold. “Motorcycle is fine.”

“You sure, pip? You just ate and you hate it as is.” Caleb’s face turns to one of concern. 

“I’ll be okay.” You shrug, walking over to where his motorcycle is parked. 

He pushes his lip up in an okay then motion, helmets the two of you, and brings your jacketed arms around his waist when he straddles the front. Your phone buzzes against your leg again, and you ignore it. “Don’t throw up on me, pip-squeak.”

You give him an incoherent sound, and he revs up the motorcycle, yelling something you don’t care for over the engine. You clench your ab muscles in pure anti-projectile-vomiting will as he swerves through the streets, navigating to your house, and your nails dig into Caleb’s side, even as he slows down near your house.

Under the helmet, Caleb’s eyes narrow at the car next to yours in your driveway. “Bought a second car, pip?”

No.

You didn’t. 

You recognize that car. Your heart drops and you, at last, check your phone. Thirteen missed calls and a flurry of text messages, all from Nate.

where are you? Need to talk

i’m coming to your house

open the door. I’ll sit in your driveway all night.

You tap Caleb’s side wordlessly, and he looks back at you in concern, his lips parted. 

“Go,” you mutter, “let’s go to your house instead. My, um, power’s out. Forgot.”

Caleb eyes the light that shines from the left side of your house, but he hums and revs the engine back to life again, swerving down an unfamiliar set of roads until you two reach his apartment complex. You tug your helmet off, refusing to meet Caleb’s eyes as you approach the door of the complex.

“Everything alright?”

You drone an mhm, scratching your nape.

As you ascend the stairs and open the door to Caleb’s apartment, you notice how blandly decorated the place is, and can’t help but to tease him for it. “Do you even live here?”

He chuckles, opening the fridge and pouring some cold water for you. “I’m usually in a plane.”

You purse your lips and draw images out of the condensation on the side of the cup. That makes sense. 

“You staying over for tonight?”

The question catches you mid-sip, and you shrug. “I mean, if you’ll let me.”

Something in Caleb’s eye glints. “No, yeah, ‘course, pip-squeak.”

You shrug his jacket off of your body, draping it over the couch as you flop down on it. 

“Is the power really out at your place, or did’ya just want to spend more time with Caleb?” Caleb leans on the back of the couch, looking down at you. You cover your eyes with your forearm, letting out an exasperated sigh but offering him at least a snort, as one would do to a terrible dad joke.

The couch sinks as your feet lift up, and when you prop yourself up on your forearms, Caleb’s lap is their new location as he clicks through irrelevant Netflix shows. He looks at you and points to the screen with the remote, asking what you’d like to watch.

You shake your head no and relax back down on the couch as he rubs your ankles. “I’m tired. Do you have another bed?”

He clicks his tongue. “You can just take my bed. My couch is big enough for me to sleep on.”

You give him a look, but he just puts a finger up to his lips and rises from the couch, offering a hand to get you up. “I’ve just gotta make the bed, though. Just took the bedding outta the washer this morning. Wanna help?”

You stretch after you get up, nodding a yes in between a yawn. 

The two of you enter his room, and it is just as grimly decorated as the rest of his house is. A boring desk fills up the right space of his bedroom and an even more monotonous snake plant acts as a sore excuse for decoration in the other corner. 

“Do you even know how to decorate?”

“Nope.”

The two of you work to put the silk cases back on the pillows and relocate the other bedding items so that they don’t get in your way. 

When you lift his mattress to put the first sheet on, something—no, many things, fall out from under the mattress—like polaroids, or other glossy pictures. You think of calling out to Caleb, but your mouth clamps shut when you catch a glimpse of what looks like your face in one. In another, a fog-blurred photo of you drying your hair after a bath, taken from a high angle. Caleb’s eyes follow yours, and he drops the mattress calmly, meeting your newly fully-awake eyes. 

“Caleb—is that—”

He hushes you, walking over to your side of the bed with a slow stride. You back up, wordlessly pointing to where the pictures still lie. 

“That’s not you.”

You begin to blubber incredulously, your head starting to feel heavy. He takes your hands in his gently, as if asking for forgiveness.

“That’s not you,” he repeats, “they’re just… it’s just a project I’m doing.”

Your eyes flutter with a fatigue heavier than before. You try to say something, to call him out on such a blatant lie, but all that is left of your voice is a mere squawk. 

Caleb holds you in his arms as your body begins to feel limp, muttering the same lines over and over again. In a dream-like state, you hear him say, “Promise I’ll take care of all of this. Just been waiting… It’ll be so good. For both of us.”

—

Caleb drives a sleek, black car to your address, tilting his head in mild pity when he still sees the same car in your driveway. He murmurs irritated curse words under his breath, exiting the car and tugging his cap down as he approaches the car.

He’d rather be sleeping right now, but he loves you too much.

The man in it is sound asleep, so he taps the drivers’ side and shines a rude flashlight into the man’s eyes. The man, Nate, jumps up in shock and immediately begins to back out of the driveway.

Unfortunately, he only hits Caleb’s perfectly parked car. Caleb tuts in disappointment and flexes a gloved hand, using his shirt and fist to bash Nate’s car window in. Nate yells, but the neighborhood is much too dead asleep to care. 

Caleb grabs Nate by the shirt, pulling him up close to his face. “I told you last time, didn’t I?”

Nate stutters something, and Caleb uses the blunt of the flashlight to rear back and knock some verbiage into him. 

Nate curses, holding his face. “I’m so sorry, man, I just—”

“You just what?”

Nate begins his useless rambling again and Caleb sighs, as if this is a waste of his time, slamming Nate’s head into his steering wheel. The honk is loud, but too clipped and still not loud enough to wake anyone up. 

Caleb laughs bitterly. 

“Do you think cheating on someone—” he punches Nate, holding his breath.

“So needy,” he finally opens the car door and drags him out onto your lawn. 

“So kind,” he serves him a foot to the stomach.

“So forgiving,” he kicks Nate around until he’s on his stomach, bloody and beaten.

“So perfect,” Caleb tugs Nate up by his hair, straddling his back and forcing him to look up at him. 

“Is something that a man of God would do?” Caleb eyes the beaded cross hanging from Nate’s mirror, then mockingly looks back at him with a faux-sympathetic look.

Nate begins to blubber a string of apologies. “I’m sorry, man, seriously. I came here just to break up, promise, but you’d do the same, you know, two beautifu—”

The gunshot, this time, still doesn’t wake the neighbors. Caleb tosses it to the side, thanking earlier him for purchasing a silencer. He drops Nate’s limp head onto the grass, dusting himself off as he looks at the pitiful body seeping blood into your freshly-trimmed lawn.

“Like hell I would.”

—

Your head bangs with an anger like never before. You try to bring your hands up to cradle your thumping head, but you’re met with the resistance of zip ties. 

“What?” You mumble.

As you come to, you squint and notice Caleb in the far distance, cooking something. You’re laying on the same bed you were asked to make, and Caleb is flipping pancakes like a sitcom father. Sun attacks your eyes and you screw them shut, feeling your headache worsening. Caleb looks behind him, notices your movements, and immediately turns off the stove, jogging towards you and shutting the curtains. 

“Hey, pip-squeak,” he soothes, “you’re awake.”

You furrow your brows at him, trying to move your ankle, but that too is zip tied, this time to the foot of his bed. “What?” You repeat, struggling to sit up.

He hushes you, gently pushing you back down onto the bed. “I’ll let you go in a minute, okay? Can’t just let a wounded animal free.”

The haze is finally beginning to clear up a bit more, and Caleb is double-checking if the black-out curtains are fully closed. “I saw the photos of me that you have and then you—you drugged me.”

Caleb snaps his head towards you with a look of tenderness, but also of hurt. “No, pip—well, yes—but I was planning on you just being able to hear me. Just not being able to be hurt. What I put in your water won’t harm you. I promise.”

You look around the room, and Caleb occupies the area next to you on the bed. He softly takes your face, tracing his hands down to your own hands. “Do these hurt?”

You reluctantly nod, so he cuts them off with scissors he produced from his back pocket. You flex your wrists, looking at him cautiously. 

“Just calm down, okay?” Caleb takes your hands in his, facing you with his full body. The zip tie on your ankle digs into your skin, so you wince. Caleb gets up, flips the cover over, and switches the restraint with something much more comfortable. He apologizes the whole way through, then returns to his spot beside you.

“Want you to stay with me forever, pip-squeak,” Caleb mumbles, bringing his hand up to soothe, or at least try to soothe, your frenzied face. He brings his forehead to meet yours. “God… it’s like you were sent for me.”

Your mouth drops. The unnamed drug still clouds your thoughts, so you breathe something along the lines of “I have a boyfriend… you’re crazy.”

Caleb clips and his face darkens. “No. I took care—um, he was cheating on you. He broke up with you last night. Check your messages.”

He gently ushers your cold phone into your hands, and you scroll through the messages of Nate saying that you’re over and that he “never really loved you anyway.”

Tears begin to stream down your face, and you cannot pinpoint their exact, singular cause. Caleb hushes you, taking your sobbing frame into his arms as he lets you cry into his shoulder. 

“I love you,” he hums, “I love you.”

He runs a hand through your hair, rubbing your back and pulling you closer.

“I love you,” he repeats.

[thewritingfairy]

Hay I love your writing style and the start of your story Nobody's Child.

I want to tell you about some stories you may like and know (mostly have dark stuff so sorry if anything disturb you)

For now I have a fixation on the Batfam so I'll be giving examples using them a bit.

The first one is and Anime Banana Fish. I believe you know it. I always think of DC and Banana Fish being the same universe and what may that change and mean.

I imagine Batman asking Ash to join him after seeing how capable he is and Ash going like: "bro I want a normal life." 🧍🏼‍♂️

But I feel that Ash may join him? Maybe.

The second one is webtoon Red king. It's not completed but it's so good and can give a lot of inspiration.

Imagine Bruce having a kid who can see them and got their internet. If you want to know who's them you can read to find out 😄

The third one is School Bus Grave Yard: that's also a known story, webtoon. It's horror and it's so good and scary and made me cry 😭. It's so good.

I'm not going to spoil it but as you read it imagine a neglected reader going through all what the protagonist is going through and not telling their family. And imagine when the family finds out about it and all.

The thing with the school bus grave yard is that it's a paranormal situation where the only way to protect the protagonists is to teach them how to protect themselves.

Anyway i hope you enjoy them and I thank you for reading.

Also can I be 🪷anon ? I feel I'll keep coming back.

Thank you so much !! I hope as well that I see you in my inbox more often, I'll note your emoji down <3.

I haven't read nor watched any of the webtoons or the anime you noted down, but I do remember watching like memes of School bus grave yard, now I really want to check it out. I just hate the webtoon app, it always glitches or I just forget it exists-

I did need a new show to watch after doing my school work, soo if I can I will be checking out Banana fish

[formulaonecrumbs]

Hi was wondering if you also wrote for Daniel?

Maybe like reader having an eating disorder and Daniel comforting her when she’s struggling again?

this body is still yours

Daniel Ricciardo x reader

summary: reader struggles with an eating disorder and body image issues. daniel comforts her during a breakdown and helps her take a small step toward recovery.

warnings: READ WITH EXTREME CAUTION eating disorder thoughts, body image issues, emotional breakdown, food avoidance, soft comfort

A/N: hi, my loves. this is a heavier topic than i’m used to writing, but i hope it does justice to how it feels when u have an ED. ik what it’s like and my heart goes out to anyone dealing with one. if u are, pls talk to someone, consider seeking help. i love u, pls eat. we need u here, alive, healthy and happy. with that being said, of course i write for daniel. i’ll write for any driver y’all request tbh, u’ll just have to bear with me while i figure out how some of them would act and talk. i’m wishing all of u the best. aim for at least 2 meals a day (if not 3) and 1 snack. ure doing amazing baby ❤️

p.s. enjoy my fav pics of dannyric for the mood-board cuz anything related to the actual theme of the fic felt insensitive

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

you hadn’t eaten all day. not because you forgot—no, your body reminded you every five minutes with the loudest growls—but because the mirror had gotten to you.

you stood there that morning for way too long, poking at your stomach, tugging at your hoodie, hating every angle you saw.

you didn’t cry right then. you just shut the lights off and crawled back into bed like maybe if you didn’t exist for a while, it’d go away.

daniel had been out for hours. you told him you were tired, wanted to stay in. you made it sound casual. easy.

he texted you a few times, checking in. he always did.

dan 🥵:

hey sleepyhead

hope you’re being kind to yourself today

want me to bring something home? i miss your face.

you couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

because what were you supposed to say?

hey, i’m spiraling and the only thing i’ve had all day is guilt and water?

you stayed curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, blanket wrapped so tight around you it felt like armor.

your chest ached. not from hunger, but from all the thoughts you couldn’t shut up.

the door opened softly. you didn’t move.

daniel’s voice floated in, light and happy like always.

“guess who brought sushi and those weird seaweed chips you like? and your pink juice. i had to go to two stores, so you’re legally required to love me now.”

you still didn’t move.

he turned the corner and stopped.

his eyes found yours immediately, and everything about him changed.

his expression softened. his voice dropped.

“baby?”

you blinked at him. your face was hot. your hands were shaking under the blanket.

he walked over slowly, crouched in front of you, his hand resting gently on your shin through the fabric.

“is it one of those days?” he asked. not like he was annoyed. like he already understood.

you nodded. barely.

“okay,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “talk to me when you’re ready.”

it came out faster than you meant it to.

“i didn’t eat today.”

his brows pulled together, but he didn’t flinch.

“okay,” he said again. “thank you for telling me.”

“i just—fuck” your voice broke. you looked away. “i hate how i look. i hate it so much. i feel huge and gross and i know it’s stupid but i can’t stop thinking about it. i just want to be small. and empty. and i thought maybe if i didn’t eat, it’d feel better, but it doesn’t. it never does.”

your throat closed.

“i feel disgusting, danny.”

he moved so gently, like the whole world had to slow down just for you. he sat beside you, wrapped his arms around you, pulled you into him.

you let him. you needed him.

“you’re not disgusting,” he whispered, his voice so soft it made your chest hurt. “you’re just hurting.”

you sniffled. “i just want to be skinny. like those girls on your instagram explore page. i see them and i just… wish i looked like that. i wish i could stop thinking about it, but it’s constant.”

daniel kissed the top of your head, then rested his chin there.

“you don’t need to look like anyone else. you’re not meant to. you’re you. and you’re the only person i want. like this. even when it’s messy. even when your brain is lying to you.”

you wiped at your face, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

“i feel so broken.”

“you’re not broken,” he said. “you’re tired. you’re overwhelmed. but you’re still here. you’re still trying. and that matters more than anything.”

you stayed in his arms, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

after a while, he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“can we try eating something? just a little. not to fix anything. just to be gentle with yourself. i’ll eat with you. we can sit on the floor and watch that trash reality show you love. uh.. what was it- dubai bling?”

you hesitated. your stomach flipped.

but you nodded. because you trusted him.

he smiled softly.

“that’s my girl.”

he stood up and held out his hand like it was sacred.

and somehow, with the storm still raging in your head, you took it.

THE END :>

[madamejadex]

Hi mommy 🥰

I wanted to ask what is your line between light & heavy degradation? I know I'm very into degradation but never had a chance to explore the extent of it. And I read that heavy degradation is one of your hard limits so I wanted to check and see where you draw the line so I don't accidentally send something that might prompt and be considered heavy for you down the line hehe <3

I've also been thinking about going to a local bdsm club soon but am nervous about not having a friend with me. It's a very respectable club and they vet their attendees very thoroughly, I guess I'm just kind of anxious at not fitting in or even knowing what to do once I'm there 🥺

xoxo 🔥

Hi, darling, and thank you so much for this thoughtful and respectful message. And I don't mind answering this at all when you're asking so politely.

And you’re right that heavy degradation is a hard limit for me. It’s not something I entertain or negotiate, and I’ll explain why in a moment. But when it comes to light degradation, that’s a different story entirely… and it can be quite the delicious tool in the right dynamic.

For me light degradation is calling my submissive something like my needy little slut, my dumb little baby, my messy toy, or mock their reactions. It might be whispering, “You’re already soaking wet, and I’ve barely touched you… you really are my desperate little slut, aren't you?” with a smirk on my lips and my hand on your cheek.

But I draw the line at language or themes that can cause deep harm or emotional damage. Heavy degradation often leans into worthlessness, cruelty, name-calling without care, or undermining a submissive’s personhood in ways that can leave real scars if done incorrectly, especially if there’s trauma involved. I don’t enjoy language that strips someone of their dignity, or dips into objectification without warmth, even if it's consensual. My style is all about power and control wrapped in care, even when it’s rough or demanding.

As I mention in my bio, I lean more into the style of a Mommy Domme (soft Domme) these days, rather than the traditional Mistress/slave dynamic. While I still use “Mistress” as an honorific, it’s simply a personal preference, not a reflection of my style of dominance.

As for the BDSM club, well I'm proud of you for considering visiting one. I know how nerve-wracking that first step can feel, especially without a friend to hold your hand. But I promise, you’re not alone in that feeling. Many go for the first time feeling anxious and unsure. The good news is, reputable clubs (and it sounds like yours is) often have staff or “dungeon monitors” available to help first-timers feel safe and oriented. You can always email or call ahead to ask if someone might be willing to give you a little tour or introduce you to the space.

Here are a few little tips to maybe help you feel more comfortable:

Dress in whatever makes you feel confident and comfortable within the rules.

Watch and observe at first, there’s no rush to play.

Consent and negotiation are always respected. If you feel pressured by anyone, you have every right to walk away or speak to a staff member.

Bring water, breathe deep, and let yourself ease into it.

You absolutely belong there if you’re curious and respectful. And I know you are.

I hope when you go, you feel proud of yourself for being bold enough to explore. Even just showing up is a powerful thing. And if you ever want to share how it goes, well, you know where to find me. 💋

xo Miss Jade

[stygiansun-totaleclipse]

Low-key (high-key) insane about the contrast between an imposing MC threatening to tear someone's tongue out

And the casual intimacy/closeness when they put Aurynns head on their lap,

And the way they sit down docilely for a scolding from Samira (and how easily she sees through their "i'll get better" lie),

And them holding their little sister's hand leading her to her room and getting her to bed after a long and taxing day for both of them ... and after encouraging her to punch people in the face :3

I went through some asks on the blog (and by that I mean I went through them all, at least afaik), do you still plan a lock in for the personality at some point? The possibility of picking options contradicting/contrasting MCs usual personality is kinda (very) exciting. I don't mean to pressure tho!! Im, like, really loving what this IF offers so far in all the departments and I'll stick around either way ^^

And your art is amazing too btw......... I've eaten up all the previews, answers and RO introductions like I've never had a meal before.

Lol I do also really enjoy the contrast between an mc who can be scary or manipulative af but gentle with the people they care about 👍❤️ Even Sam was kinda internally like (oh shit wtf😰) when mc threatened to tear out Raya’s tongue and then just turns around all casual to Sam like it was nothing. :3

My plan is that the personality stats will lock in at the start of chapter 2. However, there will still be choices aligning with each of the different personalities that mc can choose regardless, they just will no longer contribute to MCs personality stat, meaning you won’t get a stat increase. But like an imposing mc for example could still make choices aligning with gentle, charismatic, dignified, or confrontational. I think it makes sense for mc to still act differently in certain circumstances or especially like under duress. In some instances, if your choice differs from MCs set stat however and it feels like they’re acting out of character, then some characters might react differently to that. Locking in a main personality stat will just make it easier for me to handle instances where MCs acts out of character and to give them more flavor text for smaller personality quirks in-game, but you’ll still be able to make choices for how mc reacts to things that align with each personality stat regardless of your locked in stat. :)

Hope that makes sense! :) And thank you!! ❤️ I had a lot of fun drawing them all to life :D 👍

Thanks so much for reading and for your message!! ❤️ Take care! :D

[l8niteth0ts]

what's left of us: reiner x fem! reader

pairing: reiner braun x fem! reader

plot: after a mission where only a few make it back, guilt eats away at you both. you and reiner cling to each other in grief, using each other to feel something - anything - before the weight of reality returns.

contents (MDNI): in the midst of war, most of the (unnamed) scouts died, survivor’s guilt, PTSD themes, soft dom! reiner, smut, creampie, heavy emotional content, you both just need to feel something, angst, etc.

word count: 2,617

a/n: hi guys! i tried really hard on this fic, i've been practicing writing sensory descriptions better, so i really hope you enjoy this one! also, i implore you to go give "baptized in fear" and "open hearts" by the weeknd a listen - they're kinda what inspired me to write this fic lol. as always, please leave a comment or message me any requests! thank you so much for reading! AS ALWAYS, 18+ ONLY! MDNI! thanks <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the air is still thick with smoke. it stings your lungs, every breath like pulling cement through your chest. the survey corps lies torn apart - medical tents sag like ghosts in the dark orange dusk. most of the horses are gone. most of the people are, too.

you sit trembling on a crate, fingers barely holding onto a dented canteen you haven’t opened in over an hour. you can’t bring yourself to drink it. it was hers. she’s coming back for it… right?

... right?

...

the blood beneath your fingernails has long dried. you don’t know whose it is - not yours, that much you’re sure of - but what difference would it make? it wouldn’t change anything. it wouldn't bring anyone back.

they’re gone.

all of them.

your fellow scouts. your allies. your friends.

gone.

...

a voice calls your name - deep, rough, broken. once. maybe twice. it cuts through the haze, sharp against your face.

“wha-?” you turn. reiner stands there.

he pulls back slightly, towering over you. he’s coated in dirt, blood, ash - and something heavier - grief. his eyes are bloodshot, jaw clenched so tight you wonder if he’s afraid of what might spill out if he lets it go. he doesn't want to find out. you don't, either.

he doesn’t speak. just looks at you, eyes empty and full all at once.

then, slowly, he drops to his knees in front of you. you wonder if you’re the first survivor he’s seen.

the canteen slips from your fingers, and you fall forward, arms wrapping around his neck like he’s the last real thing in a world made of ghosts. but he’s solid. he’s here. and he’s warm.

you clutch the back of his jacket like you’re slipping off a cliff and he’s the only thing keeping you from falling. he doesn’t hesitate - his arms wrap around you, thick and steady, pulling you close until your chests are flush and your breathing syncs.

"i shouldn't be here," you whisper against his neck. smoke clings to his skin, mixed with something earthy and raw - him. "i should’ve died. i should’ve fucking died with them."

reiner flinches. his jaw tightens. "don’t."

"don’t what?"

"don’t fucking say that," he growls, low and sharp. "don’t ever say that again."

his hands tremble as they slide beneath your shirt - not for heat or hunger, but for proof. he’s feeling for your heartbeat. fast. fast. alive. his eyes shut, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he lost sight of you.

"i-" his voice cracks. "i watched you fall." his breath ghosts against your throat, warm and shaky, and your skin prickles from the sensation. “i thought you were dead.”

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. his stare is fierce, haunted.

"you don’t get to say shit like that. not to me. not when i-" he chokes on the words. his breathing stutters.

so you move first.

you press your lips to his jaw - soft, searching. then higher. his cheekbone. his mouth. and then you're kissing him.

it’s not gentle. it’s desperate. needy. alive.

he groans into the kiss, deep and aching, arms tightening around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. your lips move against his like you’re trying to tell him something you don’t know how to say. and he feels it all - that hurt, that hope - like every second you’re here is both agony and salvation.

he wants more. god, he wants all of you.

but he's afraid. afraid that if he touches too hard - you’ll disappear.

reiner breaks the kiss first, but just barely. "this isn't the place," he whispers, his voice gravel soft. "come with me."

you nod, your body moving before your mind can catch up. he stands, hands steady at your waist, and lifts you as if you weigh nothing. you cling to him - arms tight around his neck and shoulders, your legs loose and trembling beneath you.

the world outside the kiss rushes back in - ash clings to the air, dusk settling like a bruise across the sky. the ground is uneven, littered with broken crates, torn canvas, blood. he steps carefully around it all, shielding your body with his. you both do your best to ignore your surroundings, but you shudder, hating the aftermath of what has happened today. he continues to carry you through what's left of the camp. past burnt out fires, silent and motionless bodies, flickering lanterns that throw weak golden light across the ground.

a tent stands still, half collapsed, but intact enough to shelter what's left of the two of you. he ducks inside, with you in his arms, gently setting you down on a battered cot that creaks beneath your weight. the air inside is warmer and a little less harsh, but still reeks of smoke and iron.

reiner doesn't speak - he can't. he just kneels in front of you, hands hovering above you like he doesn't want to touch you, in case you crumble and disappear beneath him.

you move first, cupping his face in both hands - needing his mouth on yours again, like breath. he exhales softly, and you catch it on your lips as you press into him, hungry, aching. his lips are chapped, cracked from the cold and the fight, but you don’t care. yours probably are too.

your fingers slide into his hair, curling against his scalp, tugging just enough to make him groan into the kiss. his tongue brushes your lower lip, tasting the dried blood there - and you let him in.

he’s warm. alive. his tongue slides against yours, slow and exploring, like he needs to memorize every inch of you. your hand drops to his belt. desperation takes over. you fumble with the buckle, unthreading it from its clasp until it falls loose. his pants drop to the ground with a heavy clunk.

reiner’s hands are already at your waist, rough and shaking. he mirrors you, undoing your belt with urgent fingers. the tension between you coils tighter, sharper - your body heat rising, your core twisting with want, aching at how close he is.

you’ve never needed anything more in your life.

you pull apart, gasping for air, foreheads nearly touching, your breaths mingling - hot, shaky, laced with everything unspoken. both your faces are flushed, skin prickling with heat and adrenaline.

reiner eases you down onto the cot, the thin mattress creaking beneath your combined weight. he hovers over you, the dim lantern light casting golden shadows across his sweat-slicked skin. you feel the press of his cock against your thigh - hard, leaking, aching with want.

in another world - another time - this would be slower. he’d take his time with you. worship you. make sure every inch of you was undone by his hands alone. make sure you know that you're the only woman in the world for him.

but here, now, after death brushed past you both like a ghost? you don’t need slow. you just need to feel.

he reaches down, dragging the flushed head of his cock through your slick folds, smearing you with every pass. his eyes flick up to meet yours, something soft and broken flickering behind the heat. he waits.

you nod, a silent 'please', and hook your arms around his neck.

his hips press forward, slow, deliberate. a guttural groan rumbles from deep in his chest as you stretch around him - tight, wet, like your body’s meant for this. like it’s pulling him in to anchor you to the earth.

you moan, the fullness nearly overwhelming. he’s thick, and each inch pushes deeper until he’s seated fully, pressing against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

he starts to move, hips rocking in slow, steady rolls. every thrust builds rhythm and pressure, your bodies syncing like muscle memory, like instinct.

like survival.

he fucks you slow, deep - every thrust measured, like he’s afraid too much force will shatter the moment, or you.

but even still, he’s shaking. his breaths are ragged, shallow against your throat, and his hands - those broad, bloodstained hands - grip your hips like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

you gasp, your back arching with each drag of his cock inside you. the cot beneath you whines, but neither of you notices. the world’s burned down outside, but in here, there’s only this - his weight pressed over you, his hips rolling in a rhythm that speaks in place of words.

“you feel…” he chokes, swallowing hard, “…so fucking good.”

your hands slide up under his shirt, feeling the tension in his back, the heat of his skin. “reiner,” you whisper, voice catching in your throat like it hurts to say his name out loud.

he buries his face into your neck, groaning against your skin. “i thought i lost you,” he breathes. “thought i’d never touch you again. never tell you…”

his words falter, but his body doesn’t. his hips start to move faster, needier - your wetness slick between you, the obscene sound of skin meeting skin filling the air. you whimper beneath him, clutching his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist like you’re trying to keep him inside you forever.

every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, but it’s not just the friction. it’s the ache in his voice, the pain in his eyes when he looks at you. like you’re the only real thing left in a world made of smoke and ash.

“i’m here,” you moan softly, running your fingers through his hair, holding him close as your bodies chase that sharp, crashing heat. “i’m right here.”

and for now - for just this moment - that’s enough.

his pace stays steady, deep and dragging. each thrust feels like a promise - 'i’m here, i’m here, i'm still here'. and it’s killing you. the way he looks at you, the way his hands explore like he's terrified you'll vanish under them.

you dig your nails into his back, not to hurt him - but to anchor him, to let him know you’re real, too. that this is real. he grunts softly at the sting, his hips stuttering for a beat before finding rhythm again.

your bodies are so close you don’t know where he ends and you begin. the heat between you is unbearable, thick with sweat, breath, and the scent of sex clinging to the air. he’s still wearing half his shirt, dirtied and torn, and somehow that makes this feel even more raw. like you’re stealing this moment from a war that never ends.

his forehead presses to yours, noses brushing, and he pants into your mouth. “i should stop,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “i should stop and make this right. take my time. you deserve-”

“don’t,” you breathe, shaking your head. “don’t stop. not now.”

his eyes flutter shut, like your words both ruin and save him. he thrusts again, slow and deliberate, making you whimper into his mouth. he swallows the sound with another kiss - less frantic this time. more aching than needy.

your hands slide over his ribs, feeling the tension there, the scars, the bruises from the fight. you press your mouth to his jaw, his throat, anywhere you can reach. kissing him like prayer, like apology.

neither of you is close to breaking yet, but you’re both standing at the edge.

teetering.

waiting.

and neither of you wants to fall alone.

but you can feel it in the way his thrusts start to shift - not faster, not rougher, but needier. like his body’s no longer his own, like it’s answering something primal and ancient inside him. each roll of his hips sends a sharp, unbearable pressure curling low in your belly, and it’s getting harder to breathe around it.

your thighs tremble as you hook them tighter around his waist, desperate to keep him as deep as possible. his cock drags against your walls with precision, with reverence, with the kind of care that only comes from almost losing everything.

"fuck," he groans, low and ragged. "you feel so - god - you're perfect. you're fucking perfect."

your moan catches in your throat, trembling on your tongue. “i - i’m close,” you whisper, barely able to speak through the pressure building inside you. “reiner, i-”

“i know,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your temple. “i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”

he shifts his angle just slightly - just enough to drag across that spot that makes you see stars. your hips jerk beneath him, and he holds you steady, whispering your name like it’s the only thing he has left to hold onto.

“i can’t-” you choke out, voice breaking on a gasp.

“yes, you can,” he pants. “let go, baby. i've got you. i've always got you.”

it hits you like a wave crashing through your chest - your climax tearing through you with a sharp cry. your whole body tightens, shakes, clenches around him, and he moans at the feeling - god, that sound - his name falling from your lips like confession, like surrender.

he’s not far behind.

your orgasm drags him over the edge with you, his hips faltering before he slams in deep, burying himself inside you as he groans, low and broken. his entire body tenses above you, hands gripping the cot frame, muscles taut as he spills inside you.

and then, silence - just your heavy breaths, tangled limbs, and the echo of what you both just survived.

reiner stays inside you for a long moment, both of you panting into each other’s skin. his forehead rests against yours, and the sweat on his brow mixes with yours. he’s still trembling - just barely - but it’s not from the fight anymore.

it’s from you.

you feel his hands trail up your sides slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops touching you. like he still needs to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.

you run your fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, gentle now, soothing the way you know he needs. his eyes flutter shut at your touch, and he exhales shakily, grounding himself in the feeling of your skin, your body beneath him, the breath still rising and falling in your chest.

“…you’re okay,” he whispers hoarsely, like he’s saying it to believe it himself.

you nod faintly. “so are you.”

he finally pulls back, just enough to slide out of you with a soft groan. he leans to the side, arms still wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his chest as he settles beside you. the cot is barely big enough for one body, let alone two, but neither of you care. you bury your face in his neck, letting the warmth of him calm the tremors still tingling in your limbs.

outside, the world is still smoldering. the wind howls like ghosts over the ruined battlefield. but in here, wrapped up in him, it’s quiet.

safe.

he runs a hand along your spine slowly, over your dirty shirt, over the curve of your back, memorizing every inch. “i don’t want to lose you,” he says quietly.

you nuzzle into him. “you didn’t.”

he doesn’t respond right away. just holds you tighter, like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers anyway.

and when you finally drift off, curled against him in the flickering half-light of the tent, it’s the first time in days that your heartbeat slows. slower. slower. slow enough to feel human again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

©|@l8niteth0ts - do not steal my work, or reupload it anywhere. it is mine, and mine alone! thank you.

| aot masterlist

[raaquel2222]

DON'T FEEL GUILTY FOR MANIFESTING TO YOUR SP

First of all, I would like to apologize for my English because it is not my first language, this is my first post on tumbler. And if you're going to share your point of view or comment on anything, do so with respect, because we're here to learn. I just want to convey my way of thinking. If you want to share your point, it's okey, but do it with respect.

Well, I was in the same situation as you. When I wanted to manifest my SP, I felt guilty because I also felt like I was "forcing" him to fall in love with me. But I want to tell you something: YOU ARE NOT FORCING THAT PERSON TO DO ANYTHING.

I'll give you an example: you want to manifest that you get a new iPhone, but you feel bad or guilty because you don't want the person giving it to you to spend so much money. But that doesn't make sense, because from the moment you decided you wanted that iPhone and you wanted to manifest it, that iPhone is already yours. Easy to understand, right? So, it doesn't make sense if you feel guilty. (I hope I'm explaining myself well, I can make another post to express myself better and for everyone to understand better)

And I know you might be thinking, "what if I'm interfering with his free will?" Well, as the creator of YOUR own reality, because surprise, only you create your reality. You choose which experiences you want to live and which ones you don't. You're always changing realities because all realities, all versions of you that exist in other realities, exist and live now. Time doesn't exist, so you have access to those realities. What do I mean by this? Well, when you manifest something, what you're doing is jumping into the reality or timeline where you already have what you want, because you're constantly changing realities, even when you're making decisions. Get this straight into your head: You're not forcing it. You're just jumping into a timeline or reality (whatever you want to call it) where you already have your desire.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this post. Love you ❤️

[aikoiya]

Oh, my gosh! That’s fantastic! 😁 I can hardly wait! And I understand. The fact that you've been able to work on your rewrite so much lately is amazing, so I don't mind!

Ah, it's alright. Though, my doctor recently recommended the Mediterranean Keto diet & it certainly sounds interesting. Evidently, on it, I can go up to 50 grams of carbs a day whereas, rn, I really only have 21, 25 if I stretch it a bit.

Unfortunately, I got the STAR roll from a local place, so I'm not sure if you'll be able to find it. Here's hoping that you do, though. As for the tonkotsu, you're in luck, because the broth & meat are the best parts! So, maybe you should look for a non-noodle soup to really enjoy it?

Oooo! I bet! Like, I've recently been having matcha lattes with heavy cream instead of milk (because 0 carbs) & I find that it works really well if you stir in a spoonful of honey (which, I know isn't keto, but sometimes when I'm not on my diet, I might get a matcha latte anyway dX). So, I'd like to give other things made with matcha a try, too.

Right?? There are some really interesting plants & animals out there. Like, did you know about the Mangalitsa pig? They're pigs… But they're covered in a coat of curly hair, not unlike wool! And Jacob sheep have 4 horns & sometimes more! And black-footed cats are very small & cute, but they actually have a 60-70% predation rate & are known as the deadliest cat. Yes, even deadlier than tigers & lions. Those little suckers have been recorded to successfully hunt 10-14 prey animals per night!

As for plants, from what I've read, Juniper trees are flame proof. So, I'm thinking that in a world like Hyrule, its wood could probably be used to make fishing rods that can even be used in magma.

Thank goodness! Though, I think that I'm gonna change a couple things about the cake. Instead of a mango jelly, I'm thinking about going more simple with a mango blossom honey & floral nectar blend that's been mixed with gelatin, then decorating the base with honey pearls (which are apparently easier to make than you'd expect).

I'm sorry for making you listen to all my culinary nonsense. 😅 I've got a bunch of ideas, trust me!

Nope, it takes a few generations. Like, if a Gerudo never returns, then her daughter will be half-Gerudo &, if her daughter doesn't return either, then her granddaughter, a quarter-Gerudo & so on.

The same is also true in reverse. If someone with a Gerudo ancestor within, like, 10 generations or so, returns to the desert & stays there for the necessary amount of time, then any future children they have will be one generation more Gerudo than themselves. So, it's kind of like their Gerudo DNA is building itself up.

And, while it's possible for that Gerudo DNA to be watered down until there's none left, it would take many, many, many generations.

And, yeah. It's definitely very convenient!

Understandable. It's hard to find a job that you really enjoy, so I get what you mean.

*nods* I could see it, but at the same time, I think they'd probably put Vilia on a blacklist. Like, he's still a dude, so I doubt that they'd let him into the town proper. And, if I were Riju, I'd also make security checks more thorough so as to prevent any future “voe in vai's clothing” from sneaking in.

True. Though, it could be interesting to turn said gloom-born illness into an actual epidemic, possibly bordering on a full-blown plague. And maybe even have it so that if you actually touch the gloom, then you'd need more treatment than was shown. As in, not simply turning Sundelions into food, but the production of actual medicine. Maybe entire treatment plans. Or perhaps Link brings up some Dark Clumps & Spoone starts to study them. Maybe even creating a type of proto-vaccine with concentrated Warding.

(Actually, I'd like to bring up an idea of mine. That Wild's mother was a Hearth Magess, meaning she was skilled at magically infusing ingredients & reagents while preparing consumables. I like to think that's why Link's food tends to work so well. He learned from her & even when he was an amnesiac, he would draw out the magical qualities of food practically on instinct. Like, I know that you get stat-boosting food from other characters, but I'm just going to cherry-pick this because I like the idea of it so much. So, I dunno, maybe post-memory retrieval Link helps a bit with this because I think it'd be neat.)

And, ya know? Part of the reason why so few were seen with Gloom sickness could be that the rest are quarantining themselves. Which, I know is a bit hand-wavy, but I think it has potential to add a bit of extra stress to Link.

And, while the sludge in Zora's Domain wasn't an actual epidemic, I've no doubt that had it not been taken care of as quickly as it does, then it could've easily resulted in one.

In fact, it's possible that said muck could still lead to illness later. At least, story-wise.

I know. I like to think that Fi would take on a bit more of that sassy side that I SWEAR I caught a few times as time passes.

Oh, it's definitely convenient to make hero kings a cultural trend in this sort of fandom.

I figured as much. Still thought I'd bring it up as a possibility, though. At the same time, maybe the Gerudo normally DO take care of things on their own, but every once in a while, they'll need something built or fixed that none of the current Gerudo know how to do, so they do this. So, most definitely not a frequent thing, but more so a last option. As in, on a list of options, this would be at the very bottom.

I suppose. Agree to disagree? I might be somewhat looking at it as being a similar situation to Peter Pan & the Lost Boys.

I understand. And I’m certainly hoping so. I mean, it’d be pretty difficult to not put in any personality in an HW game. Especially if the characters are playable. Nintendo would REALLY need to go out of their ways to make them the character equivalent to plywood to achieve that.

And I admit, I kinda wish they didn’t go with “Age of” again. It would've been cool to have something a bit more poetic. Maybe something like “Dawn of [Insert Word Here].”

I mean, there's no shame in watching a blind playthrough instead of buying it. That way, you can watch the first couple missions/battles or so to see if it's worth it first. If not, then no need to spend anything.

Yeah, same. Not interested in the GPS, but the notes IMMEDIATELY got my attention!

@aikoiya The post was getting long again so here's a new one!

I knew you were going to answer that saying "this is unfair" isn't real life logic haha (and I agree that life hasn't been fair to Sky and Sun anyway). It's just that such an ending would probably leave me feeling unsatisfied and even a bit robbed, and I think it would require a lot of other changes to be made to the story in order for it to work properly. But anyway you're right, as things are now this would just be happening behind the scenes so what I'm saying doesn't really make sense. But just thinking about it changes my perception of SS in a way I don't really enjoy, so it's not a theory I favor.

Yes in that setting I'm pretty sure that the other Sun would not make herself known to Link and Zelda and would let them have their happy ending. But I think Zelda would likely suspect her existence and know that something is wrong. I guess even Link could notice that the Temple's doors are suddenly open and would ask Impa a few questions.

I had no idea Tingle called Farore the Goddess of Wind in WW, so I went on a little quest to see if I could find the same quote in the French version of the game. Apparently it's in Tingle's description of Outset Island and I never had the chance to play with the Tingle Tuner mode. I can't find the same quote in French anywhere and I don't even know if this was included in the HD remake (I guess I'll have to wait for a Switch version to find out… if they ever release one). This has me wondering if this quote isn't something exclusive to the English version, but I can't be sure and I'd like to know what the original Japanese text says. The French wikis mention that Farore is the Goddess of Wind in WW but don't provide any quote, it just looks like the pages were translated from English but that they couldn't find the same quote in French. It's really frustrating!!

Anyway that's a bit weird because WW already establishes Zephos as the God of Wind, and he seems to be a minor deity compared to Farore. The way I see it, wind is just the element that Farore tends to be associated with, and since a lot of myths might have been lost with Hyrule in WW this could just be a mistake on Tingle's part. I mean this is the game that gave us the Golden Triumph Forks haha.

I'm not limiting Nayru/the Golden Goddesses to a singular domain, quite the opposite ^^ To me Nayru being the Goddess of Wisdom includes different concepts such as order, law, science, magic, etc., and even time (since she's introduced as the creator of the world's fondamental laws), while calling her the Goddess of Time doesn't include all of that. That's why I wrote that I found it a bit restrictive. But sure she could have both titles, the same way Farore could be known most commonly as the Goddess of Courage and also called the Goddess of Wind in some situations.

Oh I didn't think of the blocks from OoT! I would say though that they don't really use any time powers, they're just random blocks that appear or disappear for some reason when Link plays the Song of Time (it's just as absurd as playing the Song of Storms to open holes in the ground haha). But yes they were blue and associated with time, and of course Nayru is too. The difference with Hylia in my theory is that Nayru created the rules of time (if that makes sense) among other fundamental laws, while Hylia's power specifically allows her to manipulate time and foresee the future. In a way I see Hylia as Nayru's spiritual daughter who inherited some of her powers over time (and that's why the color purple she's represented with is very close to blue).

The Master Sword has also been depicted as either blue or purple though, so that asks the question of the true color of all of these things! Nayru is definitely linked to time so it makes sense that the timeshift stones are in Lanayru (and Hylia also doesn't have a province named after her).

"From the edge of time" could definitely just be a poetic way to say that Hylia kind of recorded a message for Link before dying haha. But I find it interesting that she would phrase it like that, I like to see it as a clue.

Well if Zelda simply sent Link to a point further back in time, wouldn't there be two Links existing at the same time in the Child Timeline? But sure Zelda creating a brand new timeline also raises a few questions that kind of... make my head hurt. I'm not sure what happens exactly, I've always wondered! All we know is that Link finds himself in the Master Sword's chamber with the Door of Time already open, which hints at things happening in a different way this time (because he definitely doesn't have the three spiritual stones and the Ocarina of Time yet since this is before Ganon's coup, and the ending seems to imply that this timeline's Zelda doesn't know him yet). That's why I believe Zelda might have done something a bit more complex than sending him to a point further back in time, but there's no way to be sure. The Triforce of Courage is also visible on Link's hand during the ending, and we also know thanks to TP that the Triforce is still separated in the Child Timeline despite Link and Zelda preventing Ganon from entering the Sacred Realm this time. So maybe Zelda isn't able to change everything? It's complicated haha.

Anyway, whether OoT Zelda creates a new timeline or just sends Link further back in time, that's still huge time powers and that's not something Link is able to do by playing Zelda's Lullaby.

I also believe it is more likely that Talon inherited the ranch. True, Talon might not always have been so lazy, but maybe if that was the case the game could have hinted at hit. All we know is that he leaves his daughter alone with Ingo and only comes back after Link deals with the situation, which does not make him look so great. And he only promises to work harder after that.

I'm kind of bad with names so I'm impressed you're going through all of that trouble to rename the settlements!!

I haven't gotten to developping the technology that much yet, but I'm really interested in seeing what the different races could do with it! I love the idea of using the Sheikah to infiltrate the Yiga bases. I wish TotK had done something like that and shown the Sheikah helping Link that way.

Same, I was so excited when I heard about these pirates… and then so disappointed to find nothing more than a bunch of bokos with no backstory.

Vignoble is not related to noble (though I kind of make the association in my mind, especially since vignobles are sometimes called châteaux).

Yes I thought you could maybe use clos! Aquaticlos is funny, it can work! Though maybe you could use the same logic as for the raisins (I love this Raisins de Terre idea by the way, it makes sense!) and say that what the Zoras call a clos already refers to something that's underwater, since that's probably the case for most of what they cultivate.

I don't mind helping you with French, I'm glad to do so! You put so much effort and thought into this, it's really interesting.

[otome-dissection]

Idk man I just think that mizu/ena5 and its progression was really beautiful actually. I just think that the release of the ena5 song was also really beautiful and kind of the nail in the coffin for me and I haven't been able to get the event(s) out of my head all week and that I kind of want to talk about it, actually.

It's about being hurt so deeply and continuously that any kindness that could be offered to you manages to feel like a sin, that it makes you crumble and shatter but for all the wrong reasons, not because of the newfound safety, not out of relief, but something worse and more deeply ingrained in you than kindness ever was. It's about carefully measuring the distance at which you keep others away from yourself, to ensure that it never happens again ("To save yourself the trouble", if that makes it easier).

It's about realizing that the people you've been spending all this time with are drifting closer, that they just might bump up against the unsightly parts of yourself that you've tried to keep locked away, it's about turning around and sprinting at full speed and slamming the door shut and holding onto the handle behind you to stop it from turning, because you're as frightened of the possibility of another wound being inflicted on you as you are of the possibility that kinder, gentler hands will reach out and smooth over the exposed scar. It's about hating eyes that judge and silently condemn you as much as you hate eyes that simply see you and take all of you in without scrutiny, because no matter what they're looking and they're looking at you and they know that your hand's on that door handle and they know that you're hiding something because, as much as you try to keep it shut, they've seen through the crack that you foolishly left open.

(The prominence of eyes in Bake no Hana, specifically eyes looking and searching, and finally landing on you, the viewer, Mizuki, is so fucking. Visceral in my opinion. Every character in the MV stares at the viewer in a deadpan, almost judging way. Even though Mizuki knows deep down that niigo won't really hate them, won't judge them, she just can't stand their kindness either; any gaze directed at her is a loss, another prick in their skin. It screams "don't look at me" while making sure that you know, with horrific certainty, that they're looking for you, that you're being watched. You can't go outside, can't leave your room, because they're searching for you, and while that should be reassuring, to you it's anything but).

It's about not wanting to be dissected, whether it's with hands that want to pull your organs apart or stitch them back together because no matter what they're there, and they're getting frighteningly close to your heart. It's about blinding yourself and covering your eyes to it all because seeing means exposure and exposure means they're taking something from you and you can't do anything about it, much less take it all back, much less have a say in the matter. Everyone's just taking and taking and taking and you wish you could just be alone. You wish everyone would just disappear and you could live in a world all to yourself, for only yourself (but is that really what you want?).

It's about the way that, near the beginning of the Yoka ni Mitoreta MV, Mizuki and her loneliness is represented as a dark, splotchy stain in the shadows. No colors, no patterns, no way to clean it or wash it all away, just raw ugliness marring a blank canvas. It's about the way that Ena reaches out to it anyway, the way she startles when the glass shatters just when she finally starts reaching forward, the way that the rest of the MV/song represents her searching for and reaching only further out to Mizuki, even if the broken shards of glass will only cut her fingers, potentially leaving scars.

It's about how, in every way, subtly, directly, consciously, and subconsciously, Ena shows that she fucking cares.

It's about the way that Ena lets Mizuki have autonomy, despite the situation being so horribly out of their control. And it's such a delicate thing: If she really wants to, Mizuki can take the opportunity to just run away, keep running forever, repeat the cycle over and over, and maybe she'll just destroy herself with it again, but it can't be denied that it's something important to them, something she can't quite live without just yet, their means of survival. Mizuki's autonomy is their identity, it's her tailoring her own clothes and choosing her own ribbons and styling her own hair the way she does. Ena letting them have that is as much about trust as it is about understanding that Mizuki of all people should have this right, when control was something stripped from her throughout so much of her life. She couldn't control how she was born, how people look at her or why, can't control what they think of her; lacking control has only left Mizuki vulnerable to the cruelties of others, has only caused them to suffer, which is why it's so important that it's given to them now.

She had the control to make the choice to see niigo's welcoming love and run away instead of staying, and she has the control to make the choice now whether she wants to keep things the way they are or take a step forward to be at their side again. She has every right to have it, and I think the fact that Ena realizes and respects that, even if it's subconsciously, is really beautiful (there is an entire fucking Verse about this in the new song and just. God Look at this. It's so caring, unconditional, and for fucking What. I think there is something to be said about how much Ena is willing to put aside for Mizuki, and maybe deep down it isn't healthy, but for now I'm just kind of in awe)

It's about how insanely patient Ena has been this whole time. Mizuki says that she basically lied to Ena's face about telling her their secret, even after Ena said with such conviction that she would wait for Mizuki as long as it takes, and Ena is just kept waiting and waiting and worrying like this seemingly indefinitely. It's about how Mizuki danced around it, avoided it, kept the distance, straight up ran when she was finally pushed, but Ena still chased anyway when she saw that she couldn't wait anymore, kept chasing just enough to intervene and get a straight answer out of Mizuki when she really needed to, but still leaving her enough space to leave if that was truly what she wanted. It's about how relieved Ena is the moment that Mizuki finally says outright how much they want to be with her and niigo, how much she wants to try, how much more light Ena's voice sounds when she grabs her hand, relieved, the way that the relief she feels can be felt through the music, throughout the entirety of Yoka ni Mitoreta, the way that warm colors always follow her when she chases after Mizuki, just to hold onto her and stop her from running away completely.

It's about how that careful combination of Ena's directness, Ena's persistence, Ena's warmth, her patience, her bluntness about her feelings, the way she chases and holds on but not too tight and her regard for how unsafe and exposed Mizuki feels actually works and breaks it all down. It's about how she really did reach through to Mizuki, despite the thorns and broken glass shards and nearly-unfulfilled promises, the way that Mizuki did finally let her turn the door handle and step through to see what she'd been hiding all this time, the way that Mizuki's hand, limp, when Ena first grabs onto it, shifts to hold hers back as they cry in the face of Ena's gentleness.

Despite how harsh Mizu/Ena5, and even Ena herself as a character can be (or at least was in the very beginning of pjsk), everything is somehow gentle and warm in the end, blindingly so. And you know what, I think that's beautiful. And what's even more beautiful than that is how Mizuki allows themself to crumble and shatter under that kindness, that warm light, but this time, finally, out of relief.

On a final note, I just want to say that I also appreciate how all that didn't have to solve everything. The scars haven't disappeared, haven't gone away, and Mizuki knows that their desire to run hasn't gone away forever, and maybe it never truly will. But for now they've calmed it, at least a little. She's learning to allow herself to be seen, learning that when someone's fingertips brush over their scars the way Ena's did that it's only out of care, and that maybe taking in that care and allowing herself to feel kindness and safety is okay. They're safe, for now, somehow. They're learning. They're trying. And I think that's cool :)