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gojosconsort · 20 days ago

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breaking nanami's restraint

𓂃୨ৎ as a young barista, you tease nanami kento’s calm with shameless flirting because it’s just so fun until one night, he breaks.

𓂃୨ৎ pairing. afab!reader x older!office-worker!nanami

𓂃୨ৎ warnings. mdni. age gap (reader in early 20s, nanami in mid-40s), oral (both receiving), unprotected sex, cum play, dirty talk, begging, overstimulation, workplace setting, degradation (use of terms like "slut")

the café’s bell jingles, and your head snaps up. it’s him—nanami kento, the man who’s been driving you wild for weeks. mid-forties, tailored suit hugging his broad shoulders, blonde hair neat but just tousled enough to make your fingers itch.

he’s so hot, the kind of guy who could silence a room without trying. you’re barely out of college, working this downtown coffee shop to pay rent, and every time he steps in, you feel like you’re burning up.

“afternoon,” he says, voice deep and clipped, like he’s rationing words. he orders the same thing every time: black coffee, no sugar, croissant he picks at. it’s not about the food—you can tell by the way he watches you instead of the plate.

“hey, fancy seeing you,” you say, popping your hip against the counter, letting your skirt ride up just a bit. you’re not shy about it—leaning forward, cleavage peeking out of your low-cut top, giving him a smile that’s more heat than hospitality. his eyes flick down, just for a second, before locking onto yours. it’s quick, but you catch it, and it fuels you.

“usual?” you ask, already knowing the answer. you turn to the espresso machine, swaying your hips more than necessary, feeling his gaze like a weight on your skin. the café’s dead today, just the buzz of the fridge and some soft jazz you picked to set the mood. every move you make is for him—stretching to grab a cup, letting your shirt lift to show a little skin.

he nods, settling at his window table, tie knotted tight. he’s reserved, always is, but you’ve seen the cracks—those brief glances, the way his jaw ticks when you get too close. you want to shatter that composure, make him react, make him want you the way you’re dying for him.

you bring his order over, bending a little too far as you set it down, your hair brushing his hand. “so, you ever gonna mix it up, or is boring your thing?” you tease.

he glances up, expression unreadable. “i like what i like,” he says, flat but deliberate, and you swear there’s a spark in his eyes. it’s enough to keep you hooked.

“bet i could change your mind,” you say, winking, and saunter back to the counter, feeling his stare follow you. you’re shameless—flipping your hair, licking your lips when you catch him looking, dropping a spoon just to bend over and pick it up slow.

he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blush, just sips his coffee like you’re not putting on a show. but he’s here, isn’t he? every other day, same time, same table. he likes it, even if he won’t admit it.

days went by, and you crank it up. one afternoon, it’s raining hard, and he’s the only one in the shop. you’re wiping tables near him, skirt short enough to make you blush if you cared. “you never tell me anything,” you pout, leaning close enough that your arm brushes his. “what’s a guy like you do all day? save the world? break hearts?”

“work,” he says, not looking up from his paper. “spreadsheets. meetings. nothing you’d care about.”

“oh, i care,” you say, voice low, resting your hand on the table, fingers grazing his. he doesn’t pull away, but his grip on the paper tightens. “you look like you could do anything and make it sexy.”

his eyes meet yours, steady and piercing. “you’re bold,” he says, and it’s not a compliment or an insult—just a fact. but the way his voice dips makes your thighs clench.

“you keep coming back, so it’s working,” you shoot back, grinning. you let your hand linger a second longer before pulling away, swaying back to the counter. you’re buzzing, heart racing, but he just goes back to his paper like nothing happened.

it’s maddening, and you love it.

the touches start small, always you initiating. you hand him his coffee, letting your fingers slide over his, slow and deliberate. he doesn’t react, but he doesn’t pull away either. another day, you’re passing him a napkin, and your wrist brushes his, skin on skin for a heartbeat. his eyes flick to yours, dark and unreadable, and you smile like you’ve won something.

one busy afternoon, the café’s packed, and you’re weaving through the crowd. he’s at his table, and you “accidentally” bump into him, your hip grazing his shoulder. “oops,” you say, turning to give him a coy look. his jaw clenches, just for a second, and you feel a rush knowing you got under his skin.

you keep pushing. wiping down his table, you lean over just enough to let him see down your shirt, pretending you don’t notice. you drop a pen near his chair and take your time picking it up, skirt riding up. every time, he’s stone—calm, controlled, sipping his damn coffee. but he’s here, and that’s your victory. he could go anywhere, but he picks your café, your teasing, your shameless flirting.

one night, you’re closing up, and he’s the last one left. you’re bold tonight, high on the thrill of the game. you lock the door, flip the sign to “closed,” and saunter over, leaning against his table, skirt barely covering your thighs. “you’re gonna miss your train,” you say.

he looks up, folding his paper with agonizing slowness. “i’ll manage.”

you tilt your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. “you know, i’m starting to think you like me making a fool of myself for you.”

he stands, towering over you, and for the first time, he steps close—close enough you can smell his cologne, feel the heat off him. his hand brushes your arm as he reaches for his coat, the touch so light you almost miss it, but it sends a jolt through you. “you’re not a fool,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “but you’re playing a dangerous game.”

your breath catches, but you don’t back down. “good thing i like danger,” you whisper, looking up through your lashes.

he holds your gaze, and for a second, you think he might break—might grab you, kiss you, something. but then he steps back, slipping on his coat. “see you tomorrow,” he says, and he’s gone, leaving you trembling and aching in the empty café.

that night, you’re sprawled across your bed, the faint hum of the city outside your window drowned out by the heat coursing through you. nanami’s burned into your mind, his sharp jaw, the way his suit clings to his frame, that maddening restraint in his eyes when you push his buttons.

you close your eyes, and he’s there—tie loose, sleeves rolled up, standing over you in the empty café. your hand’s already between your thighs, fingers slick, but it’s not enough. it’s never enough when it’s him you’re craving.

you imagine him grabbing your wrists, pinning them to the counter, his voice low and rough in your ear. “you’ve been teasing me for weeks,” he’d say, breath hot against your neck. “think i don’t notice?” you picture him pressing himself against you, his fat cock hard and heavy through his slacks, grinding into your hip until you’re whimpering.

your fingers move faster, desperate, but they’re a pale substitute for what you want—him, thick and stretching you, filling you so deep you’d feel it for days. you’d beg for it, you know you would, thighs spread wide on that counter, skirt hiked up, pleading for him to fuck you senseless.

in your fantasy, he’s not gentle. he’d yank your blouse open, buttons popping, mouth on your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks. you’d arch into him, moaning his name—kento—and he’d growl, finally losing that iron grip on his control.

you imagine his hands, big and calloused, spreading your thighs, his cock nudging against you, teasing until you’re shaking. “this what you wanted?” he’d ask, voice dark, and then he’d thrust in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every vein, until he’s buried to the hilt.

your fingers curl inside you, trying to mimic the stretch, but it’s nothing compared to how you know he’d ruin you, pounding you until the café’s tables rattle, until you’re sobbing his name.

you want his weight on you, his sweat mixing with yours, his cock splitting you open while he mutters filthy things about how you’ve been asking for this, how you’ve been dripping for him every time you bent over in that short skirt. you’d claw at his back, legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, needing more, always more.

your orgasm builds, sharp and fast, as you picture him coming, groaning low in his throat, spilling inside you, hot and thick, claiming you in a way your fingers never could.

you cum with a gasp, body trembling, but it’s hollow. your hand’s not him, not his fat cock, not his hands or his mouth or the way he’d make you scream. you lie there, panting, wishing he was there to see you like this—wrecked, needy, all because of him.

the next day, you’re wired, the memory of your fantasy making you bold. the bell chimes, and nanami walks in, same suit, same stoic face, but you’re done playing subtle. “hey, you,” you say, voice dripping with mischief as you lean forward, letting your blouse gape just enough. “usual?”

he nods, eyes flicking over you, lingering a second too long. “yes. thank you.”

you pour his coffee, swaying your hips as you move, making sure he’s watching. when you bring it to his table, you lean in close, closer than necessary, your hair brushing his shoulder. “had a long night,” you say, voice low, teasing. “couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

his hand pauses on the cup, fingers tightening just slightly. he doesn’t look up, but you catch the faintest tic in his jaw. “that so?” he says, voice even, like he’s not fazed. but you’re not buying it.

“mmhm,” you hum, resting a hand on the table, fingers inches from his. “kept me up way too late. had to… take care of things myself.” you let the words hang, heavy and deliberate, watching for any crack in that stoic facade.

his eyes snap to yours, dark and intense, and you see it—the bulge in his slacks, unmistakable, growing as your words sink in. his jaw clenches, knuckles white around the cup, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. you smirk, knowing you’ve got him, and saunter back to the counter, hips swaying. “you’re here every day,” you call over your shoulder. “guess i’m not the only one who can’t stay away.”

he stays silent, but his stare burns into you, and you know you’re chipping away at that restraint. you’re not done—not until he breaks and gives you everything you’ve been fantasizing about.

the next day, the bell chimes, and nanami steps in, suit crisp, face as unreadable as ever, but you’re not fooled. he’s here, same time, same table.

that’s all the proof you need.

you’re behind the counter, blouse unbuttoned just enough to tease, skirt clinging to your hips. “usual, handsome?” you call out, voice dripping with intent, leaning forward so he gets a good view.

he nods, eyes flicking over you, lingering on the curve of your chest before meeting your gaze. “yes,” he says, voice steady, but there’s a tightness there, like he’s holding himself in check.

you pour his coffee, making a show of it, bending slightly to let your skirt ride up. when you bring it to his table, you lean in close, your hand brushing his as you set the cup down. “so,” you murmur, low and sultry, “you ever touch yourself thinking about me? ‘cause i sure as hell do thinking about you.”

his eyes narrow, and for a second, you think you’ve got him—his breath catches, just barely. but then he leans back, folding his arms, studying you like you’re a problem he’s solving. “how old are you?” he asks, voice calm but pointed.

you grin, undeterred, propping a hand on your hip. “early twenties. why, you worried i’m too young for you?”

he exhales, almost a scoff, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “i’m old enough to be your dad.”

your pulse spikes, and you lean closer, letting your voice drop to a purr. “even better.”

his jaw tightens, and there it was again—the bulge in his slacks, betraying him. he shifts in his seat, trying to hide it, but you’re already smirking, knowing you’ve hit a nerve. “you’re playing with fire,” he says, low and rough, but he doesn’t get up, doesn’t leave.

“good,” you whisper, straightening up, giving him a view of your ass as you saunter back to the counter. “i like it hot.”

he doesn’t respond, just watches you with that heavy, unreadable stare, but he stays, sipping his coffee, and you know you’re wearing him down, inch by filthy inch.

that evening, you’re closing up, the café dark except for the glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows. nanami’s still there, the last one, lingering at his table with his coffee long gone, pretending to read his paper. you know he’s watching you, and you’re not about to waste the chance. you lock the door, flip the sign to “closed,” and turn up the heat.

you saunter toward him, rag in hand and stop at his table, leaning over to grab his empty cup, “accidentally” knocking over a water glass. it splashes across his slacks, soaking the fabric over his thigh. “oh, shit,” you say, fake-apologetic, grabbing the rag. “let me fix that.”

before he can protest, you’re on your knees between his legs, right there in the dim café. you press the rag to his thigh, rubbing slow, your hands dangerously close to the obvious bulge straining against his pants.

he’s hard—so hard—and you feel a thrill knowing it’s because of you. you look up at him, all innocent, but your eyes say something else. “can’t let you leave all messy,” you murmur, and then, bold as hell, you lean in and drag your tongue over the wet spot on his slacks, tasting the faint salt of the water and the heat of him beneath.

his breath hitches, loud in the quiet, and you feel his thigh tense under your hands. you glance up, and his control’s gone—eyes dark, jaw clenched, hands gripping the table like he’s holding himself back. “what the hell are you doing?” he growls, voice rough, but he doesn’t push you away.

“cleaning up,” you say, all coy, licking your lips as you hold his gaze. you press your palm against his bulge, just enough to make him hiss, and that’s it—he snaps.

nanami grabs your arms, hauling you up and onto the table in one swift move, papers and cups scattering. his mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, all that pent-up restraint pouring out. it’s messy, desperate—his tongue claiming yours, teeth grazing your lip, one hand fisting in your hair while the other grips your hip, pulling you flush against him. you moan into his mouth, tasting coffee and him, your hands clawing at his tie, yanking it loose.

“you’ve been begging for this,” he mutters against your lips, voice raw, his hard-on pressing into your thigh through his slacks. “fucking relentless.”

“and you love it,” you gasp, arching into him, skirt riding up as he slots himself between your legs. his kiss is bruising, all control and want, and you’re dizzy with it, with him finally giving in, ready to see how much further you can push him.

nanami’s hands are everywhere—yanking your hair, gripping your hips, his hard-on grinding into you through his slacks. you’re dizzy, thighs trembling, but he’s not done. not even close. he pulls back, eyes black with want, and you see the moment he decides to ruin you.

“you’ve been asking for this,” he growls, voice thick with need. your skirt’s already bunched up, and he doesn’t bother with finesse—his hands shove your thighs apart, rough and impatient, spreading you open. you’re soaked, panties clinging to you, and the way he looks at you, like he’s starving, makes your core clench.

“fuck, look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself, as he hooks his fingers under your panties and rips them down, tossing them somewhere behind the counter. you gasp, but it’s cut off when he drops to his knees, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider. his hands dig into your thighs, holding you in place, and then his mouth’s on you, no warning, no teasing—just raw, filthy hunger.

his tongue dives into your folds, lapping at you like he’s been deprived for years. it’s messy, wet, obscene—his lips sucking your clit, tongue flicking over it before plunging inside you, tasting every inch of your dripping cunt. you moan, loud and shameless, hands fisting in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him groan against you. the vibrations shoot through you, and your hips buck, grinding against his face, but he holds you down, fingers bruising your skin.

“stay still,” he orders, voice muffled but sharp, and you try, but it’s impossible when he’s eating you out like this, like he wants to devour every last drop. his tongue fucks into you, deep and relentless, then drags up to circle your clit, sucking hard until you’re whimpering, thighs shaking. you’re a mess—slick dripping down your thighs, coating his chin, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t let up, just licks you harder, greedier.

“kento,” you gasp, voice breaking, and he growls, doubling down. he’s sloppy, unhinged, nothing like the controlled man who orders black coffee. his hands slide to your ass, pulling you closer, tongue working you open as he moans into your pussy, like he’s getting off on this as much as you are. you can feel him, hard and straining in his slacks, but he’s too focused on you, on making you feel good.

you’re close, so close, the heat coiling tight in your belly. he knows it—senses it in the way you tighten around his tongue—and he pushes harder, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking it with quick, brutal strokes. “come for me,” he demands, voice rough against your skin, and that’s all it takes. you shatter, crying out, hips jerking as your orgasm rips through you, slick gushing against his mouth. he doesn’t stop, lapping up every bit, drawing it out until you’re whining, oversensitive, legs trembling.

he pulls back, finally, lips glistening, eyes wild as he looks up at you. his hair’s a mess from your hands, tie hanging loose, and you can see the bulge in his slacks, bigger than before, straining like he’s about to burst. you’re panting, still catching your breath, but you manage a shaky grin. “fuck, nanami, you’re filthy.”

“you have no idea,” he says, standing, voice dark with promise as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, already reaching for his belt.

“my turn,” you purr, sliding off the table, legs shaky but determined. you drop to your knees in front of him, the café’s dim light casting shadows over his sharp features. his jaw tightens as you reach for his zipper, tugging it down slow, teasing, until his cock springs free. it’s thick, heavy, veins pulsing, and your mouth waters at the sight. he’s bigger than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a lot.

“fuck,” you whisper, gripping him at the base, feeling him twitch in your hand. you look up, meeting his dark gaze, and give him a wicked grin before leaning in, dragging your tongue along the underside, slow and deliberate. he groans, low and guttural, one hand bracing against the table as you swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting the bead of precum there.

you don’t ease him into it. you take him deep, lips stretching around his girth, hollowing your cheeks as you bob your head, sloppy and eager. he’s so thick it’s a struggle, but you love it—the way he fills your mouth, the way his hips jerk slightly, like he’s fighting to stay in control. you push further, nose brushing his pelvis, throat constricting as you swallow around him.

“shit,” he hisses, hand fisting in your hair, not gentle but not cruel—yet. “you’re too fucking good at this.”

you hum, the vibration making him curse again, and you pick up the pace, sucking hard, letting spit drip down your chin. it’s messy, rough, your hands gripping his thighs for leverage as you take him deeper, faster. he’s close, you can feel it—his breaths ragged, his grip tightening, hips starting to thrust, shallow at first, then harder, fucking your mouth like he can’t hold back anymore.

“look at you,” he growls, voice raw, “taking it so well, so fucking greedy.” his words send a jolt through you, and you moan around him, letting him use you, loving the way he’s losing it. he’s rough now, thrusting deep, hitting the back of your throat until your eyes water, but you don’t care—you want him wrecked, want him to break.

his control slips completely, hips snapping, hand guiding your head as he fucks your mouth. you’re a mess—spit slicking your lips, tears streaking your cheeks, but you keep going, hollowing your cheeks, sucking like you’re starving for him. “gonna come,” he warns, voice strained, and you double down, taking him as deep as you can, moaning to push him over the edge.

he snaps, a low groan ripping from his throat as he comes, hard and sudden, flooding your mouth with hot, thick spurts. it’s so much, more than you expected, spilling past your lips, dripping down your chin as you try to swallow it all. he keeps thrusting, shallow now, riding it out, and you let him, milking every last drop until he’s shuddering, grip loosening in your hair.

you pull back, gasping, his cum smeared across your lips, dripping onto your chest, staining your blouse. you swipe a finger through the mess on your chin, sucking it clean while holding his gaze, and he groans again, like you’re killing him.

“fuck,” he mutters, still catching his breath, looking down at you like he’s seeing you for the first time—wrecked, filthy, perfect. “you’re a goddamn menace.”

you grin, voice hoarse. “and you’re still hard.” you nod at his cock, still half-erect, and his eyes darken.

“get up,” he orders, voice low and rough, sending a shiver through you. you stand, legs wobbly, and he grabs your waist, spinning you around to face the table. his hands are rough, shoving you forward until your hips slam against the edge, your palms slapping the surface to brace yourself.

he’s behind you, heat radiating off him, and you feel his cock—hard again, impossibly thick—press against your ass.

“you wanted this,” he growls, yanking your skirt up higher, exposing you completely and you’re dripping, slick coating your thighs. his hand slides between your legs, fingers grazing your folds, and you gasp, pushing back against him. he chuckles, dark and mean. “so fucking wet. you’re desperate, aren’t you?”

“please, kento,” you whine, wiggling your hips, but he slaps your ass, sharp enough to sting, making you yelp.

“not yet,” he says, voice cold, controlled, but you hear the edge in it, the hunger he’s barely reining in. “you’ve been teasing me for weeks, acting like a little slut. you don’t get it that easy.”

his fingers tease you, circling your clit, slow and torturous, never giving you enough. you squirm, trying to grind against his hand, but he grips your hip, holding you still. “beg,” he demands, leaning over you, his breath hot against your ear. “tell me how bad you want it.”

“fuck, please,” you gasp, voice breaking. “i need you, kento, need your cock, please, just fuck me.”

“not good enough,” he says, pulling his hand away, leaving you empty and aching. you whimper, frustration burning, but he’s relentless, sliding his cock between your thighs, letting it glide against your slick folds without entering. it’s torture—his thick length so close, brushing your clit, but not giving you what you need. “say it like you mean it.”

“kento, please, i’m begging,” you sob, pushing back, desperate. “i need you inside me, need you to fuck me so hard i can’t walk, please, i’ll do anything.”

he groans, low and primal, and you feel him line up, the fat tip of his cock nudging your entrance. “that’s better,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move, just holds himself there, stretching you just enough to make you whine. “you sure you can take it? i’m not small, and you’re so fucking tight.”

“i can take it,” you pant, though you’re not sure, not with how massive he feels, but you want it, want him to ruin you. “please, just do it.”

he doesn’t ease in. he thrusts, hard and deep, forcing his cock into you in one brutal stroke. you cry out, the stretch burning, overwhelming—he’s so big, so thick, it feels like he’s splitting you open.

your walls clench around him, struggling to take him, and he hisses, gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. “fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, pulling back just to slam in again, rough and unforgiving.

it hurts, but it’s good, so fucking good, the way he fills you completely, hitting spots you didn’t know existed. you’re moaning, incoherent, nails scratching the table as he sets a punishing pace, each thrust jarring your body, the table digging into your hips. “kento, oh god,” you gasp, barely able to speak, and he laughs, low and cruel.

“thought you could handle it,” he taunts, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back. “look at you, barely taking half.” he thrusts harder, deeper, and you scream, feeling him bully his way into your core, stretching you to your limit. “beg me to slow down.”

“no,” you choke out, defiant even as tears prick your eyes. “harder, please, fuck me harder.”

he groans, like your words snap something in him, and he gives it to you—pounding into you, relentless, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the café. your legs shake, barely holding you up, but his hands keep you in place, fucking you like he’s trying to break you. “greedy little thing,” he mutters, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing rough circles that make you see stars. “come on, beg for it again.”

“please, kento, make me come,” you sob, so close but not there, his cock overwhelming, his fingers merciless. “need it, need you, please.”

“not yet,” he says, slowing just enough to drag it out, torturing you with long, deep strokes that keep you teetering on the edge. you’re whimpering, pleading, but he holds you there, making you feel every inch of him, every brutal thrust. “you come when i say.”

you’re a wreck, body trembling, cunt clenching around him, and finally, finally, he picks up the pace again, slamming into you, fingers working your clit until you’re screaming, your orgasm crashing over you, gushing around his cock. he doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, chasing his own release, and you’re oversensitive, whining, but he doesn’t care.

“fuck, gonna fill you up,” he groans, thrusts erratic, and then he’s coming, hot and thick, so much it spills out, dripping down your thighs. he keeps moving, milking it, until you’re both panting, spent, your body limp against the table.

he pulls out, slow, and you whimper at the emptiness, his cum leaking from you, pooling on the floor. he steps back, breathing hard, watching you—messy, dripping, barely able to stand—and mutters, “look at the mess you made.”

you try to catch your breath, grinning shakily. “worth it,” you rasp, voice hoarse from screaming his name. but he doesn’t smile back, doesn’t soften. instead, he steps closer, towering over you, one hand gripping your hip to keep you in place.

“you think we’re done?” he growls, voice low and dangerous, sending a fresh pulse of heat through you. his other hand slides between your legs, fingers finding the mess he left, his cum dripping from your swollen cunt. you gasp, oversensitive, as he scoops it up, thick and warm, and pushes it back inside you with two fingers, slow and deliberate.

“kento—fuck,” you whimper, hips jerking as he curls his fingers, shoving his cum deeper, your walls fluttering around him. it’s obscene, the wet squelch of it, the way he’s claiming you again, making sure every drop stays inside. you’re trembling, barely able to stand, but he doesn’t let up, fucking his cum back into you with a focus that makes your head spin.

“you’re gonna keep this,” he murmurs, almost to himself, eyes locked on where his fingers disappear inside you. “every fucking bit of it.” his thumb brushes your clit, rough and relentless, and you cry out, oversensitive but helpless under his touch. he’s not gentle—his fingers pump deeper, harder, like he’s punishing you for how much you want it, how much you’re still clenching around him.

“look at you,” he says, “dripping with me, still so fucking needy.” he leans in, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot. “you’re mine now, you know that? gonna fuck you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

you moan, head falling back against the table, your body arching into his hand. his fingers are relentless, pushing his cum deeper, stretching you, and you’re already building again, despite the ache, despite how wrecked you are. “please, kento,” you beg, voice breaking, “make me come again.”

he chuckles, dark and cruel, and adds a third finger, the stretch making you gasp, his cum and your slick coating his hand. “greedy little slut,” he mutters, but there’s heat in it, like he’s loving every second of your desperation. he works you harder, thumb circling your clit, fingers fucking you until you’re sobbing, another orgasm ripping through you, gushing around his hand, mixing with his cum.

he doesn’t pull out right away, keeping his fingers inside, holding his release there like a promise. you’re panting, limp, his cum still leaking despite his efforts, and he smirks, finally pulling his hand free. he brings his fingers to your lips, smeared with both of you, and you suck them clean without hesitation, tasting him, tasting yourself, eyes locked on his.

“filthy,” he says, almost proud, wiping his hand on your thigh before stepping back, adjusting his tie like nothing happened. “clean yourself up. i’ll see you tomorrow.”

you’re left there, shaking, his cum still inside you, knowing you’ll feel him every time you move, and already craving the next time he walks through that door.

#—amy writes : kento nanami ★#nanami kento smut #nanami smut #kento smut #nanami x reader smut #kento nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami kento x reader #divider by cafekitsune

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kaiist · 3 months ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

“Zephyr, could you pass the salt?” you ask, reaching across the kitchen counter.

“What?” Xavier looks up from his phone, brow slightly furrowed. The dim light of the kitchenette creates shadows on his face while he stays close to you at the kitchen island as you cook.

“Xavier,” you repeat, “the salt?”

He nods and slides it over. “Here,” he says simply before returning to the counter without another word. You continue preparing dinner together in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the soft hiss of vegetables sizzling in the pan as Xavier slowly lulls to sleep.

After eating, you’re both relaxing on the couch when you murmur, “Zephyr, can you grab that blanket?” Your eyes remain fixed on the phone in your hands.

“Who?” Xavier turns to you, his expression shifting slightly as the corners of his mouth turn downward.

“I said—”

“That’s not my name,” he says quietly. “Who is Zephyr?” Though his voice remains calm, there’s an unusual intensity to his gaze now, a subtle tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there moments before.

You struggle to keep a straight face as you respond, “What? I said Xavier.”

“No,” he says quietly, a hint of a pout forming on his lips. “You called me... Zephyr.”

You burst into laughter, unable to maintain the charade any longer. “I’m just messing with you! You should see your face right now.”

Xavier studies you for a long moment, his lower lip still protruding slightly. Without another word, he shifts position and lays his head on your lap, then gradually slides his arms around your waist until he’s essentially draped across you like a human blanket.

“Xavier?” you question, surprised by the sudden weight.

“Mine,” he mumbles into your shirt, his embrace tightening slightly as he closes his eyes, still wearing that subtle pout. “I’ll make sure you remember. Just wait.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

“Here you go, Zayden,” you say, setting a mug of coffee down in front of him.

“Thank you,” Zayne accepts the cup with a nod, taking a sip before continuing his reading. His pen moves efficiently across the paper as he makes notes.

Throughout breakfast, you don’t notice anything amiss, though you catch him glancing at you occasionally with an unreadable expression, his dark eyes thoughtful beneath furrowed brows.

Hours later, as evening settles over the city, you return home from your mission. Zayne has arrived home before you, having completed his hospital rounds early for once. The transition from Dr. Zayne to simply Zayne happens as soon as you walk in—his tie is loosened, sleeves rolled up, the rigid posture softening just slightly. You’ve picked up takeout from his favorite restaurant, grateful for the rare evening when you can actually spend time together.

“Zayden, dinner’s ready!” you call out, arranging the food on plates in the kitchen.

“That’s not my name,” his voice comes from directly behind you, making you jump slightly. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

“I—what?”

“Twice, you called me Zayden,” he says. “You did the same thing this morning at breakfast. I assumed you were still half-asleep then. Now I’m curious who’s occupying your thoughts.”

“Oh! I didn’t even realize—” When you explain it was just a mistake—perhaps a character from a show you’ve been watching, or a colleague’s name that stuck in your subconscious—Zayne’s expression softens.

He hums, stepping closer to you. He places one hand on your waist and the other under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “I’d prefer you keep your focus on the present, specifically on your actual boyfriend, Zayne.” He presses a brief, firm kiss to your lips before pulling back, the matter apparently settled for now.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The afternoon sun streams through Rafayel’s studio windows as he works on a new painting.

“Gabriel, this came for you,” you say deliberately, holding out a package that arrived earlier.

No response. Rafayel continues painting as if he hadn’t heard you. Instead of returning to his canvas, he turns to his fish bowl where Reddie swims in lazy circles.

“Reddie, did you hear something?” he asks the fish, leaning toward the bowl. “Strange, I thought I heard someone addressing a stranger in our home.” He tilts his head, listening dramatically. “Maybe someone been sneaking some random man around when I’m not looking. That would explain why that someone is using names that aren’t mine.”

“Gabriel?” you try again, louder this time. The continued mispronunciation is clearly not helping your case.

Rafayel ignores you completely, continuing his one-sided conversation with the fish. “What do you think, Reddie? Should we be concerned? There’s clearly someone here speaking to people who don’t exist.” He sighs.

You try again, louder this time, fighting to keep the laughter from your voice.

Rafayel’s back stiffens further, but he doesn’t turn around. Instead, he continues speaking to Reddie as if you’re not even in the room. “You know, Reddie, loyalty is such a rare quality these days. At least you will never forget my name.” He strokes the top of the fish bowl gently with one finger. “Perhaps we should compose a song about abandonment and betrayal. I could return to the opera with a tragic ballad about a forgotten lover...”

You can’t contain your laughter any longer. “Rafayel, it’s me!”

His head snaps up immediately, his face breaking into a bright smile. “Oh! There you are, cutie! I didn’t see you come in. Is that for me?” He jumps up. “You’re just in time, I want to show you something.”

You soon find yourself caught and marked with colorful fingerprints as payback for your prank.

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The soft lamplight illuminates Sylus’s study as he reclines in his leather armchair, engrossed in a vintage hardbound book. You approach with a cup of tea in hand.

“Silvan, are we still on for tonight?” You approach the table, trailing your fingers along its cool surface.

He continues examining his book, turning a page with deliberate slowness, making no indication he’s heard you. The only sound in the room is the song coming from his vinyl.

You clear your throat and try again. “Silvan? About tonight’s dinner...”

He finally looks up, a barely perceptible smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes—those unnaturally intense eyes that seem to see through every deception—fix on yours with amused interest. “Are you addressing me, sweetie? I believe you have me confused with someone else.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts subtly. Sylus has never been a man to tolerate carelessness, even from you. Especially from you.

“Sylus,” you correct yourself. “I meant Sylus.”

“Better,” he says, turning back to his book and marking his place with a bookmark. “And yes, I still plan to indulge you with my company tonight. Though I find myself curious about this... Silvan.” The way he lingers on the incorrect name sends a slight chill down your spine despite the warmth in the room.

You internally sigh, messing around with him always goes wrong for some reason.

Hours later, you find yourself at an exclusive restaurant. Sylus swirls the deep red wine in his glass, studying its color before taking a sip. He appears completely at ease. Just as you begin to think the earlier name slip has been forgotten, he casually remarks, “You know, (other name), this restaurant has excellent desserts. You should try the chocolate soufflé.”

Your head snaps up from your plate. “What did you call me?”

“Oh? Now you understand how it feels,” he chuckles, voice pitched for your ears alone. “Though I must say, your jealousy is far more entertaining than mine could ever be.”

His laughter fills the space between you as you struggle not to retort back.

��𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Delicious aromas fill your apartment as Caleb moves around the kitchen, preparing what promises to be an impressive dinner. You lean against the counter, watching him taste-test the sauce, admiring the way he looks in casual clothes instead of his uniform.

“Calvin, this smells amazing,” you say, reaching for a piece of chopped vegetable from the cutting board.

The wooden spoon in his hand freezes mid-stir. “Who?” His voice remains light, but you notice the immediate tension in his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he turns to face you.

“The food,” you gesture to the simmering pots. “Whatever you’re making, it smells incredible.”

“No,” he says deliberately, each word precise and measured. “What did you just call me?”

“I said Caleb,” you keep up the act.

“Did you?” He sets down the wooden spoon and wipes his hands slowly on a kitchen towel before approaching you. “Because I clearly heard you call me by another name.”

The playful atmosphere from moments ago has evaporated completely. Though he’s not in uniform and you’ve known him for years, you’re suddenly very aware that this is the man who commands an entire fleet with unquestioning authority.

“It was just a slip of the tongue,” you insist, feeling the cool edge of the counter press against your back as he moves closer. “I don’t even know anyone named Calvin.”

“A slip,” he repeats, his voice deceptively soft as he stops directly in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your heart beat faster.

His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your lower lip, “I need to be certain my name is the only one on these pretty lips. Now,” he says, stroking your cheek gently, “Let’s try again. Who am I?”

“Caleb,” you breathe, and the smile that spreads across his face shows satisfaction.

“That’s right,” he confirms, pressing his forehead against yours for a moment. “And don’t you forget it. Not ever.”

Based on this request.

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peachesofteal · 3 months ago

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Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink, anxiety, reader is neurodivergent

There’s a splitting headache pounding behind your eyes.

It’s the only thing you can focus on for the first five minutes of being awake, reconciling it with queasiness, the ache of your joints. You feel like you drank an entire vat of vodka.

Jesus. How did you even get ho-

Oh god.

Oh my god.

Fragments of last night come rushing back, shattered clips out of order and full of nonsense, things that make no sense. Improbable things.

Captain Riley dressing you in his t-shirt.

Captain Riley holding your chin while he brushes your teeth.

Captain Riley wiping your make up off.

Captain Riley putting you in bed.

With him. Putting you in bed, with him.

The fabric of your dress, black with little blue and purple flowers, catches your eye. It’s sitting neatly on top of a dresser with your bra, your shoes just below, placed side by side, and the world crashes down around you. It shifts and shudders, reality roaring into focus.

This is his room. His house. His bed.

Your stomach turns, nausea swelling into a wave that washes over you, forcing you from the bed to the bathroom on stumbling, heavy legs, snatching your clothes on the way, throwing them to the ground as you lean over the toilet and lose what’s in your stomach, bile and water, the burn pulling tears from your eyes.

What did you do?

Shame rips through you like a knife, stabbing you between the ribs hard enough to make you ache. Humiliation, that’s what this is. You’re humiliated. Humiliated that you drank so much he had to take you home from the bar. Humiliated you couldn’t brush your own teeth or wash your face or change your clothes or put yourself in bed, humiliated you turned into an irresponsible, drunken mess. A burden.

You’re in his house, his room, his bed, your secret fantasies crumbled away into one big nightmare.

He’ll never look at you the same way again.

You know what will happen now, of course. He’ll stop coming by the shop, or if he doesn’t, he’ll just stick to polite conversation. He won’t text you, and anything you send will be responded to with clipped, brief responses.

It always ends this way for one reason or another, but this, blacking out and making a fool of yourself, is certainly a first.

A first you had with Captain Riley. The man you’ve spent every waking minute thinking about for months.

Dumb. So dumb.

You turn the sink on. Rinse and spit. Wash your hands. Splash your face with cold water, and then do it again, letting it mix with your tears, trying to use the shock of the temperature to slow your spiraling anxiety, your descent into madness.

The fabric of your dress on your skin and the sight of his t-shirt crumpled on the ground, still warm from your body, nearly drives you to hysteria.

You ruined it.

Knuckles knock against the bathroom door, and then he’s calling your name.

Your heart drops.

The bathroom window is too small to crawl out of, but you did see a pretty big one in his bedroom. Maybe…

“Open the door sweetheart.” You can do this. Just rip the bandaid off. Get it over with. You pull it wide, momentarily blindsided by what’s on the other side, Captain Riley in a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt, steam rising from a mug in his hand. A normal sized mug that for some reason, looks like a child’s toy. His gives you a once over before trapping you in his gaze, so deadly serious it keeps you rooted to the floor as he deposits the mug on the sink and pulls you close, warm palm settling on the side of your neck. “Were you sick?”

“No.” You croak, the lie is blatantly obvious based on the smell in the bathroom alone. His eyes narrow.

“Try again.” You can’t force yourself to say it, so you nod miserably. “Oh baby,” He tugs you into his arms, cupping the back of your head into his chest. “Why didn’t you call for me?” Jesus. Christ. He pities you.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

He’s being so nice, it makes it all worse. Makes the ache spread all the way to your heart where it pounds so loud you’re sure he can feel it. ‘U-uh, I… I…”

The severity of it all hits you like a truck, hard enough to make your knees weak, and you force yourself to step back, leave the warmth and safety of his arms, his body, his smell, his… everything, before you try to disappear in it. Burrow yourself inside him, seek permanent refuge from the storm. Hide behind him like a child running from a monster.

“I’m s-sorry about last night, th-this,” your stomach is queasy again, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… that was… I don’t usually drink that much, I’m… I’m sorry.” The walls are closing in, a sob so heavy you could drown in it builds in your chest, and you sink into the stark reality of what he’s probably waiting to say. It’s time to go. Get out of his house. “I’ll just… I’ll go.” You move farther of the bathroom, and he follows.

“You’ll st-”

“I need to go to work later, so I sh-should probably go home and get some sleep.” You’re scrambling, looking for anything that might make sense, might justify you sprinting out of this house. It’s amazing how solid your voice is, truly an impressive feat on your part, treading water in survival mode and trying to preserve a shred of dignity. “I have work. A lot of prep work. To do… later.” The uber app lights up under a stroke of your thumb.

“Sweetheart…” he’s got his hands out now, palms open like you’re a wild animal thrashing in a trap and he’s going to free you. “Everything’s okay. You didn’t do any-”

“I’m fine.” Your voice cracks when you cut him off. You can’t listen to him be nice to you after this. “It’s fine. But um… I-I… really do need to go.” You can’t describe the look on his face. It’s like he’s holding onto something with a shred of control, muscles in his arms tense, jaw tight. It almost looks like anger, mixed with concern, his eyes bright and focused, all of it making the edge of your vision blurry.

He’s got you pinned. It’s all you’ve wanted.

But now you’re standing in front of him, a mess, ashamed, horrified.

When he says your name it’s gentle, and patient, the underlying authority in it impossible to ignore, a leash drawing your eyes up from the floor.

Your phone chimes.

Uber.

“That’s my ride,” you rasp, looking away and towards the door. There’s a long moment where you think he might not let you leave, a thought that’s not frightening at all, but unexpectedly comforting. If he didn’t let you leave… if he wanted you to stay…

He takes a very long, very deep breath, the only noise existing between the two of you until he nods and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t want to push you too hard yet,” he pauses, scrutiny bringing his brows together in a barely there crease, “and I can’t box you in, can I?” It doesn’t seem like a question for you, just about you, one he’s asking himself, one you do not understand at all. The hangover is liquifying your brain, and nothing is making sense.

“I, uh… I-” His thumb presses to your bottom lip, stealing words, thoughts, logic, everything from inside you.

“I want you to get some rest when you get home. Take a shower, eat, and text me before you go into work.”

“O-okay. I will.” He rewards you with a smile, a small, proud smile that hangs like a blue ribbon around your neck. A shiny trophy from a soccer-roos game, a first place prize at the science fair, and for once it doesn’t feel like you’re looking out into the crowd for smiling faces that aren’t there.

That feeling is what keeps you warm all the way home, even in the nip of brisk morning air.

You should have gone home and slept, but you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You went to work.

You threw on a pair of throwaway clothes you keep in the office and tied an apron around your waist and disappeared into bakery.

You buried yourself into whatever you could think of, four different types of cookie dough, brownie batter, massive batches of buttercream, nervous energy bubbling up in your chest and spilling out through your hands, forcing them to work, to make, again and again until you can’t possibly do anything else.

The entire time, you ignore the world. Your headache, your stomach, the slow foot traffic out front. Weekends run on a skeleton crew and you’re never here anyway, so it’s not like anyone bothers you.

It’s just you, an entire bag of fresh rosemary, and a mountain of flour.

You could make rosemary focaccia every day and never get bored. It can be used for anything, eaten with anything, and-

the dough can take a beating.

It’s therapeutic, mixing and kneading it into pliable balls and then stretching them out onto sheet pans, chopping rosemary leaves into tiny little pieces so you can sprinkle them over the top with the olive oil. It’s easy to get lost in it, ignorant of the time slipping away, the shop out front closing, your phone rattling against the stainless steel tabletop across the room, the sun slowly sinking behind the skyline.

You push the world away until a heavy knock sounds from the back door.

Captain Riley is standing on the other side. He looks over your shoulder, a sweeping inspection revealing the facts of the matter, a truth that has your stomach sinking like a stone to the bottom of the sea.

You went back on your word.

“Hi.”

“You didn’t go home.” You gulp.

“No.” He turns you around and steers you back inside.

“You didn’t listen.” He hoists you up onto a stool at the end of your workbench.“Sit, and do not move.”

“I-” Fingers hook under your knee, pulling it against his thigh so you’re partially spread around him, and the contact is like a drink of water in a drought. A washed out memory forces its way to the forefront of your mind. Did you know you’re so big? “A-are you mad?” Your voice is tinny, steeped in anxiety, and his eyes soften.

“No baby, I’m not mad. You’re learning, you’ll make mistakes.”

“I will?” He nods.

“My instincts are never wrong. You didn’t run off because you were uncomfortable. You ran because you were embarrassed, and that’s my fault.” He murmurs, wiping at something crusted on your cheeks. Batter. Dough. You don’t know, all you can focus on is the rhythmic rub of his palm skating up and down your leg, squeezing the flesh at your hip before traveling back down to your knee. It’s like watching a pocket watch swing in front of your face, hypnosis taking over your thoughts until the only thing left is him. “I shouldn’t have let you leave this morning but I didn’t want to box you into a corner.” There’s a bowl of raspberry filling to your left, and he swipes his thumb through it, holding the red, pulpy sweetness to your lips. “Open your mouth,” tart sugar swipes across your tongue from tooth to tooth, and he holds you open, tips your head back. You’re holding your breath, hanging on the edge of cliff, dangling, wondering if the rope will be cut, if the rug will be pulled out beneath you, scrambling to put something, anything together to make this make sense. It’s rattling through your bones, twisting you up into knots…

all of it going quiet when his mouth finds yours. Tasting. Taking. Holding your head between his hands and breathing new life into you, tongue against tongue, raspberry swirl staining you both, dying your mouths so red it could be blood. Heat turns molten and you throb, thighs trying to close instinctively, seeking contact, pressure, an alleviation to the mounting ache blooming between them.

He pulls away and chuckles, thumb retaking its place in your mouth as he watches, studies. “My sweet girl.” You make a noise, a squeak, a little whine of pleasure. That’s you. His sweet girl. His. It makes you happier than you know how to explain.

And then he says something that knocks the wind out of you.

“You’re daddy’s girl, baby.” He lets it linger in the air, waiting for something, a reaction, but nothing comes except more agony between your legs, and a strange feeling of relief. “You’re mine, and I’m going to take care of you, every little piece of you, even the ones you try to hide.” Your eyes burn with tears and he wipes them away with his free hand. You wonder if you’re supposed to be disgusted, if you’re supposed to feel shame, discomfort, but none of those things are there. Only desire, relief, longing, peace. Hope.

He wants you. He cares about you. He sees you.

Daddy’s girl.

“Do you want that?” You nod and pull on his thumb like you’re trying to take more, and he huffs an exhale of a laugh. “Look at you, sucking on my thumb already.” He pops it free to cup your cheek, and you mourn the empty space between your teeth, leaning forward for more. More, more more- “I need the words.”

“Yes, I want it.” Your voice doesn’t shake. You don’t stutter. It’s the strongest you’ve ever sounded. He presses his lips to yours, lingering in the kiss before holding your face in both hands, tipping your head back, bringing your eyes directly to his.

“Yes who?” You lick your lips.

“Yes, daddy.” When you say it, it doesn’t sound foreign, or weird, or sinful. It’s right. For once in your life, your words don’t feel clumsy or stupid or mixed up. They just are. What you want to say, what you meant to say.

“Yes, daddy. I want it.”

#peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #raspberry girl fic

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vvampirelust · 8 months ago

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midnight cowboy

warnings: smut, reverse cowgirl, kinda mean!sevika, brief spanking, BIG MAMA (she is a warning.)

this was inspired by JADE’s song, ‘midnight cowboy’

Neon lights glare through the window, illuminating the dark space, and the two figures inside. Flashes of purple and blue casting over their silhouettes. Muffled bass thumps, echoing from the nightlight outside. It’s almost silent other wise, heavy breathing filling the void.

Sevika’s mechanical arm rests behind her head, leaning back on it, her cold grey eyes alert, watching. There’s a smug look on her face, smoke pouring in spirals from her nose as she takes a drag from the blunt between her lips. She tears her eyes from your naked form, down to your hands and grunts when you roughly tighten the harness around her thigh. Saddling her up. “Easy.” She bites.

You simply chuckle in response, knowing fine well she likes when you try to play a little rough.

Sevika’s purplish strap stands tall on her hips, thick and ridged, made to make you feel everything. Your cunt throbs at the sight, thighs squeezing. It suited Sevika perfectly, big and intimidating. Her free hand comes to wrap around it, stroking the thick length up and down. You’re staring hungrily, folds dripping with slick, eager to have Sevika inside you.

Her head tilts, “You gonna get on with it, or what?” She asks gruffly, daringly. Eyes trailing down to the mess between your thighs, demeanour faltering ever so slightly at the sight of your glistening cunt. Sevika hums, patting her thigh, “Come ‘n ride me, gorgeous. Show me what you’re made of.” She challenges through another puff of smoke, settling back against the headboard.

Lip caught between your teeth, you nod dumbly, “Need your cock, Sevika,” you sigh, climbing her eagerly, watching her smirk. You turn around on her lap, straddling her thighs. It takes Sevika by surprise, which doesn’t happen often, having expected you to ride facing her. Now she has a full view of your back, her eyes trailing down the length of you. She admires your curves, the swell of your ass and fuck, your cunt.

Which was winding down on the tip of her strap, coating Sevika’s cock in your sticky juices. She catches on your entrance and you gasp, walls fluttering as you tease yourself.

Sevika’s groan dances with your long moan when you finally sink down on her cock. Feeling lightheaded as you stretch around the size of her, so deep inside your cunt, you can feel her in your throat. Sevika’s groan turns into a dark laugh, flesh hand wiping to snatch the blunt from her lips, tossing it aside. “You really are just fucking nasty, aren’t you, girl?” her words are harsh as she sits up, the movement forcing her cock deeper. You whine, cut off by Sevika’s arm wrapping around your chest, tugging your back flush against her.

“Fuckin’ slut, look at you,” she drawls, mechanical hand finding your waist, running down, freezing against your hot skin. “Fuck, look at these curves. Just move-yeah that’s it. Nice and slow,” Sevika guides you, grip on your waist urging you to grind down on her, hips rolling for her hard eyes to admire.

Your soft moans echo, whimpers slipping out whenever her cock hits those spots inside you that have you lost for breath. “Sevika, please,” you have no idea what you’re pleading for. Sevika simply grunts in response, leaning down to attack your neck with her mouth. Sucking hard enough to leave marks, looking down your body as you continue to rock your hips back against her. You suck in a sharp, deep breath, Sevika watching how your tits move as you heave, perky nipple just begging to be pinched and bitten. So she does, pawing and groping at your tits until you’re whining and squirming on her cock.

You start to grind down harder, faster, desperate for more. More noises slip past your lips, growing louder with each rut of your hips. You want to bounce on her cock, feel her sliding in and out of your soaked pussy. Yet Sevika lays a sharp smack to your thigh, “What did i just say?” she murmurs nipping your skin, “Slow.”

With a whine you sit back on her cock, “I need more,” you punctuate with a hard roll of your hips, the pressure giving Sevika friction to which she groans. “Lemme ride you. Give me more, please. I wanna feel you in my tummy.” You sound pathetic, and it gets Sevika off, wanting to see just how desperate you can get. “Please, Sev-“ You cut yourself off with a whimper as you attempt to bounce on her, feeling her cock shifting deliciously against your fluttering walls. “More,” you sigh quietly, lost in the pleasure.

It’s short lived as you’re suddenly shoved forward onto your hands, Sevika scoffing behind you. “You want more?” She sneers, laying a slap to your ass. “Take it.” You’re looking at her over your shoulder, eyebrows raised. Sevika rolls her eyes, her impatience evident as she gestures to you sitting still on her cock. “Get on with it. Fuck yourself dumb, doll, gimme a good show.”

You start slow, lifting off her cock until only her tip sheathed. Letting Sevika see how well you take her as you sink down to the hilt, curses falling from your lips in whispered whines. Sevika hums her approval, eyes trained on the way you begin bouncing on her cock. Quickening the pace of your thrusts, your head falls back in pleasure. Bracing yourself using her thighs, you pant out little whines and whimpers, feeling her so deep, gliding against your sensitive walls.

“Sevika, fuck!” you cry out, voice strained, “Feels s-so good.” That coil beginning to wind up in your stomach, making you clench and attempt to keep her lodged in your cunt. You can hear Sevika’s heavy breath behind you, clearly affected by watching you ride her. Yet her tone is smug, her voice dropping lower, “Come on. You can do better than that.”

Her hands slide to cup your ass, the contrast of hot and cold sending sparks flying across your body. She spreads you open to her gaze as you start to pick up pace, slamming down harder on her cock. She watches the way your cunt swallows her whole, how you were gripping her cock whenever she slid out. Sevika curses behind you, low and husky, “That’s it.”

The need to cum overpowers the ache in your legs, the need to please Sevika. Your eyebrows are furrowed, moans spilling as you bounce up and down, again and again. Fucking yourself hard on her cock, making your head feel fuzzy. “I- fuck,” it feels so good. She’s so deep in your tummy, hitting all the right spots. “I’m gonna…fuck…i’m gonna cum,” you manage, whining, feeling the pressure building up in your core.

Sevika doesn’t even answer, entrance by the crease, the jiggle of your ass against her hips. Your thighs start shaking, inching closer and closer. It drives you wild, riding Sevika like a goddamn cowgirl. Your nails dig into her skin, hard, and she only groans at the feeling. You’re chanting her name in a whispered prayer, voice rising in pitch as your orgasm begins to take over.

It washes over you dramatically, wave after wave. You can’t get a word out, mouth dropped in a silent moan, convulsing atop her. Your cunt is squeezing her rhythmically, like a vice, unable to comprehend the feelings taking over your body. Your thrusts become weaker, attempting to fuck yourself through it. You aren’t given a chance to ride out your high before you feel Sevika’s hand fisting your hair. She grips your hair like a ponytail, tugging your head back as she readjusts herself. And then she makes you scream.

Sevika pistons her hips to meet your thrusts, fucking up into you with an aggression. Your moans come out in broken sobs as she overstimulates your cunt. Your neck strains with how tight Sevika holds your hair, pulling you so far back you could nearly see her upside down. “Got another one in you, don’t ya’?” Sevika growls, grunting with each thrust of her cock into your dripping cunt. Strings of your slick are falling to the bed beneath you, soaking Sevika’s thighs, leaving a ring of cum around the base of her cock.

It’s too much. Far too much. But still not enough. The way she’s rutting into you like a dog in heat, making you see fucking stars. Having not recovered from your first orgasm and she’s already fucking you into the next one. Her free hand finds your hip, gripping tightly and using her strength to bounce you on top of her. “Good fucking girl,” she drawls through a grunt, “Taking me so well.”

You sob out in pleasure as a response, listening to the obscene wet sounds. Paired with the slapping of Sevika’s hips against your ass. It was filthy, pornographic, but it simply made you want it more. Sevika was pushing you past your limits, and a sick, twisted part of you got off on it. The way she used you like a toy.

And you let her, body pliant as she fucked up into you, cock hitting deeper than you ever thought possible. Your legs were trembling, so close to giving out beneath you. “Fuckin’ look at you. Making a mess of my dick,” Sevika practically snarls, tugging your hair harder and rutting into you deeper. “Gonna cum, doll?”

You couldn’t speak, attempting a weak nod as you whined. Your cunt was tightening around her cock again and you were gasping for air. It was all too much. The feeling of her cock, the fuzziness in your head. “Please, please, please please,” you whimper, needing to let go.

Sevika chuckles darkly, gripping your hip tighter. “Want it bad, huh?” Her tip was pushing into that spot with each thrust, pulling on your hair until she was able to latch her teeth into your neck.

That was your breaking point, the coil in your tummy snapping. Sevika forces another orgasm out of you. She grunts with each thrust, fucking you through the near unbearable pleasure. Your moans release in broken screams and squeaks, arms giving out as you fall back into her. Sevika wraps her arm around your middle, cooing in your ear, rutting her hips up over and over, letting you feel everything.

“Ohhh,” you’re shuddering in her hold, “Oh my god!” Your hand shoots behind you to grab a hold of the back of her neck, grounding yourself. You don’t even register the tears falling from your eyes from how hard she made you cum. You have to turn your head and bury your face into her, panting for breath, still shaking. You can feel Sevika stroking her mechanical thumb over your hip, offering a form of comfort.

She’s laughing in your ear, smug expression gracing her face. She lets go of your hair to grab your face, smushing your cheeks. “I think it’s my turn, doll.” She says quietly, gruffly, breath hot against the shell of your ear, “Gonna ride that pretty face of yours. Let’s see how much you can take.”

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em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

Note

Here my out. I don't have a solid concept other than Bob finds a sketchbook filled with supersuit concepts so he starts flipping through it and it turns into pictures of the team and then pictures of just him. Anyway reader finds him looking at it and somehow the conversation ends up like "sorry, you're just really pretty in the sunlight. I mean, you're pretty in any light." I just need someone to tell Bob he's pretty 😭

Velour and Velcro

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: You have a hobby of drawing and designing things in your spare time, one day Bob stumbles across your sketchbook and discovers something surprising.

Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess cause Bob. No crazy warnings apart from that partners, just super fluffy, super sweet stuff happening here, with like a hint of intimacy :)

Author’s Note: Thought I’d make a cute little one-shot for today as I’ve been focusing on a lot of my bigger works and getting those prepared for posting (there’s not a lot of editing to do, just want to go through it with a fine toothed comb.). Hope y’all enjoy this one though!

Word Count: 5,939

The common room of the compound had been a war zone not even less than an hour ago.

The aftermath of game night still lingered in the air like smoke after a fireworks show–explosive, and borderline destructive. A half-empty bowl of popcorn had been flung across the room at some point, scattering kernels into the shag rug. Three pillows had been used as makeshift shields. Walker had accused Yelena of cheating, and Yelena had accused Walker of being a “living embodiment of a root canal.” Ava had sat back and watched the chaos, while Bucky and Alexei had both quietly removed themselves to get their respective alcoholic beverages–Bucky’s was whiskey, Alexei’s was vodka.

Through it all though, you had sat curled into the corner of the oversized grey cloud couch–legs folded up, sketchbook braced against your thighs, pencil and pen moving in quick, distracted arcs while chaos was blooming around you.

Bob had taken refuge in the open kitchen where he would be able to hide slightly from the chaos, and bake without being totally bothered by people.

The cake he made had started as a peace offering and became a full-blown stress bake the moment he heard someone scream “YOU CAN’T STACK DRAW FOURS” with the kind of fury usually reserved for battlefield decisions. The rich scent of chocolate and vanilla had poured into the air, mingling with the salt and butter from the popcorn, and the faint citrus of someone’s spilled soda that still clung to the coffee table.

Now, the kitchen was dark. The last flicker of the oven light had gone out. Most of the team had vanished to their quarters, trailing groggy grumbles and sore losers’ muttering. The common room had finally settled, breathing again after the riot of laughter and arguing had burned itself out.

Only a single lamp remained on beside the couch, casting warm, golden rays over the cushions and the floor beneath. The glow hit the coffee table in soft shapes, glinting off an abandoned spoon and catching in the tiny rainbow oil spill of a spilled cup of tea. Outside the windows, the city buzzed on–he could hear everything even though he was eighty levels up above the streets; car horns honking, people’s laughter, the booming bass coming from clubs.

Bob sat on the edge of the couch, right where you had been earlier.

The cushions were still warm, and your blanket was slipping off onto the floor. And there–tucked beneath one of the throw pillows–was your sketchbook.

He had picked it up with every intention of returning it to your room, but it felt so warm in his hands, and familiar because it was yours–the temptation was great.

You took it everywhere with you–mission briefings, airport lounges, quiet rooftops. He had watched you doodle in the margins of reports, on napkins, sometimes on your own hands when you ran out of space. He’d seen you sketch everything from tactical armor blueprints to a cartoon of Alexei in a tutu–as per his request because he thought you would be able to execute it perfectly…He still has it hanging in his room. Bob admired your creativity, how you were able to conjure anything up onto paper without really thinking about it, and the pride on your face when you made someone laugh with a sketch of them. You took joy in the little things, and Bob loved that about you…It was one of the multitude of things that made him grow so attached to you in such a short period of time as well.

So when he flipped the book open, just to see what tonight had looked like through your eyes…Bob couldn’t help but smile.

The first page hit him like a kaleidoscope–an explosion of rough linework, little notes crammed into the margins, and the chaotic charm that could only belong to you. A suit with heat-reactive armor filled the center, the panels labeled and crosshatched, but the entire thing was surrounded by doodles of stars and question marks. A sticky note had been pressed into the corner with a scrawl that read:

“Would this melt? Ask Ava. Or throw it into a bonfire and find out.”

Tucked under the edge of the next page was a scrap of metallic blue fabric–shiny, a little torn at the edge, maybe scavenged from a prototype–and beside it, you’d written:

“Love this for night missions. Or roller disco.”

He flipped another page.

More sketches. Some wildly technical–complete with annotations, chemical compound breakdowns, tensile strength estimates. Others looked like pure fantasy. There was one labeled “Bucky but make it James Bond” with a tuxedo that clearly had at least three concealed weapons built into it and a bowtie that doubled as a GPS tracker. Right beneath it, you’d scribbled:

“He’s going to hate this. It’s perfect.”

Next to it:

“New project idea: suit that deploys snacks for the hangry people on the team.”

There were fingerprints smudged across some pages. A couple places where tea had clearly splattered–rings of soft brown staining the edges, a few ink trails bleeding where it had touched the lines. Some of the pages had been ripped out and taped back in, corners folded and unfolding like they’d been touched again and again.

It wasn’t just a sketchbook. It was a journal. A blueprint. A scrapbook of your brain.

On one page, tucked into a hand-stitched envelope you’d glued to the inside of the paper, was a tiny Polaroid of Yelena fast asleep during a mission debriefing, mouth slightly open, arms crossed. You’d captioned it:

“Her highness at rest. Do not wake unless you want to be attacked.”

There was another one a few pages later: Alpine in full loaf mode on top of Bucky’s clean laundry pile. Her eyes were mid-blink, deeply unimpressed with the camera. Beneath it:

“Make Bucky a serious portrait of her for his b-day. Buy oil paints and a heavy frame. She deserves it.”

Bob laughed quietly to himself, breath fogging a little against the thick silence of the room. The sketchbook was warm in his lap now, heavy with secrets, and he felt like he’d broken into something sacred–but you’d also left it there, hadn’t you?

Part of him wondered if that was on purpose.

He flipped again. Slower now.

The sketches were less structured as he turned the pages. More personal. Little candid moments rendered in soft lines and shaded pencil.

Ava with her nose buried in a novel, curled under three blankets in the common room.

Walker fast asleep with his mouth open and one sock half-off from Alpine pulling at it, labeled “he snores like a wood chipper.”

Alexei doing squats with a few books balanced on his shoulders like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Bucky standing in the hall with a grocery bag slung over his shoulder and a faint smile on his face–captured like you’d seen it only once and hadn’t wanted to forget.

He flipped again.

Still more familiar faces—moments frozen in graphite and ink.

Yelena dancing alone in the kitchen, socked feet sliding on the tile. Ava perched on the compound balcony, wind tangling her hair as she stared out at the horizon. Walker and Alexei arm-wrestling over a stack of pancakes. Even Val, drawn from behind, pacing a briefing room with her phone clutched in one hand like it was a weapon.

Page after page of everyone else. Little snapshots of the people you spent your days with, drawn in affection and detail. Not always flattering, but always seen.

And Bob…

He wasn’t anywhere.

He turned the page again.

There it was–a suit design labeled SENTRY (high altitude / max durability). It was stunning. Sleek. Reinforced in all the right places. Smart. Sharp. Sharp in a way that felt distant from the rest. You’d even drawn it over a silhouette that wasn’t quite him—too tall, too broad, too composed.

Your handwriting was still there though. All the notes, all the care.

“Reduce friction on shoulder seams. They always leave marks.”

“Flexible core armor. He moves quieter than you’d expect.”

“Lining should be soft. He won’t ask, but he hates the scratchy stuff.”

Bob stared at the page, chest tightening.

You paid attention. You always paid attention. But this didn’t feel like the others. It wasn’t him. It was the idea of him. What he wore. What he could withstand. What the Sentry needed to be.

The ache bloomed slowly in his chest, quiet and a little hollow.

Because maybe you didn’t draw him the way you drew them. Maybe to you, he was mostly suit specs and duty. Not laughter. Not stillness. Not warmth. Maybe you only looked at him in relation to what he could do–not who he was when he wasn’t glowing.

He turned the page anyway. Resigned.

And something fell.

A loose sheet slipped from the binding–like it had been tucked there with a kind of reluctant care. Not meant to be lost. But maybe not meant to be found so easily either.

Bob caught it midair.

And his breath left him.

It was him.

Drawn entirely in pencil, soft and textured. He was sitting on the common room windowsill in profile, knees pulled up, chin resting on his arm. The city behind him glowed like a galaxy, but the light you’d shaded most carefully wasn’t the skyline. It was the way it spilled across his shoulder and cheek.

Sunlight. Or something that felt like it.

He stared at it, stunned.

There was no suit. No armor. Just Bob. Just quiet.

He flipped the page.

Another sketch.

Bob on the rooftop, hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders, the wind ruffling his hair. He was mid-laugh. The kind of laugh that closed his eyes, tilted his head back. You’d captured the movement like you hadn’t wanted to forget a single detail. And again–there was light. Sketchy, warm, bleeding across the horizon and catching in his smile.

He flipped again. Faster now.

There he was–dozing on the Quinjet, arms crossed, sun pouring through the window and across the bridge of his nose.

There–leaning against the railing in the compound garden, hair mussed, holding a mug. His silhouette edged in early morning glow.

There–half-turned toward you in the middle of a conversation, eyes soft, lips parted. Lit from the side like you’d drawn him straight from memory. Every version of him surrounded by brightness. Like you couldn’t separate him from light even if you tried.

The ache in his chest cracked open into something else.

Wonder.

Disbelief.

Hope, soft and new.

He turned one last page.

This time, it was just his face. Close-up. No background. No distraction. His eyes were open–looking just slightly off to the side, like he was listening. A small crease between his brows, his lips parted as if he’d just started to speak. The light hit only one side of his face, casting the rest in gentle shadow.

And under it, scrawled in your familiar, almost apologetic handwriting:

“I don’t know why I always draw him in the sun. Maybe because that’s how I see him…My Golden Boy.”

Bob stared at the words; My Golden Boy.

His heart thumped once, hard–then stuttered like it was trying to reset itself, like it completely forgot its job. The breath caught behind his ribs trembled, and slowed when it left him. He wasn’t used to seeing himself like this–not as the Sentry, not even as himself…But as someone you looked at with wonder. With affection…With light.

He pressed his hand gently to the page, fingers trembling slightly as if the graphite might smear. His name wasn’t written anywhere, but it didn’t have to be. It was all him. The way you’d drawn the softness in his expression. The warm shadows. The quiet tension in his brow that only surfaced when he was thinking too hard and trying not to let it show.

He could still feel the echo of your voice in the caption, even though he hadn’t heard it out loud.

Maybe because that’s how I see him…

Bob’s fingertips were still hovering over the page–his page–when he heard the quiet creak of the hallway floorboards.

He sat bolt upright.

And then you appeared in the doorway.

Fresh from the shower.

Your maroon robe clung to your shoulders, cinched loosely at the waist, and the dim light from the lamp pooled over your damp collarbones and down the glisten of your chest like water still hadn’t finished tracing its path across you. The robe stuck slightly to your skin in places, hinting at curves and damp warmth beneath. Your hair was wet, curling and dripping at the ends, your legs bare and gleaming from the knee down. You looked soft. Blurred around the edges from heat and water. And the way your eyes swept the room like you’d just remembered something important made Bob feel like the oxygen had been sucked out of the compound.

“Oh,” You said, eyes landing on him, then on the sketchbook. Your lips curled into a sly, sleepy smile. “Caught you red-handed…”Bob opened his mouth. No sound came out.

You stepped into the light, unbothered, tugging the robe closed just slightly more as you approached.

“Sorry,” You murmured, mock whispering like you were letting him in on a secret, “Forgot I left it out here. I usually hide my embarrassing fanart in my room.”

He blinked, surprised by how casual you sounded. “This isn’t—this isn’t embarrassing.”

“Oh no?” You asked, arching a brow. “Not even the page where I drew a suit that dispenses emergency pizza rolls?” He let out a breath of a laugh, eyes dropping to the sketchbook that was still open in his lap.

“I d-don’t think I made i-it to that page.” He muttered, his voice soft and nervous. He was always nervous around you, and his stutter became worse when you were around him. Bob swallowed hard, fingers still curled protectively around the edges of the sketchbook as you settled onto the couch beside him, tucking your smooth, bare legs up under you with ease. The robe shifted again–just slightly–but it was enough to make the air leave his lungs slowly, like they were also resigning from working. You noticed his sudden stillness and smirked like you knew exactly what you were doing.

”You really didn’t get to the pizza roll suit?” You asked, kissing your teeth, “What a tragedy. It’s probably the most important contribution I’ve made to modern tactical gear.” Bob let out a shaky laugh, feeling it catch in his chest briefly. You smelled like fresh citrus, like someone had cut up lemons and limes and saved the skin and sprinkled sugar on them. You always smelled sweet to him, and now with the close proximity it was apparent that it was definitely a mixture of your natural scent and a lotion of some kind that gave you that essence.

“I-I’d wear the pizza roll suit,” He started, “If i-it meant I got to be in your s-sketchbook more often.” You tilted your head at him, eyes sweeping his face with a smirk that softened the edges of your mouth.

”Bob Reynolds, are you flirting with me?” Bob’s face went pink almost instantly. It wasn’t a quick flush, either–it bloomed slowly, like heat rising from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he was cycling through a thousand possible replies and discarding every single one.

“I–uh–n-no–” He stammered, then gave up with a breathy laugh. His eyes flicked to the sketchbook and then quickly away, like it might catch fire if he stared too long. You tilted your head, grinning softly.

“I like it,” You murmured, and your voice was quieter now. Gentler. “You, flustered. It’s…Sweet.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, as though he didn’t know what to do with a word like that in your mouth–like it wasn’t meant for someone like him. He glanced down, fumbling for something safe to say, but his gaze caught on the sketch again. The one you knew he’d been looking at.

“That one,” You said, following his eyes. Your voice dipped low. “It’s one of my best.” He looked up at you slowly.

“Why do y-you call me that?” He asked, almost a whisper. His hand brushed lightly over the corner of the page. “‘G-Golden boy.’”

You shifted beside him, your knee brushing his. The robe slipped a little on your shoulder but you didn’t fix it. Instead, you leaned in slightly, voice so soft it nearly caught on the warmth between you.

“Because you look pretty in the sunlight,” You responded, like it was the simplest truth in the world. The words lodged somewhere between his ribs and his throat, reverberating through him like soft thunder. He didn’t know how to hold them. They weren’t something he’d ever been given before–not like this, not in a tone that curled with heat and truth and something dangerously close to want.

You were so close he could feel the steam from your shower radiating off your skin, could see the droplets still clinging to the edge of your collarbone, the damp sheen painting your clavicle in a way that made his mouth dry. And then you tilted your head, eyes catching the lamp’s glow like they were catching him, and with a sultry little smile.

“For the record though…You look pretty in any lighting. But the sunlight just does something to you…” It was spoken like sin and silk. Like worship. Bob looked at you like you’d peeled the sky back and let the sun touch just him.

Your words lingered in the air like smoke after something mass–You look pretty in any lighting…But the sunlight just does something to you–and he was burning from the inside out. Blushing so deep it felt inhuman, like even his bones had turned a soft shade of pink. The warmth of your voice, the way you leaned in just enough to let the intimacy rest on the space between you—it was unraveling him. Gently. Completely.

His throat bobbed. His breath shook. And then, barely above a whisper, he answered:

“I think…I only look l-like because of the way you see me…”

It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t practiced. It fell out of him soft and raw, stripped of armor, the kind of honesty that only exists between two people sitting too close in a quiet room.

And you smiled.

Not the teasing kind, not the cocky kind–but a slow, molten thing that curled at the edges of your mouth like you were letting him see something private. Something treasured.

”Do you want a live demo?” She asked, glancing at the sketchbook, before returning your gaze to his. Bob’s breath caught in his throat, and his eyebrows raised slightly, confusion and panic blooming all at once in his eyes like twin stars flaring to life.

“I–uh, I–I don’t–I mean, y-you don’t have to–”The words stumbled out, all jagged and half-formed, tumbling over one another in a panic that came from hope. From longing. From the quiet, desperate part of him that had spent so many nights dreaming of being this close to you and never once dared imagine it could feel like this.

You smiled again–soft and amused, but there was nothing mocking in it. If anything, there was kindness there. Heat. Want.

“Relax, golden boy,” You murmured, rising from the couch with an easy grace that made his stomach twist. You crossed to the low coffee table, brushing past the old Uno cards and empty mugs and remnants of popcorn carnage, and picked up your favorite pen from the chaos. As you turned back toward him, the lamp caught the curve of your throat, the warmth on your cheeks, and the dampness that lined your collarbone–and Bob swore he’d never seen anything more radiant in his life.

“It’s not a big deal,” You said gently, as though you weren’t walking him toward the edge of a moment that would burn into the rest of his existence. And then–slowly, deliberately–you crossed the room to him again.

Your hand found his chest.

Not forceful. Not hesitant. Just sure. Steady.

Your palm rested right over his heart–where it was pounding, thunderous under his ribs like it wanted to climb out just to get to you–and then you pushed. Softly. Gradually. Until Bob let himself be moved, shoulders sinking back into the plush cushions, legs parting slightly for balance, arms trembling where they rested at his sides.

You bit your lip–just a little–concentrating, maybe. Or maybe just savoring the moment, the way he looked with his head tilted up–admiring you. Awestruck. Unmoored.

Then you reached for the sketchbook still balanced on his lap, sliding it away gently, like it was no longer needed–because what you were about to draw wasn’t on paper.

Bob didn’t have time to ask what came next.

You climbed onto him.

One knee, then the other. Thighs bracketing his hips. Bare skin to soft cotton. You moved like water–like gravity had chosen you as its favorite–and then you settled, slow and devastating, into his lap.

Bob’s breath left him in a rush.

A whimper, almost. A sound he hadn’t meant to make.

His hands gripped the edge of the couch like they might keep him from floating away. Every part of you pressed against him now–your thighs warm and damp from your shower, the robe parting just enough to reveal the bare skin of your chest, your breath brushing his cheeks. The heat of you–your weight, your scent, your nearness–it made everything else disappear.

Time bent.

You were straddling him like you were meant to live there. Like he was built for this exact moment. And you were close. So close. He could see the tiny beads of water still clinging to the fine hairs at your temples. The curve of your bottom lip. The way your eyes searched his face with an intensity that made him feel naked–not in body, but in soul.

You rested the sketchbook on his stomach, the spine nestled against the slow rise and fall of his breath.

Then you leaned in.

“Don’t move,” You whispered, the pen now poised in your hand. “I want to remember this expression. The one where you look like you don’t know if you’re dreaming.”

Bob swallowed. Hard.

His voice, when it came, cracked like light through stained glass.

“I-I don’t think I am. But if I am, please…Don’t let me wake up yet.” His breath stuttered in his chest, shallow and tremoring, and his hands clenched tighter around the edge of the couch–white-knuckled, desperate. Like if he let go, he might reach for you. Might pull you closer. Might ruin this moment with the sheer want bleeding out of him.

Because he was trying not to think about your legs, draped warm over his thighs.

Not to think about the dip of your robe, the way it shifted every time you breathed.

Not to think about your scent curling around him like a memory he hadn’t earned.

And especially not to think about the way you looked at him–as if he was art already. As if he was worthy of being captured.

But God, he could feel everything.

The press of you against him. The delicate weight of the sketchbook rising and falling on his stomach like it had synced with his breath. And your hand–your hand was moving, slow and fluid, sketching something onto the page with such focus that it made him ache.

You were so close he could see the way your lashes kissed your cheeks when you looked down. The way your mouth curved softly in concentration. And still, his gaze drifted–devotional and restless. First to the hollow of your throat. Then to the curve of your knee. Then back to your mouth like it was something sanctified. Forbidden.

You glanced up and caught his eyes, smiling.

“You’re fidgeting,” You murmured, the pad of your thumb smudging a line across the paper. “What are you thinking about?” Bob could feel his throat tighten a bit, as he coughed a bit. His fingers spasming against the couch cushion.

”I-I’m not,” He whispered, too fast to sound convincing. Your brow arched, slowly.

”No? That blush says otherwise.” He could feel his cheeks grow hotter beneath your stare as he looked down at your hands, “Whatever is on your mind…Better tell me now…Or else I’ll have to draw you with steam coming out of your ears. Might ruin the composition.” You added, sweeping long graceful lines across the page. Bob’s throat worked around a sound that didn’t quite make it out. He shifted beneath you, breath fluttering through parted lips, and sighed.

“I-I…Y-You’re just…” He trailed off, blinked hard, and took a deep breath before continuing, “Y-you’re r-really close…”

Your pen paused mid-stroke. That tiny smile flickered again across your lips–mischievous, but not unkind.

“So that’s what your fidgeting is about, hm?” You asked, cocking your head just slightly as if inspecting him from a new angle. “All this tension just because I’m close?” You dragged the tip of the pen lightly across the paper again–nothing dramatic, just a line to keep your hand busy while you watched him melt.

Bob opened his mouth–probably to deny it–but all he managed was a shaky breath and another glance down. His fists had tightened on the cushion again, knuckles white, like the couch was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You followed his gaze and saw the way his fingers were digging into the fabric.

You didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, soft and playful:

“You know…” Your voice dropped to a purr as your eyes flicked back to his, “You could put them on my hips. I promise it’d be better than the poor old cushion.”

Bob inhaled sharply–like the suggestion itself was enough to knock the wind out of him. His eyes met yours again, wide and caught between wonder and panic.

“I–I d-don’t wanna mess this up,” He admitted in a hush, the words barely held together by breath. “I-I don’t wanna touch you wrong. Or–or make you uncomfortable. I j-just–”

You leaned in a fraction closer, your breath brushing the corner of his mouth.

“You won’t,” You whispered. “I promise.”

Then, slower, softer, like an invitation dressed as a tease:

“I want you to. That’s kind of the reason why I climbed on top of you in the first place…” Your hands stayed steady on the sketchbook, but your thighs squeezed gently around him in reassurance. His hands twitched against the cushion again. He looked like a man at the edge of a precipice–equal parts terrified and desperate to fall.

You sighed softly–barely a sound–and lowered your pen to rest atop the sketchbook that still remained on his stomach. Your gaze flicked back down to his hands, which were back to being clenched into the cushion, as if it was going to save him from coming undone.

”Alright…I guess I’ll fix it myself.” You murmured, voice like velvet against his ears. Bob’s eyes darted up to yours, startled–uncertain–but he didn’t move, he just froze in his spot.

You reached for him slowly, deliberately, your fingertips brushing the air before touching down gently on the inside of each of his wrists. And the moment you made contact, something happened. His breath stuttered. His jaw tightened. He froze–not from fear, but from the overwhelming awareness of your skin on his. You were the first person to touch his hands in what felt like forever.

You curled your fingers around his wrists–carefully, tenderly–and lifted them. They didn’t fight you. If anything, they followed the motion like they were tethered to you by something deeper than bone. He watched, helpless and wide-eyed, as you guided his trembling hands up to your waist. The fabric of your robe was still damp, soft against his skin, and your body underneath was warm and alive and impossibly close.

And then–you placed his hands on you.

Right on the curve of your hips.

You didn’t let go right away. You kept your hands atop his, cradling them. Holding them in place like you were making sure they knew they belonged there. Like you were grounding him with something far more intimate than words.

Bob exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching instinctively. His thumbs flexed but didn’t dare move–not yet.

Your thumbs brushed over the backs of his hands in slow, gentle strokes. Tracing the veins. The bones. The skin that trembled under your touch. You could feel how warm his hands were. How careful. How desperately he was holding himself back.

Then you leaned forward, just a breath. Just enough.

And Bob tensed.

You saw it in the sharp tick of his jaw, the way the muscles there fluttered under his skin like wings struggling not to fly. His breath caught–again–and his eyes, wide and dark and searching, darted to yours.

Still, you didn’t speak.

You let the silence cradle you both, let the hush between your bodies fill with everything unsaid. The air was thick with heat, your knees snug around his hips, your chest nearly brushing his.

”Kiss me Bob…” The words were soft—barely above a whisper—but they hit him like a solar flare. No fanfare. No hesitation. Just truth. Raw and crystalline and glowing at the edges.

Bob’s breath stilled in his chest. His hands, still resting on your hips beneath your own, trembled like a leaf caught between seasons. His pulse roared in his ears. His jaw clenched tighter, the muscle jumping as he stared at you with wide, reverent eyes—like he wasn’t sure if you were real, or if his dreaming had finally bled into the waking world.

You could feel it—the way his fingers curled just slightly against you. The way his breath shuddered as it passed your cheek. His lips were parted, damp and trembling. And when your nose brushed his—when the air between you seemed to collapse under the weight of wanting—his eyes fluttered closed for a second like the moment alone might undo him.

He was so warm beneath your touch.

So human.

And so afraid to move.

Your hands slid from atop his fingertips gliding up his wrists, along the crook of his elbows, to the dip in his shoulders—slow and patient, grounding him inch by inch. He followed your motion like a tethered thing, like a current pulled toward a shore he didn’t dare believe in. You cupped his face gently–just the edges of his jaw, your thumbs brushing along the sharp lines softened by awe–and tilted his gaze back to yours.

“Only if you want to of course…” You whispered, breath ghosting across his lips like the first touch of dawn.

Bob didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. He was still unraveling–thread by golden thread–under the weight of the moment. The way you were looking at him was unbearable in its tenderness. Like he was beautiful. Like you were waiting for him. Like he was safe here, in your hands.

“I do,” He breathed, and it was hoarse with want. “I–I’ve w-wanted to for…for so long, I–”

You silenced him with nothing but the brush of your forehead against his. Close. Closer. Until the world fell away and there was only breath. Skin. Heat. Until the tip of your nose nudged his again, teasing him, beckoning him to come closer.

He leaned in like a man surrendering–like he was handing himself over with shaking hands and an open heart.

And when Bob kissed you, it wasn’t practiced or perfect. It wasn’t confident or slick. It was slow. Soft. Starved. Like his lips had never truly known what they were for until they found yours.

The kiss started as a brush–barely there. Like the whisper of silk against skin. His breath trembled as it left him, catching on yours, and then he kissed you again. Firmer. Deeper. Still slow, still trembling, but real. Like he meant it. Like he needed it.

His lips were warm and unsure, moving with reverent caution, and you could feel it–the aching restraint thrumming through every fiber of his body. He wasn’t holding you like he wanted to devour you–he was holding you like he was afraid you might disappear.

You responded with a steadiness he couldn’t manage, your mouth tilting gently into his, coaxing him closer. You kissed him like you knew he could take more, like you knew he wanted to be undone if you did it slowly enough.

Your hands slid up into his hair, threading through the soft, messy strands at the back of his head. He gasped into your mouth at the feeling—barely a sound, more like a breath catching on something too big to hold. And then you did it again–fingernails grazing his scalp, thumbs sweeping across the hinges of his jaw–and his whole body gave the faintest shudder beneath you.

He whimpered–soft and broken and so full of want it made heat bloom low in your stomach.

You opened your mouth against his just slightly, inviting him in–and Bob kissed you harder. Still careful, but with a new desperation under the surface. Like something in him had finally snapped loose. His hands, once trembling against your hips, flexed and pulled you in tighter. Not greedy–yearning. Anchoring. Like if he pressed you close enough, he could finally quiet whatever storm had lived inside his chest since the day he met you.

When your tongue touched his–soft, tentative–he gasped like he wasn’t prepared for the heat of it. His whole body stiffened beneath you, then melted so quickly you almost collapsed into him. The kiss deepened by inches, by instinct, until it was slow-burning and sultry, hot and aching and so much.

Your lips parted only slightly, breath mingling with his, and you murmured something soft against his mouth–something he couldn’t even register, because the sound of you speaking into his kiss lit a fuse inside him he didn’t know he carried.

He kissed you again, and again. And again.

Each one a little longer. A little slower. A little more desperate.

Your robe shifted with every move–slipping just a touch more from your shoulder, brushing across the backs of his hands, baring more skin to his touch. His thumbs skated over your waist now, unthinking, and slow. As if he was mapping you. Memorizing you.

You broke the kiss with a whisper-soft sigh, eyes half-lidded, your lips still brushing his.

“Still feel like you don’t know what you’re doing?” You asked, breathless and smug and sweet.

Bob didn’t answer right away. His mouth chased yours again, stealing another kiss that was softer than the last. Sweeter. Like a thank you.

“I feel like I c-could kiss you forever,” He said, and his voice cracked beautifully on the last word.

You smiled at him. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want you to stop.”

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rafesangelita · 8 months ago

Text

♡ cowboy!rafe always snuck into farmer's!daughter!reader's room to give her a goodnight kiss.. but what happens when their innocent little kiss turns into something much more?

warnings: sweet fluff, flirty banter, brief flashback, daddy kink lol, sneaking around, unprotected sex, dirty talk, rafe covering your mouth, crying, overstimulation

a/n: i’ll be opening req’s soon! lately here i’ve been wanting to get out some of my own prompts since over half of my works are all req’s.. but i’m excited to see what you girlies send me! find more of farmer’s!daughter!reader and cowboy!rafe here <3

wc: 1.2k

“open up, doll face.” you sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as rafe lightly tapped on your window. he made you so giddy, you scrambled up from the warmth of your sheets, unlocking the hatch before helping him climb in. “i thought you weren’t coming..” you whispered, pouting up at him as he snickered. “y’gotta have faith in me, sweetheart. when have i missed a goodnight’s kiss?” rafe cupped your face, both of you smiling against each other’s lips before melting into one another.

you always felt so warm and fuzzy inside when you and rafe got to share your secret little moments together, the simplicity of just being together without having to worry about someone catching you two made both of your hearts swell. rafe knew how to sweep you off your feet with a single kiss, a string of giggles tumbling from your mouth as he not-so-quietly threw you onto your bed. “rafe!” you scolded him, your heart beating in your ears as he slotted himself between your thighs.

“my daddy is next door! what if he hears..” you slapped his chest playfully, the man above you arching a brow. “daddy? i thought i was your daddy.” your cheeks heated in embarrassment when you recalled the quickie you two had in the barn not too long ago. rafe had you bent over a hay bale, his thrusts making you unable to speak until he asked you the golden question.

“hmmph! fuckin’ say it. tell me what i wanna hear, who’s your fuckin’ daddy?”

taking your bottom lip between your teeth, rafe smiled as he shook his head down at you. “you just thought about it, didn’t you?” snapping you out of your flashback daze, you laughed when he leaned down and pressed a wet kiss to the column of your throat. he smelled like soap, the slight stubble on his cheeks tickling your skin. as if your hips had a mind of their own, you grinded your clothed cunt against rafe’s thigh, a whimper leaving your lips at the lack of friction.

“hey,” rafe cupped your tits through your flimsy night top, “you thought i wasn’t coming tonight, right? that’s what you said.” your eyebrows knitted in confusion before a gasp slipped from your mouth. “yes..” rafe trailed a hand underneath the waistband of your sleep shorts. “so why don’t you have any panties on?” you froze, eyes flickering down to where rafe ran a finger between your folds. keening, you couldn’t help the moan from leaving your lips.

rafe stared at you for a moment, his eyes growing dark as he clamped a hand over your mouth. “i’ve been thinking about this pussy all day. ‘think you can stay quiet for me?” of course you couldn’t.. and rafe knew that. you stared at him with wide eyes, butterflies fluttering in your tummy when he took himself out of his pants. “i mean it. we don’t want your old man chasing me down with that shotgun of his, now do we?” you shook your head, your eyes fluttering shut when you felt the head of his cock prod at your entrance.

you shrieked, his hips rolling into yours as he slowly bottomed out inside your cunt. if it wasn’t for rafe’s hand muffling your scream you’re sure both of you would be in deep trouble right now. rafe rested his head on your pillow, a shaky breath leaving his lips as he started thrusting. feeling his weight on top of you like this had easily become your favorite thing, the closeness of it all made your heart sing. “fuck, i could never get used to this.. ‘feels like the first time all the time.” he grunted.

you held onto his wrist, your thighs hugging his waist as he kissed the side of your face. “taking me so fuckin’ good, you were made for me, yeah?” you whined, your eyes watering as rafe continuously hit that soft spot inside of you. your headboard started hitting the wall, a smirk gracing your boyfriend’s features. “rafe!” you whispered, tearing his hand away from your face. “s-slow down!” you attempted to push him away while simultaneously trying to keep your noises to yourself.

rafe picked up his pace, wrapping a hand around your throat. “can’t..” you shook your head, your chest rising and falling as the knocking of your headboard only got louder. rafe cursed under his breath when you cried out, working fast to get you turned over so he could push your head into the pillows. “what did i tell you?!” he scolded, landing a smack to your ass. you didn’t have any time to react to the stinging sensation on your backside, your orgasm washing over you once rafe started stroking your clit.

you fisted the sheets underneath you, biting down on your lip as white hot pleasure blinded your vision. rafe made no attempt to soothe you, instead he wrapped your hair around his fist, pulling you up as he nipped at the sensitive skin in the curve of your neck. “sweetheart?” you gasped when your father’s voice sounded from the other side of your bedroom door. you cleared your throat, frozen in place as your door knob rattled. “answer him.” rafe spoke in your ear, his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

“what?!” you stammered, heavy tears rolling down your cheeks as rafe continued to rub hard circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. “answer him or i’ll make you scream.” you wanted to shoot a sassy ‘you already did’, but you didn’t dare chance it. your chin wobbled, your mouth falling open in a silent moan. “y-yes?!” you called out, glaring at rafe over your shoulder when the sound of his hips slamming into you bounced off of the walls. “you alright in there?” you bit the back of your hand, your head falling weakly.

“is this a girl thing or somethin’, should i call your aunt?” your cheeks heated, a chuckle sounding from the man behind you. “no! i’m o-okay!” rafe pulled your hair again, his lips close to your ear as he whispered the dirtiest things you’ve ever heard. “what would your pops think, huh? catching his perfect little angel getting fucked like this..” your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your knees slipping out from under you when rafe pushed you flat on your sheets.

“alright.. goodnight!” you ignored your father’s voice, the only thing your brain allowing you to process was rafe cumming inside of you, his fingers digging harshly into the flesh of your hips. “shittt,” he hissed, “son of a— fuck!” it was his turn to cover his mouth, his muscles constricting as you practically milked him for all he had. you reveled in the feeling of his hot cum filling you up, the thick ropes still connecting you two even after he pulled out.

you sighed, both you and rafe panting in the small space that was your room. “you okay, doll?” rafe kneeled down at your side, pressing a small kiss to the corner of your lips. blinking at him, you nodded before pulling him next to you. “it’s really late..” you yawned, glancing at the little clock on your bedside table. “i know.” rafe grumbled. there was nothing he hated more than having to leave you like this. wrapping his arms around your waist, rafe waited until you fell asleep before slipping out of your window again.

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dollerinna · 1 year ago

Text

WOULD YOU LIKE AN ALMOND JOY .ᐣ

( black noir x gn!crime analyst reader )

summary: after a long day of work, you try to unwind by watching your comfort show, but your solitude is interrupted by yet another visit from noir, who seems to be finding more and more excuses to spend time with you… (includes a C.AI bot as part 2 below!)

wordcount: 2k

tags: brief mention of NSFW pop-up ads, nerdy n’ socially awkward reader, noir’s disdain for almond joys but he makes up for it at the end <3

It had been a long day at the crime analytics office in Vought. As the sun began to set, exhaustion crept over you after reviewing incident report after report. Your eyes strained from the blue glare of your computer screen. You knew you had promised your boss you would organize the ever-growing database, but the tiny voice of procrastination was pleading for rest before your overworked brain turned into a pile of mush.

Rather than more paperwork—you, being the slacker of all slackers in this department, decided a well-deserved break was in order. And what better way to recharge than turning off the noggin and filling it with good ol’ fashioned mindless entertainment?

With a few tired clicks of your mouse, you booted up your go-to streaming site, which was none other than 123movies. Scrolling through the options, your cursor hovered over the play button of your favorite trashy drama. The kind of cheesy, perfectly predictable melodrama spun from the worst of amateur YA plots. It was practically comfort food for your fatigued mind, just what you needed to loosen up after the mental marathon that was this long day.

As the opening credits began to roll, your computer began to whir and hiss like an overtaxed engine, emitting gusts of unusually hot air from the vents. Suddenly, its screen slowed to a sluggish crawl, cluttered with a barrage of not-so-savory pop-up ads. Barely a minute in, the pixels already scrambled to form images better to left unseen—half naked women in risqué yet tacky mermaid-like attire, claiming they were ‘just around the corner and ready for a good aquatic fuck.’

First of all, what the absolute living hell is an “aquatic fuck”??

Did you even want to know? And most importantly, what happened to the ad blocker you installed just the other day? Judging by the contents, you had a sneaking suspicion that slimy, sea-dwelling degenerate, The Deep, had tampered with your computer… yet again.

“For the love of-… what’s with all these pop-up ads?” you muttered under your breath as excessively explicit ads crowded out the episode. Your eyes darted furtively around the room to check for wandering glances, hoping against hope that none of your coworkers had noticed the unwanted filth invading your screen. Heart pounding, you squeezed your chair closer to your monitor into a makeshift barricade, shielding the display as best you could while hastily clicking away at the intrusive ads.

As you hurriedly closed the remaining windows, an ominous shadow fell across the screen. Dreading what—or who—might be behind you, you slowly swiveled your chair around to find Black Noir's stoic stare boring into your own.

You stifled a yelp as you instinctively clutched the armrests, catching yourself on the edge of your seat before an ungainly spill to the floor. Noir had a way of materializing without warning, and it never failed to unnerve.

“N-Noir!” you managed, inwardly cringing as your voice broke on his name. “Fancy seeing you in these parts. I was just taking a quick break and y’know- stretching ‘em brain cells.” You tried for a lighthearted chuckle, but it emerged as more of a strained squeak that faded into an anxious hum.

With a jerky flurry of clicks and the browser minimized from view, whatever dignity you still retained disappearing along with it. All that did remain was you praying to the heavens above that he hadn't noticed its questionable contents (even if he most definitely had and simply chose not to comment)

When Noir offered no response, you of course charmingly barreled ahead in your frazzled daze. “But anyways, s-sorry about that… how uh, can I help you today?” your words tumbled out in a breathless rush, punctuated by a shrill laugh you hoped disguised the mortification simmering beneath.

Noir cocked his head, observing you with that same silent intensity. You fidgeted, hands twisting in knotted discomfort, the heat in your ears now engulfing your entire face. Was it the invasive pop-ups that had you squirming in your seat? Or the fact he could snuff out your existence faster than you can say “workers’ comp”?

Either way, beneath the weight of his stare, you already felt as if you were some peculiar, freakish creature pinned for study, rather than some bumbling employee just trying to unwind and watch their comfort show.

And to him, you indeed were a fascinating, bizarre little human.

Mercifully, Noir chose to extend a folder toward you, putting an end to your somewhat pathetic withering. You accepted it with a wordless nod, nearly sagging in your chair as tension drained from your shoulders.

Whirling towards the familiar clutter of your desk once more, you pretended absorption in the folder’s material, hoping this signaled Noir’s leave. After all, has anyone seen the state of you? It certainly wasn’t a flattering one. Yet from the corner of your eye, you detected no movement, no receding footsteps—his shadowy form remained statuesquely in place.

Believe it or not, this has been becoming a thing, a growing habit of late—and a suspicious one at that. Lately his breaks had grown longer, minutes lengthening to quarters of an hour, all spent hovering at your desk as you worked. However, his focus was solely on watching and observing you. He never exhibited a hint of thought or motive for his reason there, only leaving you with questions that seemed to multiply by each and every visit.

Noir, on the other hand, was somehow utterly convinced that you and him were two peas in a tightly-knit pod. He swore you two were best of buds for life—even if "life" so far had only amounted to the past two weeks' worth of half-hour stretches where he silently observed your work from the corner.

Ironically, you didn’t have the slightest inkling of how he really felt. Instead, you always assumed that he, like most supes, regarded you as little more than a puny mortal—a fragile, near-useless sack of flesh and bones whose skull he was one misstep away from caving in with bare hands.

But nope, Noir was simply here to bless you, the nerdy but cute crime analyst, with his presence—his rather… unsettling presence.

The familiar hush settled as you reluctantly returned focus to the task at hand. Hocus-pocus-focus, you chanted mentally, peeling away the last shreds of stray thoughts to tap into the zone of productivity. Unfurling the dossier Noir provided, you began sifting through documents for insight on his purpose in approaching you. Meanwhile, a flick of movement in the edge of your vision revealed Noir's attention veer off course, the almond joy perched beside your keyboard capturing his notice.

You tensed, hocus-pocus-focus breaking, all too aware of past disappearances of snacks in these briefings. Sure enough, his hand drifted noiselessly toward the candy bar, no doubt spurred by ingrained impulse to dispose of it per his usual custom. But you'd grown wise to his methods by now.

Not again, you sighed inwardly, snatching the almond joy and cradling it protectively as if it were your dear, beloved child.

Noir made no move to withdraw, palm outstretched expectantly. You frowned, struggling to keep frustration at bay. "Please, come on- not this time!.. It's my last one for the day." Brows pinching, your tone threatened to rise before steadying with a slow and calm inhale. No use losing composure over candy, no matter the principle. So all you could do was peer beseechingly at Noir in silent appeal, legs jittering restlessly under your desk in building apprehension.

Unfortunately, you found no signs of leniency in his obscured face—only his hand beckoning relentlessly for the almond joy. You plea was once again met with stony resolve, as if he was internally distressed by the mere presence of it. What was he? Deathly allergic to almond joys or something?

With a resigned breath, you delivered the almond joy towards Noir's waiting glove, unable to hide the disappointment dimming your features. Your lips curled into a slight pout, gaze sinking heavy into your lap at being parted from the treat. Though Noir was never one for words, it really didn’t take a rocket scientist to see you felt bullied into submission by his demands. At the end of the day, what power did a measly analyst like yourself hold against one of the Seven? As your fingers uncurled, releasing the candy into Noir's grasp, you couldn't help but feel a bit put upon, even if that wasn’t his intention at all.

Noir was well aware of the upset feelings his request had caused, so in an attempt to remedy the situation, his arm was sent in a backwards reach for the notepad he often used to communicate. However, he found himself at a loss as words eluded him, his thoughts swirling in frustrating circles of “What should I even say?”—muddled and incoherent. For a moment he stared at you, mask betraying no emotion as he grappled to find the right words, despite the prick of guilt nibbling at his conscience. Then, lacking any better option, he simply tossed the offending candy into the trash, perhaps with more force than intended.

Clearly, socializing was not Noir’s strong suit.

With no further acknowledgment, Noir spun on his heel and marched away. You watched his retreating, rigid form with discomfort clenching your insides, eyes falling onto the lonely candy discarded in the trash, its colorful wrapper mocking your current disheartened state.

Wearily, you turned away from the almond joy, redirecting your attention toward the computer as a means to divert your now soured mood. Maximizing the browser, you hoped that your planned show may have had time to load during the interaction. But upon inspecting the screen, you found the video remained stubbornly stalled, stuck on buffering dots and refusing to roll despite the minutes passed.

Just. Peachy.

One (super)human encounter had sucked the very life source out of your dog-tired body, and now this. It was really shaping up to be one of those days.

Thoroughly worn out, you gently laid your head down onto the desk, pillowing it against the crook of your folded arms as eyelids slid shut. All you craved was to simply sleep away the remaining time until you could finally escape this wretched shift and retreat to the sanctuary of your home sweet home.

─────────────────

As your shift wound down to its end, you were finally stirring from your slumber. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes, your blurred vision sharpened to show your colleagues had long since departed while you were snoozing away.

Rising and squaring your shoulders, you began to gather your belongings in preparation to leave as well. Once you had collected everything and lifted to your feet, something in the far corner of your desk caught your eye. Approaching for a closer look in the dim lighting, the fuzzy outline gradually came into focus—a cluttered collection of Hershey's Kisses, their jumbled placement grouped to form the shape of a heart.

You blinked in bewilderment, rubbing your eyes once more to ensure you weren't imagining things. Stepping closer, you spotted a sticky note nestled within the heart of chocolates, scrawled upon in a crude, blocky hand. At first, you assumed it was some silly prank from one of your coworkers, but you knew you recognized the handwriting anywhere—it was Noir's.

Gingerly, you plucked the sticky note from the desk, lifting it to your line of sight to read the message. “Kisses taste better than almond joys…Sorry.” you read softly, your voice trailing off as confusion crept in.

Designed as a very apparent flirty gesture, the intent behind the note and chocolates still managed to whoosh straight over your head. As always seemed the case, even the most painfully obvious social cues could so easily evade your understanding—this proving no exception.

You slipped the sticky note into your pocket, then selected a foil-wrapped Kiss from the pile. Gently rolling the chocolate between your fingers, you unwrapped it and popped one into your mouth. You took time to savor its light cream filling beneath a smooth outer shell, face crinkling in thought and head tilting as you considered your verdict. “Eh… I’d beg to differ.” you mused with a shrug, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you took your leave from the office.

-------☆-------

Pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

-------☆-------

a C.AI bot as your very own part 2 where you thank Noir the following day:

a/n: saw somewhere that kisses don’t contain nuts but then I also saw someone else say they actually do??? So let’s just pretend the kisses Noir chose are completely nut-free for the sake of the plot 😭

also, the reader is very much based off Anika if it wasn’t obvious enough haha! She’s so y/n coded 😤💗

♡ divider credits: @/ianrkives

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nanamisbbygirl · 23 days ago

Text

—☆ friends with benefits!

chapter 1. a favor for a friend

paring: geto suguru x reader

genre: college au, drama, smut with plot

summary: a pact of pleasure between friends runs the risk of ruining everything. passionate flames burn the hardest. you and geto care about each other, but what happens when sex gets tangled with friendship?

cw: virginity loss, drinking, player!geto, oral (m. receiving), protected sex, reader and geto are both 18 years old

materlist > next

If your friend Shoko hadn’t introduced you to him, then maybe– just maybe– you would have never found yourself in this predicament.

When you first met Geto and Gojo, they seemed a little annoying– they were first year boys, afterall. They teased and taunted, but nonetheless put a smile on your face. Things were good for those first years, and your group stayed close, growing together throughout the hills and valleys that was high school.

Yet, as the years went on, the boys had started to change– they had grown into men. They were taller, sturdier, and charming. Especially Geto. He had gained himself a reputation in those days.

Girls would giggle anytime he passed the halls, they would offer him anything he wanted. He was a flirt, and at first, you were grossed out at just how quickly your classmates fawned over him. You seemed to be invincible against his allure, immune to his sweet-talk.

In your third and final year, though, something had shifted. You would find yourself catching whiffs of his lingering cologne, leaning into him at parties, letting his arm snake around your waist as if that was its natural resting place. Worst of all, when he would sneak away for his various hook ups, a knot formed in your stomach, fists clenching and jaw locking. You lost count of the times you felt as though you were holding back tears. It was jealousy at its finest– but he wasn’t even anything to you; nothing other than a friend.

Although, friendships were often fragile things. You knew that, but it didn’t seem to matter. At least, not at the graduation party. Everyone had gathered at Geto’s house since his mom was out of town. Beer cans and solo cups littered the hallways and a loud speaker made it impossible to get in a good conversation on the main floor.

That was how you and Geto found yourself in his room, door closed, feeling the breeze coming in from his window. The rest of the world seemed to be muted, like it was just the two of you in his house.

“I’m nervous about college.” You admit to him, looking over at where he was slouched over at the chair by his desk. You sat on his bed, playing with the sheets.

“Aw don’t be a little baby,” he joked, lifting himself in order to plop down next to you. He placed his hand on your far shoulder, causing you to feel flustered. You hoped he would assume the heat on your cheeks was from the alcohol. Geto continued: “we’ll all be there together, so it won’t be as bad. Plus, think of all the people you’ll meet. You’ll have fun.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter, causing his eyebrows to knit together. “You get along with anyone. I’m sure you won’t be having any lonely nights.”

He knew what you were alluding to, but wasn’t expecting you to be so angry about it.

“Don’t worry I’m sure you’ll get some action, too” He laughed, thinking that your original reaction was just sarcastic and he was trying to play along with you.

“Yeah right. Who’s gonna want to hook up with someone with no experience. Don’t you know how guys are, they don’t want the attachment of getting with a virgin.” You state, catching Geto off guard.

“You’re still a virgin?" He asked, a little bit shocked.

“Can you not say it like that– it’s embarrassing.” You whine.

“What about Kaito?” He brings up the very, very brief relationship you had.

Snorting, you reply: “I gave him a handjob once. He didn’t even last two minutes.”

“What a loser,” Geto laughs, and you laugh with him, forgetting the point you were making before. Slowly, though, you remember.

“I’m being serious. I feel like I’m missing out on something. Out of the four of us I’m the only one who hasn’t had sex.” You covered your face as you said it, realizing how humiliating it might sound to him.

Geto carefully pried your hands away, and stared into your eyes. He tried to offer up a smile, hoping it would ease your anxiety.

“Do you want my help?” He offered.

“What?” You asked, thinking you’d been hallucinating.

“You want to lose your virginity don’t you?” For a second, not even Geto knew what he was saying, staring back into your wide doe-ish eyes, innocently trying not to blush.

“Su…”

“It’ll be fine, no strings attached. Promise. Just think of it as a favor.” His offer still stood, and you found yourself grazing your teeth over your lower lip. If it was all a gag, you had no way of telling. Your heart pounded, ready to crawl up your throat and land in his lap.

“A-are you sure?” Fuck, you didn’t want to stutter. You were tense, but not because you were uncomfortable, but because of the pure pornographic essence of the situation. You needed to pinch yourself to make sure it wasn’t just some wet dream.

“‘Course,” he chuckled, thinking back to your words from earlier. “You wouldn’t be my first virgin."

“Okay.” You gulped, “I guess I’ll get it over with now.”

“Right. Only if you want to. No strings attached.” He confirmed. You nodded. “Let me hear you say it.”

You began to lean back to the bed, “I want it. No strings attached.”

Geto was already hard, looking at how you were being so pliant with him. As your head touched his pillow he got up, locked his door, grabbing the box of condoms from his drawer and placing it on his nightstand.

You wondered how many other girls had witnessed the same routine? Shaking your thoughts from your head, you figured you shouldn’t get caught up with that. Instead, you felt a heat growing between your legs, helping Geto out by unbuttoning your pants.

“Sit up for a second,” he instructed. You listened, a little self conscious that you had already started undressing. He brushed his fingertips against your jaw, making you feel as though a cage of butterflies exploded within you.

“It’s your first time,” he reminded you, almost sweetly, “take it slow– enjoy it.”

That’s when he kissed you. It began soft, allowing his lips to press onto yours. Then, he began to move, cradling your head, inching you closer to him. His tongue entrenched you, cautiously slipping into your mouth, meeting your own tongue with excitement. The sloppy noises of kisses filled his room, and you caught yourself panting.

Geto pulled back, pulling his t-shirt off his back, inviting you to do the same. You were distracted, though, watching how his sculpted abs flexed with every breath he took. Pieces of his hair were already stuck to his forehead, a nod to just how hot both your body heat was when combined.

He aided you in getting your top off, letting it fall on his floor. He let his arms drape around your waist, pulling you into his lap where the two of you resumed your kissing.

“I want more,” you breathed out and Geto hummed.

“Sure babe, whatever you want.” He told you, unclasping your bra. Your nipples were perked up as the cold air hit them, and Geto couldn’t help but to give them a good squeeze. You let out a quiet moan.

“Get on your back.” With every command he gave you, you felt your panties getting wetter and wetter. The dominance that he possessed was working over you like magic.

On your back, he guided your hips up, tugging your pants off. It revealed your polka-dot briefs. You looked away shyly, “I wasn’t expecting to have my pants off tonight.”

“Don’t worry, they’re cute.” He teases the waistband, but before he has a chance, you protest.

“Why are your pants still on?” You pout. He released a dry chuckle, pulling his jeans off too.

You can see the bulge in his pants, wondering just what could be hidden under there. Before you get an opportunity to ask, Geto falls over you, littering kisses on your bare chest and neck.

His fingers ghost over your midsection, feeling the fabric of your underwear, looking for that noticeable damp patch. His eyes have closed and so have yours, sighing into his touch.

The moment his digits reached your clothed clit, you let out a loud gasp, spreading your legs wider for him. You’re tempting to give in right there and then, but something buzzes in your mind.

“Wait-” you choke out and he quickly stops.

“Are you okay? Do you want to stop?”

“No.. I… I wanna maybe suck you off before you put it in.” You didn’t know if it was the adrenaline talking, but there was something brave lighting up inside you. “Is-is that okay?”

“Fuck,” Geto says, “yeah it’s more than fine. Have you ever done it before?”

You shake your head, making Geto feel light headed, blood rushing at the thought. He had slept with other girls before, but something about this was so raw and dirty.

Maybe because you were like forbidden fruit, his cute little friend, basically begging him to do unspeakable things. Nevertheless, he watched you as you crawled onto the floor, stationed right between his legs.

With focused eyes, you reach to expose his dick, letting it slap against his stomach while you bring down his boxers.

“No kidding you’re popular.” You gawk. He lets out a dry chuckle. You bite your lip again, “I don’t know what I’m doing- what if it’s not good.”

Geto feels bad for you, watching you get nervous in front of his length. He only pats your head, reassuring you that he would take the lead.

“Just watch your teeth okay, sweetheart?” Your gut tingled when he called you that. You braced your jaw for what was to come.

Opening your mouth wide for him, he told you to stick out your tongue. Gently, he slid the tip over it, tracing circles on your pink tongue. Then, he proceeded to grab your head, pushing himself into your mouth.

“That feels good,” he praised, making you feel a little more confident. Your head bobs based on his force, making you slobber all over him.

He gives you a second to breathe, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Having fun?”

“Mhm,” you resume, taking his dick into your hand, feeling how it throbbed. You move your wrist once or twice, lazily going over the head with your thumb before sucking on it a little bit.

As Geto’s breaths became more laboured, he pulled you off of him. He quietly told you to get back onto the bed.

“Spread your legs, yeah just like that.” He mused, holding your legs open while he once again reached towards your panties. “You’re so fucking wet.”

Geto couldn’t contain himself any longer, he tore off your underwear, staring down at your dripping pussy.

His fingers danced over your clit, rubbing it gently, taking in the way you called out his name. The scene that was laid out in front of him was erotic, like it was a secret fantasy– his dreams slipping into reality.

“I’m gonna put my fingers in, tell me if it hurts, okay?”

“‘Kay,” you sniffle, bracing yourself for what was to come. Bit by bit, his two fingers crept into you, stretching you open, curling into your sensitive walls. Your head had fallen back, mouth open, eyes fluttered shut.

“It feels s’good” you tell him, words starting to slur together. His thumb pressing onto your bud, sending a shock of electricity through you. Geto’s wrist moves at an unrelenting pace, flustering you with both the dexterity and with the gushy sounds that manage to escape your cunt.

“You think you’re ready for my dick?” You nod, begging for him to finally put it in. He chuckles again, “you’re so eager.”

It’s difficult to respond when you feel so full. Watching him remove his digits from inside you, placing them into his mouth instead. He licks off the juices playfully, while pumping his cock with his free hand.

With his now clean fingers, he grabs onto the box of condoms that he’d freed before, unpacking one and rolling it onto his hard-on. He lines himself up, guiding his dick towards your entrance as you keep your legs spread.

The second his tip touches you, ecstasy starts washing over you. He eases himself forward, soaking in how good you look being split in half. Once he had bottomed out he stayed in place, gripping onto your thighs, watching you squirm.

You tell him it hurts, but he hushes you, reminding you that it’s normal and that soon the feeling will pass. The two of you are still for another moment, and you can feel the way Geto stares at you, and you can feel how hot and flustered you are. You hole pulses and clenches down without him even doing anything.

His hips begin to move, jutting forward slightly, getting you accustomed to his length. He sped up, causing the bed to shake.

“You’re taking me so well– practically sucking me in.” He grunted, running his hands over your skin, stopping at your breasts, playing with them while his hips continued to thrust.

“You feel so big…” you say, barely able to squeeze your words out. Geto hums with a cheeky grin, putting attention back onto your clit.

“Yeah, you like it, though, don't you? Being stretched like this?” He pumps his dick into you, touching your cervix. “If you hadn’t told me you were a virgin I would have never known– I mean look at how naturally you swallowed me up.”

You open your eyes to peek down at what Geto is referring to. His thick cock practically disappears into your cunt with every motion. It’s enough to drive you crazy.

Feeling for your clit, Geto fucks you harder when he sees how you touch yourself.

“I’m gonna cum– fuck it feels sooo good,” you cry, drunk on his length.

“Do it.” He grunts through clenched teeth, keeping up the pace of his thrusts. He typically could last a while, but this time was harder. He kept feeling how you tightened around him with each movement of his hips, and how cute your flushed face looked. He had to do everything in his power to make sure you finished first.

So, when you finally were at the point of release, he rode you through your orgasm.

He pulled out, listening to your whimpers, ripping off the condom. His hand jetted up and down his girthy length, while he groaned. He came soon after you, releasing all of his fluids onto your stomach, causing you to squirm, feeling the hot liquid on you for the first time.

You were clearly out of breath and slowly melting into his bedsheets. It was then, as he looked down at you, that Geto realized the situation he had just created.

He’d corrupted you, his close friend of three years. How would things not be different?

Yet, he knew they had to stay the same. If not, things would end badly. He didn’t even think he wanted to be in a relationship, so he had to make sure you understood that.

Geto peeled himself off of you, discarding the used condom. He took a box of tissues from his bedside table and handed them over to you. He lifted his underwear back on, searching through the pile of forgotten clothes, handing you back each item.

“Clean yourself up, I’ll bring you something to drink.” He couldn’t be too nice as he knew this was a critical time. He remembered other virgins that he’d deflowered, and that if he had shown an inkling of kindness during this post-orgasm period they would cling onto him as though he was their lord and saviour.

“O-okay,” you say, still trying to return to reality. Taking a tissue, you gathered his cum, bringing your aching body up to redress yourself.

“Can you bring me a vodka lemonade, if there’s any left.”

“Sure,” he said, shirt coming back over his head. He walked out, leaving you alone in his room. Laying back down, hugging his pillow, it dawned on you that you were no longer a virgin, that Suguru was responsible for that.

Flashes of what just happened filled your mind, and you figured just how those other girls became so addicted to him. But the real question was, would you be one of them?

taglist: @bunnygorex [open]

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surielstea · 4 months ago

Note

I have an idea for an az x reader oneshot. az has been captured or has a nightmare and feels like he's been taken back to the time when he was all alone and locked up. and when he is rescued or wakes up, reader and his daughter (i love az as a girl dad 🥹) are there and he is reminded that he will never be alone again.

Safe and Sound

Pairing: Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: Azriel has a nightmare but when he wakes to the sight of you and his daughter he’s reminded that the horrors he’s faced have been conquered.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, descriptions of nightmares, brief gore, burning, it’s all fluff though guys I promise

Word count: 1.3k (she’s a shorty)

The room was small—if it could even be called a room. A cage, more like. Cramped and suffocating, the stone walls pressed in from either side, damp and ice-cold against the bare skin of his back. The space was narrow but stretched long into shadow, a void where the dim sliver of moonlight from the single, high-placed window refused to reach. Darkness clung to the corners, thick as tar, seething, alive.

He curled in on himself, knees pulled to his chest. His wings, too large for the confines of the cell, wrapped around him in a pitiful attempt at a shield. There was barely enough room to breathe, let alone stretch. How had they even forced him in here? He wasn't a child anymore—his broad shoulders nearly brushed either wall, his body too big for this place, yet just as weak.

A tremor racked his frame. Panic sank its claws into his ribs, scraping bone, tightening like a vice around his throat. The walls were closing in. The darkness pressed against his skin. It was happening again.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it did nothing to stop the voices of the shadows. They slithered out from the blackness, creeping through the cracks in his mind, whispering, then hissing, then screaming—so many at once, overlapping, deafening.

Then came the smell; a sickly, acrid stench, curling into his lungs. Flesh burning.

Pain followed, swift and merciless. A blinding agony licked up his arms, searing his wrists where unseen chains bound him, branding him all over again. His muscles seized. He tried to pull away, but the heat was alive, crawling, devouring. It raced up his skin like wildfire fed on oil, consuming his chest, his throat, his face—

Distantly there were low, mocking chuckles from the darkness beyond the flames. Familiar voices. His half-brothers. Their amusement laced with cruelty, savoring his agony, relishing his screams—except he wasn't screaming. He couldn't.

His lips were parted, but no sound escaped, only the crackle of his own burning flesh. The fire climbed higher, deeper, beneath his skin, into his bones, hollowing him out from the inside. His fingers twisted, blackened, melted away, and still, the flames roared, endless, unstoppable.

He was burning. Burning again. Burning, burning, burning—

Azriel shot up in bed, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat as he shoved the blankets off himself. His skin burned, slick with sweat, his chest heaving like he had just clawed his way out of that cell—out of the fire. He staggered from the bed, the air in the room thick and suffocating, too hot, too much.

It was pitch black. Too much like that cell.

His heart slammed against his ribs as his hand shot out, searching, desperate—only to find the empty space beside him. The mattress was still warm, but not from you. He raked his fingers over the sheets, frantic, where were you? His breath came sharp and fast, the heat pressing in, caging him all over again.

Then, a sound cut through the thick, suffocating air. A soft wail. Not pained or panicked, but small, needy. His daughter's cry.

The noise grounded him in an instant, shattering the lingering illusion of flame and darkness. His pulse still pounded, his body still burned, but the fear loosened its grip just enough for his mind to catch up with reality.

Azriel was moving before he could think, pushing through the bedroom door and into the hallway. The wide space greeted him, nothing like the cage of his dreams—he could stretch his wings here, breathe here. The cool air did little to soothe the fire beneath his skin, but it didn't matter. His feet carried him forward, silent as ever, straight to the nursery.

The door was already ajar. Moonlight poured in through the wide windows, illuminating the room in soft silver. And there you stood, swaying gently with your daughter in your arms, humming a quiet lullaby. The sound was soft, soothing, meant for the child cradled against your chest—but it eased something deep in Azriel's ribs, too.

The little girl hiccupped a few more times, tiny fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown, but she wasn't crying anymore. She simply blinked up at you with large, teary hazel eyes—the same shade as his.

Azriel swallowed thickly and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing himself against you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling, grounding himself in your scent, your touch, your cool skin against his overheated body.

You didn't flinch or startle. Just shifted slightly to let him hold you, resting one hand against the back of his head, fingers threading through his damp hair.

"You're burning up, Az." Your voice was soft, filled with quiet concern. You shifted like you wanted to turn and look at him, but he only held you tighter, afraid to let go.

"Did something happen?" You asked, fingers massaging gently at his scalp. "Nightmare?"

"Something like that," he murmured, lips brushing against the delicate skin of your collarbone.

You sighed, glancing down at your child, who gazed back with sleepy eyes, no longer fussing. "I think she's getting them too."

Azriel's throat tightened. His daughter, haunted by something she didn't even understand yet. It gutted him.

You must have sensed his thoughts, because you squeezed his hand, lacing your fingers with his. "Why don't we go outside? Get some fresh air?"

He knew what you were doing. Knew that you knew exactly what his nightmare had been about. But he didn't protest. He let you lead him out, stepping past the walls that had felt too tight, too constraining, and into the open air of the garden beyond.

The cold air kissed his fevered skin, a stark contrast to the lingering heat that clung to him. Azriel inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the crisp night air, laced with the scent of the flowers blooming in the garden. The tightness in his chest eased further, the remnants of his nightmare unraveling with each breath.

You stood barefoot in the grass, your silk nightgown whispering against your thighs as the wind toyed with the delicate fabric. The moon bathed you in silver, casting a glow over your features as you tilted your head back, eyes drinking in the vast sprawl of the night sky. Galaxies stretched above you, stars burning bright in deep hues of blue and violet, endless and infinite.

He moved toward you, slow, reverent. With the gentlest touch he had ever honed, he took the now-sleeping girl from your arms, cradling her small body against his chest. She barely stirred, only nestling deeper into him, her soft breaths warming the crook of his neck. His hand supported her back with ease, the other finding its place around your shoulders, pulling you into him, holding you close.

You melted into his embrace, your arms wrapping around him without hesitation. And just like that—his entire world was in his arms. Safe. Sound. His.

Azriel pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of your head, savoring the sensation of your steady breathing, the warmth of your body against his.

You pulled back slightly, your fingers brushing along his jaw, tilting his face toward yours. Moonlight caught in your eyes, filled with nothing but love and quiet concern. No pity—never pity. Just you.

"Are you okay?" you murmured, voice soft as the night around you.

He exhaled, the last of his fear scattering with the wind.

"I'm perfect," he answered, and he meant it.

Your lips curved in the faintest smile before he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. Your fingers slid into the back of his hair, grounding him, telling him without words that this was real, that he was here, that he was home.

When you pulled away, you didn't let go. Instead, you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His arms tightened around you both as if holding you a little closer would keep the nightmares at bay.

The night was crisp and cool, the sky endless above them. No chains. No fire. No walls closing in. Just the three of you, beneath the stars.

Tags: @fxckmiup @olive-main @iluvyewman-blog @gaymistakeboi @glitterypirateduck @amara-moonlight @impossibelle @fauxdette @going-through-shit @glam-targaryen @hufflepuff-pa55 @sarawritestories @tele86 @rogerbarnesxx @azriels-shadowsinger @stinkinstuffie @sandramalikstyles-blog @sassyangel16 @lilah-asteria @starsinyourseyes @inloveallthetime @melsunshine @nighttimemoonlover @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @cumuluscranium @adharanotfound @azrielsmate3 @aelincaddel @hiddlestonspassionsackx @dee-writes-angst @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @pit-and-the-pen @mybestfriendmademe @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @circe143 @bubybubsters @joshysloshy @username199945 @ivy-34 @notsarareallynot @vixenshiftsvrs @aurorab99 @pey2618 @loving-and-dreaming @mmg777 @andreperez11 @thatacotargirl @123345566 @one-big-fangirl @moonslitluna @imyherondale @salvawhxres @bookishbabyyyy @anuttellaa @breadsticks2004 @azriels-human @mamita-vera @demetercabingreen-thumb @lorosette @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tothestarsandwhateverend @ahaha0246 @mellowmusings @mythicalcookie

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mrsvante · 2 months ago

Text

Stolen Orbit

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: yandere au, dark horror, sci fi

summary: you were meant for eradication with the rest of your planet—erased without a trace, just another speck in the galaxy's endless purge. but jeongguk saw you. fragile, insignificant... human. and something his kind had long forgotten stirred in him. instead of erasing your existence, he took you, stole you from extinction and made you his. now you live in a celestial cage, adored and possessed by something not quite capable of love, but desperate to keep you. he doesn't understand your fear, your resistance, but he craves your surrender all the more because of it. and if it takes breaking you to make you his completely... he will.

warnings: slow burn, mass extermination, alien jungkook forced captivity/proximity, psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome, dubcon, smut, ritualistic copulation

word count: 7,805

The Forever

It happens too fast.

Or maybe… not fast enough.

You don’t plan it.

You don’t think.

You simply run.

The opportunity presents itself like a gift from gods long since abandoned. A subtle error, a flicker in Jeongguk’s routine.

You both rise from your shared meal, or what passes for meals aboard this ship of whispered threats and suffocating tenderness, and for once, he doesn’t immediately shepherd you back toward the sleeping chamber.

Instead, his attention flickers toward the far wall, speaking softly in a language you still do not understand, giving brief commands to the ship’s interface.

You move before logic can catch up.

Your bare feet slap against the cool, pliant floor as you dart past him, weaving through the open doorway just as it begins to ripple closed.

He doesn’t shout.

He doesn’t chase.

Not immediately.

But you feel his gaze snap to you, heavy and sharp as a blade pressed to the back of your neck.

A low sound follows, not a roar or a curse, but something worse.

Amused. Displeased. Intrigued.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

You sprint down the corridor, lungs burning, pulse roaring in your ears as the ship becomes a blur of seamless walls and softly glowing paths.

You have no plan.

There is no escape, you know this, every part of you knows this.

But still… you run.

Because something primal and furious still lives inside you, something untouched by his hands, his whispers, his unbearable tenderness.

Something human.

—

You don’t realize how far you’ve gone until the hall begins to change.

The sterile white smoothness gives way to darker hues. Soft matte blacks and deep blues that drink in the ambient light. The air shifts too, warmer, faintly perfumed with something that makes your head swim.

Your frantic steps slow.

Confusion tempers panic.

You’ve entered a different part of the ship. Instinctively you know this space isn’t meant for you.

The hall spills into a vast open chamber.

At first, you falter, confused by what you’re seeing, and then your breath catches painfully in your throat.

This… is his. His quarters.

It couldn’t be more different from your confined room.

Where your space is neutral, clinical, designed for compliance and simplicity, this is… lavish.

Dark, seductive textures fill the room. Draped fabrics that ripple faintly despite the still air. Walls that hum with deep sapphire light, pulsing softly like a heartbeat slowed to slumber.

And at the far end, dominating everything, is a window. You stumble toward it before you realize you’re even moving. It stretches from floor to ceiling, impossibly clear, revealing endless, horrifying, beautiful space.

Stars burn quietly beyond, infinite and cold, scattered like spilled diamonds across the ink of the void.

Nebulae drift in slow spirals, glowing faintly like ghost lanterns hung in darkness.

There is no horizon.

No anchor.

You are untethered.

Insignificant.

It is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

And it makes you want to weep.

But you don’t.

Instead, you turn, and your breath catches again as your gaze lands on the bed.

Massive.

Far larger than necessary. Nestled in dark fabrics that gleam faintly in the soft glow. The sheets shimmer subtly, changing hues as though alive. Deep purples, smoky silvers, midnight blues.

A place meant to hold something precious.

Or trap something unwilling.

Your stomach twists sharply.

But what steals your breath completely is beyond the bed.

A garden.

Or something like it.

Alien flora grows behind a translucent partition. Glowing softly, leaves curling lazily as though breathing. Vines drip with luminescent petals, strange fruits pulse faintly like tiny beating hearts. The air is rich and heavy with fragrance, sweet and intoxicating.

You move toward it, hand lifting, unable to resist the strange compulsion to touch.

But before your fingers meet the glass, the temperature shifts.

The room grows colder.

Not literally.

Energetically.

Like being plunged into deep water.

A shadow falls over you, and you don’t need to turn to know. You feel him behind you, close, silent, and very displeased.

His voice breaks the heavy air, low and dangerously quiet.

“You ran.”

You close your eyes, throat tight. Your fingers curl slowly into a fist, hovering just short of the alien plant. “You’re not my keeper,” you whisper bitterly.

Silence stretches taut between you, vibrating with tension.

And then, movement.

His hand slides over yours, pale, long fingers curling delicately around your knuckles, pulling them away from the glass with infuriating gentleness.

His other arm slides around your waist, tugging you back against the solid wall of his chest.

You feel him exhale, slow and controlled, his breath ghosting over the curve of your throat.

“You do not understand.”

His lips brush the edge of your ear, a caress disguised as a reprimand.

“This is not defiance.” His voice darkens slightly, tightening with restrained frustration. “This is denial of what already is, little star.”

You tense, shivering slightly beneath his hold, but he only draws you tighter, guiding you slowly away from the garden and toward the enormous bed.

His hands never leave you. They mold and coax, turning your resistance into something pliant and unwillingly receptive.

“I am not angered,” he murmurs as he sits on the edge of the bed, pulling you easily between his knees. “You misunderstand.”

His eyes glow softly in the darkness,pale, sharp, but impossibly tender in their intensity.

“I am… disappointed.”

The words hit harder than threats. He says them softly, but they slice clean through you.

“I allow you freedom within reason,” he continues quietly, hands stroking your sides, soothing and punishing at once. “But you abuse it. You flee. You risk harm. This… displeases me, deeply.”

You clench your jaw, but the defiance feels hollow now.

Especially as his touch becomes softer, more insistent, sliding up your arms, down your back, curling possessively at your waist.

“And now,” he whispers, voice thick and dark with promise, “I must correct this.”

Your stomach flips violently, but he doesn’t strike. Does not raise his voice. Instead, he shifts, drawing you down with him until you are pressed fully against the bed, against him.

Pinned by nothing but his body and the oppressive weight of his gaze.

“You will not leave my quarters,” he murmurs, words sealing like chains around your wrists.

“You will not sleep apart from me. You will not run again.”

His lips brush your temple softly, terrifyingly gentle.

“You will remain where you belong.”

You try to twist away, you have to, even if only for pride, but his arms tighten, and his mouth finds the curve of your throat.

A soft, open mouthed kiss.

Not hungry.

Not violent.

Claiming.

Your pulse skitters wildly.

“Stop—”

“You do not wish me to,” he says calmly, his lips moving against your skin. “Your body no longer fears me. Only your mind fights.”

He shifts again, sliding you fully beneath him, his weight caging you without urgency. He watches you, eyes glowing faintly, face inches from yours, utterly calm as you tremble beneath him.

“You will stay,” he murmurs again, softer this time.

Not a threat.

Not a command.

A promise.

And something in the finality of it breaks the last fragile thread inside you. You close your eyes tightly, not in surrender, but in desperate resignation.

You do not want to yield, but you already have. Because when he leans down and presses his lips gently, adoringly to your brow, sealing the moment, sealing you.

You don’t push him away.

—

Days pass, or perhaps cycles. Time does not exist in this place the way it once did. There is no sun to rise, no moon to wax and wane.

No ticking clock to count down minutes and hours.

Only Jeongguk.

And you.

And the quiet, suffocating intimacy that has grown between you like ivy, curling slowly around your throat until it becomes easier to stop pulling.

You sleep in his quarters now.

Not by choice.

Not exactly.

At first, it was punishment.

You ran.

You defied.

You disappointed him.

And so he locked you here.

Not with chains or harsh restraints, no, Jeongguk has never needed such crude methods. He uses himself, his presence, his warmth. His voice in the dark, murmuring softly until the silence feels unbearable without it.

At first, you hated every moment.

You lay stiff in his enormous bed, refusing to face him as he wrapped himself around you each night like a living shroud.

But over time… something changed.

Not in him.

In you.

You grew used to the weight of his arm slung heavy across your waist. Used to the steady, soothing hum of his heartbeat against your back. Used to the soft rasp of his voice, speaking words in his language you could not understand but somehow knew were meant for you alone.

What you hate most…

What makes your stomach twist with guilt and confusion…

Is how much easier everything became when you stopped resisting.

—

He rewards you, of course, Jeongguk is not cruel. Not in the ways that would be easier to despise.

He is patient.

Measured.

Dangerously tender.

When you eat without argument, he sits beside you quietly, watching with faint approval gleaming in his luminous eyes.

When you speak to him, simple words, mundane thoughts, nothing of consequence, he listens as though you are unraveling the very fabric of existence.

When you no longer flinch from his touch, he becomes bolder. Fingers brushing lightly along your arms when you sit together. Knuckles ghosting beneath your jaw as he tucks stray hair behind your ear. His hand resting possessively on your thigh as you eat, unmoving, warm and heavy and there.

And at night…

At night, his hands become gentle chains.

They stroke down your spine as you drift toward sleep, curling at your hips, pulling you against the hard, unrelenting comfort of his body. He murmurs softly then, words you cannot translate but no longer fear.

They lull you.

Cradle you.

Somewhere in the dark, something in you gives. You no longer stay awake plotting, no longer pull away, no longer pretend you hate it.

Because the truth is cruel in its simplicity.

You don’t want the cold, hard ache of solitude anymore.

You want warmth.

You want softness.

You want… him.

And Jeongguk knows this.

Oh, he knows.

He doesn’t gloat, does not push. He simply waits, watching patiently as you unravel slowly, inevitably, beneath his endless, unwavering attention.

—

It’s during one of these quiet nights that the shift truly happens. The ship has dimmed to mimic dusk, casting his quarters in soft twilight. You sit together on the wide bed, your legs folded beneath you, Jeongguk lounging beside you like some dark, predatory god.

His hair spills across his bare shoulders, strands shimmering faintly in the low light.

He wears no robes now, only thin, dark fabric that clings softly to the lines of his body, leaving very little to the imagination.

You talk, nothing about Earth. Not about escape, or pain or loss. About nothing and everything. You ask questions you never thought you would.

What does his species eat?

Do they sleep?

Do they dream?

Does he feel loneliness?

What did he think when he first saw you, trembling and furious, caged in his ship like something caught in amber?

He answers softly, thoughtfully.

Not coldly.

Not cruelly.

He tells you he does not dream, but he wonders what it would be like to dream of you. He tells you he does not feel loneliness, but he aches when you look at him as though you do not see him. He tells you that when he first saw you—glowing, furious, refusing death—he felt something break in him that had never mended.

You say nothing to that.

You can’t.

Not when your chest tightens painfully and your throat feels too tight to speak. Not when his words slip beneath your skin like silk and root in the softest, most vulnerable parts of you.

Not when you realize you no longer want to argue.

Silence falls, not uncomfortable, but heavy with something unspoken. His hand rests lightly on your ankle, thumb stroking idly over the bone.

You should pull away.

You don’t.

Instead…you reach. You don’t think about it, your body moves on instinct, craving something you refuse to name. Your fingers brush his wrist softly.

A simple touch. Barely anything at all.

But to Jeongguk, it’s everything. He stills instantly, as though afraid to frighten you. His eyes burn softly, shifting to pale rose and molten silver, glowing faintly in the dark.

“You seek me,” he murmurs, wonder and hunger twining in his voice like threads of silk.

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

Your throat is too tight, your mind too full, but you don’t pull away.

Your fingers curl lightly around his wrist, a tether, a silent plea, a confession you don’t yet have the courage to speak aloud.

His breath catches, you feel it against your palm, soft and in awe. And then, slowly, he shifts closer. His forehead rests lightly against yours, and his voice slides into your mind like a whisper in a dream.

“You are becoming mine,” he breathes, so soft and so full of quiet satisfaction that it makes your chest ache.

“Fully. Finally.”

You close your eyes.

And this time, you do not argue.

Because beneath the fear, beneath the shame, beneath the fragile threads of your resistance…you want.

And wanting is far more dangerous than surrender.

::::::::::::

You knew you shouldn’t have done it.

Even as your bare feet carried you soundlessly through Jeongguk’s darkened quarters, the pulse in your throat hammering wildly, you knew this was foolish.

A fantasy.

An echo of who you used to be.

But somewhere deep down, beneath the soft weight of his endless touches and whispered promises, beneath the reluctant ease you’d begun to feel wrapped in his presence, a spark still remained.

And tonight, that spark burned hot.

You needed to run.

You needed to prove to yourself that he hadn’t hollowed you out completely.

So when he left for only a moment, speaking to the ship, or perhaps another Kaereth vessel, you slipped free.

It didn’t matter that there was nowhere to go.

It didn’t matter that the ship would not let you off.

It only mattered that you could.

So you did.

You ran.

Through softly glowing corridors, past shifting walls that whispered in languages you didn’t understand.

You didn’t make it far.

You never even heard him approach.

But suddenly his presence was there. Behind you, around you. Suffocating and cold.

Your breath caught as the floor beneath your feet pulsed faintly, alive, alerting its master. And then his voice, smooth and sharp as polished steel, sliced through the silence.

“You disappoint me again.”

You freeze, terror and shame colliding painfully in your chest.

Slowly he stepped into view. Jeongguk was radiant in his displeasure.

His dark hair hung loose, shimmering faintly with the ship’s subtle light. His robes are absent now, only thin layers of deep, clinging fabric draped across his powerful body.

His eyes glowed low and cold, pale silver and deep indigo, swirling softly like storm clouds ready to break.

You stepped back instinctively.

But he only followed, slowly, deliberately, until your back hit the cool, seamless wall.

“You still do not understand,” he murmured, voice dangerously quiet. “You still believe you possess will.”

You tried to speak, to beg or explain, but he silenced you with a single gesture.

The wall shifted behind you suddenly, hands of soft, malleable material winding around your wrists, pinning them above your head effortlessly.

You gasped, struggling, but it was useless. The ship responded to him, not you.

Jeongguk stepped closer, until his body pressed flush to yours. Warm and impossibly solid, his presence eclipsing every frantic thought in your head.

“You do not leave,” he whispered darkly, leaning close so his mouth brushed your ear.

“You do not flee.”

His hand slid down slowly, tracing your throat, your collarbone. Lower, until his palm cupped the heat between your thighs.

You stiffened violently, horror and shame crashing through you.

“N-No—” you gasped, writhing helplessly.

But he only hummed softly, pressing his lips to your jaw, his breath scorching.

“Your mouth says no,” he murmured.

“But your body…”

His fingers slid beneath the thin fabric of your shift, stroking through slickness you hadn’t even realized was there.

You choked on a sob—humiliated, furious, and aching.

“See,” he breathed, sounding deeply pleased.

“You hate me. But you crave me.”

You shook your head wildly, tears burning your eyes.

“That’s not true! I—I don’t want—”

But he silenced you again, this time with his mouth. His lips slanted over yours, soft and consuming, his tongue sliding past your lips as though tasting every last shard of your defiance.

You fought.

You twisted and whimpered and tried to hold on to the last threads of your hatred.

But his fingers never stopped moving. Slow, deep strokes. Unforgiving and tender, drawing the heat from you like a cruel promise. Your body trembled violently, shame scorching through you as pleasure tangled with humiliation in a suffocating knot.

You hated this, hated…him.

But your hips arched helplessly into his hand as your thighs shook. Your breath broke apart in desperate, needy gasps.

And Jeongguk knew, of course, he knew.

He pulled back just enough to watch you, eyes glowing like molten silver as he worked you mercilessly toward ruin.

“You are close,” he murmured, voice velvet and vicious all at once.

“Fighting still. How sweet. How foolish.”

You whimpered, high and frantic, as your orgasm crashed over you with terrifying force. You came hard, gasping, sobbing, and writhing helplessly against his palm as he milked every desperate spasm from your ruined body.

But he didn’t stop, even as tears streaked down your face.

Even as you weakly begged, voice breaking, words dissolving into soft, shattered sounds.

“J-Jeongguk— please— I can’t—”

“Yes,” he murmured darkly, removing his hand only long enough to tear your shift aside, baring you completely.

“You can. You will.”

“Yes,” he repeated simply, voice soft as silk and twice as binding. He lifted you effortlessly, spreading your thighs wide as though you weighed nothing at all in his arms. His glowing eyes devoured the sight of your trembling, naked form.

“You will take me now, my little star,” he whispered, impossibly tender, yet with an unmovable certainty that settled deep beneath your ribs.

“You will keep me inside you until you understand. Until you stop running… even in your thoughts.”

You sobbed helplessly, overwhelmed and trembling, as he pressed himself against your dripping heat.

And then, you felt him.

His cock—massive, foreign, and stunning in a terrible, breathtaking way—pushed forward with slow, patient cruelty. Bioluminescent veins shimmered faintly in the dim light, casting soft glows in intricate, elegant patterns across his flushed skin.

Ridges along the shaft shifted and flexed subtly, swirling upward in almost ceremonial tattoos that gleamed like runes, etched into his very being.

The head of it was darker than the rest. Flushed a deeper violet, slick with pearlescent lust that sparkled faintly, streaked through with thin, glowing veins of soft blue and white, like liquid lightning captured in crystal.

He pressed the head against your entrance, and you felt it throb, warm and alive in a way that stole your breath.

“This is what you run from?” Jeongguk murmured, his voice unexpectedly soft, as though you were an incomprehensible thing.

“This is not punishment, little one. Not truly. This is how I teach you. How I make you understand.”

You whimpered, hips arching involuntarily as his cock began to stretch you slowly open, each ridge catching deliciously against sensitive nerves that made your vision blur. The invasion was devastatingly thorough—deeper, thicker, more filling than any human man could ever hope to be.

“You will feel me here,” Jeongguk whispered, his lips ghosting over your cheek as he thrust deeper still, “long after this moment fades. You will feel me when you dream. When you wake. When you touch yourself, wishing you hated me still.”

You sobbed, body caught between devastation and unbearable need.

And he kissed your tears away—tenderly. Worshipfully.

“Let go,” he coaxed softly, rolling his hips with unhurried cruelty. “Cease your fighting, sweet treasure. Let me in.”

You cracked.

Your body shuddered violently as the ridges and heated, glowing veins massaged every trembling part of you. Forcing desperate cries from your lips. When his cock bottomed out inside of you, the pressure was indescribable. Filling. Claiming.

And then as his hips snapped forward and he began to fuck you properly, dragging the swollen ridges along your tender walls, his hunger flooded you in slow pulses.

It was warm.

So warm, like molten silk spreading through your core. Your abdomen tightened and tingled, the heat melting upwards, radiating outward like a drugged haze wrapping itself around your very soul. You sobbed brokenly as your womb clenched in greedy spasms, as though your entire body craved more.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Jeongguk whispered, awe thick in his voice now, tender and dark. “You feel me marking you. Taking root inside you.”

You couldn’t speak.

Too lost to the intense, shimmering pleasure that made your head spin. His cum drugged you, thick and electric and numbing all at once—like a lover’s cruel gift, locking you in ecstasy you hadn’t consented to but couldn’t possibly refuse.

“You will never forget this,” he murmured, slowing his pace only to grind deeply, forcing another shocked moan from your swollen lips.

“Even if you try. You will dream of the way your body melts when I fill you. You will remember how your womb warms and welcomes me. Forever.”

You gasped, locking up as another orgasm ripped through you violently—intensified, devastating, addictive.

“Yes,” Jeongguk groaned harshly, hips jerking forward one final time as he came deep inside you—hot and endless and thick, filling every desperate part of you with searing, possessive heat.

You shattered with him, writhing helplessly as your body drank down his essence greedily. So much that you swore you could feel the warmth blooming deep inside, hugging your uterus like a numbing heat pad pressed from within.

When it was over, when you collapsed against him, boneless and shaking, he kissed you.

Soft. Gentle. Almost heartbreakingly sweet.

“You will never run again,” Jeongguk whispered against your lips, cupping your jaw delicately even as his cock stayed buried inside you, keeping every last drop where it belonged.

And the way your arms weakly clung to his shoulders, seeking more, needing more, aching for more, made it clear…

You wouldn’t.

Not anymore.

—

You sleep deeply that night, for the first time since the sky cracked open and swallowed your world whole, you dream.

It is not of Earth. Not of family or freedom or loss.

You dream of him.

Of heat.

Of skin.

Of being filled so completely that even in sleep, your body aches in quiet, humming pleasure.

When you wake, it lingers.

The ache.

The need.

You shift beneath the dark, silken sheets, thighs pressing together instinctively as your body clenches softly around absence. You whimper without meaning to, soft and pathetic, the sound falling heavy into the dim, warm air.

He is already there.

Of course he is.

You are not sure if Jeongguk ever truly sleeps. Or if he simply waits, quietly vigilant, watching you slip deeper and deeper into his.

He watches you now, lounging against the massive headboard, hair spilling in waves down his broad bare chest, eyes glowing faintly in the low light.

Hungry.

Softly.

Patiently.

As though he knows, as though he feels what your body is quietly, shamefully begging for.

Your cheeks burn, but you do not look away.

You can’t.

He tilts his head slightly, dark amusement flickering faintly across his beautiful, inhuman features. “You ache,” he says softly, his voice sliding through the air like silk across bare skin.

You swallow tightly, fingers clenching the sheets.

“You—you made me—”

“Yes,” he interrupts smoothly, a faint smirk curling his lips. “I made you feel. I made you beg. I made you mine.”

Your throat tightens. Because you want to deny it. You want to cling to the last fragile shreds of dignity still hidden deep beneath your skin.

But you are so empty.

And he is so full.

Full of patience.

Full of heat.

Full of devastating knowledge about every inch of your trembling, traitorous body.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

You hesitate, not out of defiance, but out of terror of how much you want to. But your body decides for you as you crawl across the wide expanse of the bed slowly, soft gasps leaving your lips as cool air kisses your sensitized skin.

Every movement feels obscene.

Desperate.

Shameless.

By the time you reach him, your hands press against his thighs, broad, hard, and warm. And you can’t help the needy way your nails dig in slightly.

He hums low, pleased, fingers threading gently through your hair. “So eager now,” he murmurs, fond and filthy at once. “So pliant. Do you remember when you hated this?”

You glare up at him weakly, but the heat pooling between your legs betrays you.

“I still do,” you whisper hoarsely.

Jeongguk smiles, slow and devastatingly fond. “No, little star,” he breathes, tugging you gently forward until you straddle his lap, flushed and panting and already dizzy with need.

“You only hate that you love it now.”

His hands slide up your sides slowly, but firm enough to make you tremble. Thumbs brushing over your aching nipples, and you arch helplessly, a soft cry slipping past your lips.

“You crave this,” he whispers, voice dipping lower, turning molten and wicked.

“You crave me.”

You shake your head weakly but he only chuckles, leaning in to drag his tongue slowly along the curve of your throat.

“Your body says otherwise,” he murmurs against your skin, the words vibrating deep into your bones. “You are soaked, my sweet treasure,” he continues, switching now to his alien tongue.

The words ripple through your mind. Dark, erotic, incomprehensible yet intimate, sliding into your subconscious like smoke. You moan softly, the strange cadence of his language making your stomach flutter violently.

“You want me to fill you again,” he purrs, switching back seamlessly. “You want me deep, here.”

His fingers slide between your thighs, finding you dripping and already clenching desperately. You sob softly, biting your lip hard enough to hurt as he teases and toys with your cunt, stroking softly but refusing to push inside.

“Jeongguk—please.”

He groans softly, eyes burning now, pale silver and violent rose swirling madly as he watches you fall apart.

“Beg properly,” he demands softly, his voice suddenly sharp with command. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

Shame wars with need, but it is no contest. Your hips roll helplessly against his fingers, and when he pulls back slightly, you nearly sob in frustration.

“Please—please fuck me—”

“More.”

“Please, I need you inside me, need you to fill me, need to feel you— Jeongguk—”

He growls, deep and dark, before flipping you effortlessly onto your back, spreading your thighs wide with firm, unrelenting hands.

“So sweet,” he murmurs, lowering himself between your legs. “So open. So desperate. This is what I have wanted, what you were always meant for.”

You can only whimper in response as his mouth covers you. Hot, wet, and merciless. He devours you greedily, tongue stroking and swirling, teeth scraping softly in ways that make you writhe and gasp and cry out helplessly.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your slick heat. “My perfect, pliant treasure.”

You come once, then twice. So hard and fast you can’t even form words, only sobs and gasps and broken sounds of yes, yes, please, more.

And Jeongguk gives you more.

He pushes inside you while you are still shaking, filling you in one slow, brutal thrust that steals every ounce of air from your lungs. “Mine,” he growls, hips snapping forward, dragging soft, wet sounds from where your bodies meet.

“Say it. Say you are mine.”

You choke on your own moans, but you say it, scream it.

“Yours, yours—fuck—I’m yours!”

His thrusts become frantic, deep and devastating, pushing you higher, further, faster than you thought possible. You sob and cling to him, nails raking his back, thighs locking tight around his waist as he drives you both toward madness.

“Never leaving,” he hisses, biting softly at your throat. “Never without me again. You are home now.”

You nod wildly, barely able to think past the relentless pleasure.

“Yes—yes—Jeongguk please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

He fucks you through every orgasm, through every broken cry, through every whispered admission of how badly you need him. When he finally spills inside you, he kisses you softly, sweet and adoringly even as his cock pulses deep within your spent, ruined body.

“Mine,” he whispers again, softer now.

Forever.

You fall asleep against his chest, trembling and full, and do not dream of escape. You only dream of his touch.

And for the first time…

That does not terrify you at all.

::::::::::::

You don’t remember when the fight truly left you. It didn’t crack and shatter all at once — no.

It eroded.

Slowly.

Softly.

Like waves kissing the edges of a jagged stone until only smoothness remains. You woke one cycle and realized you had stopped counting how long you had been aboard the ship.

Stopped wondering if anyone would come.

Stopped missing the ache of gravity and sky and home.

Because your world had become him.

And Jeongguk, he made it easy to forget. He is always near. Not hovering, not threatening.

Present.

Everywhere.

Always.

When you wake, he is there. Smoothing his palm gently over your bare hip as he murmurs soft things in his language, coaxing you from sleep with kisses and slow, lazy touches.

When you eat, he is there. Sitting across from you, observing your every reaction as the ship’s interface morphs alien sustenance into facsimiles of the foods you once loved.

He listens when you sigh about fresh strawberries.

He watches when your eyes glaze longingly at the memory of soft, buttered bread.

He remembers.

And then, quietly and with no fanfare, he provides. The next meal, there it is. Not exact, not quite right. But close enough to make your chest ache and tears sting your eyes as you chew slowly, overwhelmed by the gesture.

Jeongguk watches it all.

Always watching.

Satisfied.

As though fulfilling you, piece by piece, is what gives him purpose.

And perhaps… it is.

—

He shows you the ship, not all at once, but slowly, over many gentle, winding cycles.

You no longer wear the thin shifts he first gave you. He drapes you in flowing fabrics now, soft and weightless, clinging lovingly to your skin in pale, luminous colors.

You are beautiful in them.

He tells you so often, in whispers and kisses and soft growls as he presses you into the walls, the floors, his mouth hot and hungry on your throat.

He leads you through chambers you could never have imagined. Sectors where bioluminescent plants twist and bloom in gravity defying spirals. Pools of softly glowing liquid, warm and soothing to the touch, that you wade into with sighs of contentment. A conservatory where alien birds flicker between translucent trees, their songs harmonizing eerily with the ship’s ambient hum.

But your favorite place is the garden.

His garden.

You are allowed there freely now, naked sometimes, or dressed in the soft, flowing robes he favors on you. You walk barefoot on strange, sponge soft moss, fingers brushing along vines heavy with fragrant blossoms.

And Jeongguk always follows, watchful.

His eyes track you with quiet worship, glowing softly as you lose yourself in the alien beauty of his world. He likes when you forget to fear him. He likes when you hum softly to yourself, or tilt your face toward the artificial sun he created just for you in the center of the atrium. When you smile faintly, unaware of him watching.

Those are the moments he always takes you.

—

You lose track of how many times he has taken you, because there are no longer clear lines. There is no fucking and lovemaking—there is only him, and how he worships you.

He fucks you into the bed, into the walls, against the glass overlooking endless space.

He makes love to you in the garden, slow and molten and devastating, whispering filthy alien phrases that make you clench and writhe and sob his name. He devours you in the pools, pulling orgasms from you lazily as though drinking from a fountain he intends to drain dry.

It is endless.

It is overwhelming.

It is addictive.

Some nights, you come so many times you fall asleep between his thighs, lips sore, body aching sweetly, utterly ruined.

Other nights, he takes hours simply to make you ache. Touching, kissing, murmuring, until you’re begging and trembling, leaking and desperate in his arms.

“You are never empty,” he whispers often, mouth hot against your throat as he thrusts deep and slow, filling you until your belly feels heavy with him.

“You are never without me.”

You nod when he says this.

Because it is true.

His touch clings to your skin long after he pulls away. His cum warms and coats your thighs when you sleep. His mouth, his hands, his voice. They weave through your every waking thought, soft chains you have long since stopped tugging against.

There is no reality anymore.

Not outside of him.

Not outside of his ship.

Not outside of this.

You belong to him.

Not just because he claimed you.

Not because he broke you.

But because you want to.

And when he holds you close in the endless quiet of space, whispering promises of eternity, of worlds he will show you, of forever at his side, you believe him.

And worse…you hope for it.

—

You do not know how much time has passed since your surrender began. You do not count cycles anymore. You do not mark meals. You do not dream of Earth.

You only exist in soft, endless now.

In the warmth of his arms. In the steady hum of the ship. In the way he touches you, not like a possession anymore, but like you are part of him.

And perhaps you are.

He whispers things sometimes when he thinks you are asleep. Soft words in his native tongue. Caresses so gentle they feel like prayers pressed against your skin.

He tells you of stars you will visit. Of galaxies only Kaereth royalty have walked.

Of eternity.

He speaks of eternity often now.

Not as threat.

Not as warning.

As promise.

—

It begins without announcement, no sharp change in routine, no cold demand. Only Jeongguk, cradling you softly against his chest as you lay tangled together on the bed, voice low and uncharacteristically hesitant.

“It is time.”

You stir slowly, heavy with sleep and satiation. “Time for what?” you murmur, voice rough and thick with drowsy contentment.

His lips brush against your temple.

“For what should have always been, my little star,” he says gently. “For forever.”

You blink slowly, confusion weaving through the pleasant haze in your mind. His arms tighten slightly.

“The ritual,” he murmurs, almost shyly now. “Kaereth do not simply claim. They bind. When a mate is chosen… there must be permanence. Ceremony. Union.”

You tense slightly, instinct pulling at old fears, but he soothes you immediately, his touch soft and endlessly patient.

“You do not have to fear,” he promises, kissing along your cheek with unbearable tenderness. “The Kaereth binding ritual is not violent. It is tender.”

“You are already mine. This is only affirmation.”

You swallow thickly, heart pounding strangely in your chest. Part of you wants to refuse. Part of you wants to cling to the last fragment of your own name, your own shape.

But that part… is so small now.

So soft.

So tired.

And when you meet his eyes,glowing pale and molten silver, heated and brimming with unspeakable longing, you nod.

You whisper, “Yes.”

And his entire being shudders with pleasure.

::::::::::::

You don’t dress for the ritual, Jeongguk forbids it. “Skin to skin,” he murmurs, his voice carrying the weight of law as he guides you through the glowing veins of the ship. “No barriers. No pretenses. We meet now as we were always meant to. Unmade and remade in the raw truth of one another.”

The chamber he brings you to does not belong to any realm you know. It is dark, endless, humming with a resonance too ancient for words.

The floor gleams faintly beneath your bare feet, liquid starlight swirling like whispers from a thousand forgotten worlds.

The walls pulse in rhythm, steady, solemn, alive, as though the ship itself holds its breath, bearing witness to what is to come.

Jeongguk draws you backward into his embrace, his hands firm as they curve over your body, memorizing each rise and fall like sacred scripture. “You must offer yourself freely,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over the tender shell of your ear, his voice as soft and unrelenting as a vow.

“Desire must be the altar. Willingness the flame. Speak it—not only to me, but to the vessel that carries us between stars. Let the void itself know your yearning.”

Your breath catches, but the words rise from your soul with aching clarity.

“I want this.”

At once, the chamber responds.

The air thickens, lush and heavy as though unseen deities lean close, eager and enraptured.

The floor brightens beneath you, starlight reaching, cradling, adoring. Jeongguk turns you slowly, adoration carved into every movement, as though you are the holiest of offerings.

He lifts you easily, effortlessly, as if gravity itself bends in submission to the rite unfolding between you.

He carries you to the heart of the radiant expanse, laying you down as though to place you before celestial judges, his touch a prayer unto itself. When he speaks again, his voice is no longer mortal.

“This is consecration,” he intones, sliding between your thighs, his every movement graceful and deliberate, dictated by some divine choreography.

“Not of chains. Not of suffering. But of convergence.”

He presses forward, entering you in one unhurried, devastating thrust, filling you so completely it feels as though your soul fragments and rejoins in the same breath.

“Bound in breath,” he whispers, lips brushing yours like the gentlest psalm. “Bound in pulse. Bound in the quietude where existence fades and only we remain.”

His hips move slowly, each thrust purposeful, each withdrawal a supplication. Every motion speaks of patience, of worship, of eternity folding gently around the fragile wonder of now.

“Bound in rapture,” he breathes, as your body arches and tears burn behind your eyes. “In pleasure deeper than flesh. In surrender beyond fear. In the marrow of longing made manifest.”

Your hands clutch at him, desperate and trembling, as emotion and sensation braid together, unspooling you at the seams. He continues, his words pouring over you like sacred oil.

“You are mine,” he declares softly, but with a gravity that feels immutable. “Not owned. Not caged. But chosen. Desired beyond logic. Worshipped beyond measure.”

He thrusts deeper still, and the stars themselves seem to keen softly in resonance. “You will never know emptiness again,” he vows, voice tight with holy hunger.

“My essence will fill you, until the very stars inscribe your name beside mine. Until the void itself kneels before our union.”

You cry out, broken open, undone, yet remade in the furnace of his worship. “Please,” you whisper, though no prayer seems enough.

His rhythm grows, still tender yet laced now with relentless fervor. The predator made priest, the lover made eternal.

“Say it,” Jeongguk commands, his voice edged with divine demand. “Seal the oath. Let the cosmos hear and etch it into its bones.”

You shatter, your orgasm consuming you wholly. A tidal wave of surrender crashing through body and spirit alike.

“Forever,” you sob, raw and radiant with belief. “Forever, Jeongguk. Forever.”

His growl follows, deep and resonant, alien than man, more celestial than alien as he empties himself within you. His essence sealing the covenant in ways far beyond comprehension.

The room erupts in light, no longer just glowing, but singing.

A song of union.

A hymn of completion.

Jeongguk clutches you tightly, his lips frantic against your sweat slick skin as he whispers benedictions between each kiss. “You are bound now,” he whispers fiercely, voice a litany of devotion and awe.

“Your soul, entwined with mine until suns collapse and the void forgets how to hunger. The end of being itself will tremble before the truth of us.”

And as you cling to him, spent, filled, irrevocably his, you feel it. The absence of Earth. The fading echo of your past self.

There is only now.

Only Jeongguk.

Only eternity.

And you do not fear the endless night that stretches before you.

You crave it.

You welcome it.

You belong to it.

—

Time has long since stopped meaning anything to you. Cycles became months, months became years. And years…you no longer know. Nor do you care. Because eternity, as Jeongguk once promised, is not a cold, empty void.

It is warm.

Soft.

Endless.

It lives in the quiet hum of the ship, atuned now to your presence, responding to your touch, your voice, your desires.

It lives in the alien worlds that bloom before your eyes. Stars and planets unknown to your old, forgotten Earth self, offered to you like flowers pressed between the pages of a lover’s letter.

It lives in Jeongguk.

Always, Jeongguk.

—

You are no longer the woman who clawed and scratched and screamed for freedom. She faded quietly, slipped from her skin the night you bound yourself to him.

The night he made you his forever.

Now…you are more, you are his Consort.

The ship’s systems recognize your presence before any other. Doors ripple open in welcome. Lights dim or brighten in response to your moods. The living flora bends subtly toward you when you pass, as though paying silent tribute to their queen.

“My Consort will dine with me.”

Jeongguk only ever calls you by your title now when addressing the ship or his crew.

“My Consort desires warmth in the garden.”

“My Consort wishes to see the stars from the obsidian chamber.”

And when you are alone…

When you lay beneath him, wrapped in endless sheets and marked from endless nights of his mouth and hands and cock dragging moans from your lips until you are wrecked and sobbing.

He does not call you Consort.

He calls you everything.

“My treasure.”

“My star.”

“My forever.”

—

You have visited worlds now.

Jeongguk keeps you close, always within arm’s reach when you step from the ship. Alien beings kneel or bow or lower their gazes when they see you.

Not because they fear you, but because they know.

You are his.

And through him, powerful beyond measure.

You remember the first diplomatic council Jeongguk brought you to. The air was thick with esteem as beings of every shape and color turned to face the Kaereth leader who ruled this corner of the galaxy. And at his side, on a throne grown from living obsidian, veins of silver and violet pulsing gently through the arms and back, sat you.

Draped in silk spun from creatures that floated gently in the upper atmosphere of worlds you could not name.

Jewels from stars that had long since collapsed woven into strands and hung delicately from your throat. Jeongguk did not speak first.

He merely tilted his head slightly and every being turned to face you.

“Speak, Consort,” he murmured then, his fingers curling lazily around yours, his voice full of quiet pride and unrelenting devotion.

“What pleases you?”

That was all it took.

Your desires became law that day.

And ever since.

—

But your favorite moments are still the quiet ones. The ones where his titles and the ship and alien worlds fall away. When you are nothing but soft skin and softer sighs. When he worships you with his mouth, drawing orgasms from you as though sustaining himself on them.

When he fills you slowly, murmuring in his language, still dark, still filthy, but now tinged with awe and quiet desperation.

“I will never tire of this,” he whispers often as he pushes deep, rolling his hips slowly to press against the spot that makes your breath stutter and your thighs shake.

“I will never stop. Not until you are full of me, every cycle, every hour, forever.”

And you?

You only clutch him tighter. You only moan his name. Because somewhere along the way, you stopped resisting pleasure. You stopped resisting him. And now, there is only hunger.

Ravenous, endless hunger.

Not just for sex, though that is constant and devastating. Not just for his body, though it is the only thing that feels real some days.

But for him.

For his voice, soft and low when he whispers your name against your throat. For his hands, rough and gentle as they map the shape of you over and over again. For his devotion, that terrifying, beautiful thing that never wavers.

You are addicted to it.

Addicted to him.

And you never want to stop.

—

Even now, as you lay in the garden he built just for you, its vines curling protectively overhead, Jeongguk’s head resting contently between your thighs as he lazily drags his tongue over your overstimulated cunt, coaxing yet another orgasm from your trembling body.

You think of Earth.

Not wistfully.

Not longingly.

But distantly.

Like a dream you woke from long ago.

Blurry and irrelevant.

You moan softly, fingers curling tightly in his soft hair as he groans against you, the vibration sparking more pleasure that threatens to unravel you completely.

He lifts his head slightly, eyes glowing pale silver and pink in the soft bioluminescence, and smiles.

Soft.

Devastated.

Endlessly in love.

“You will never leave me,” he whispers, worshipful and certain. “You belong here. With me. Always.”

You whimper, too far gone to speak, but you nod. Because it’s true. You have not just been claimed.

You have chosen.

And when he slides up your body slowly, covering you with his weight and kissing you deeply, his cock slipping easily back inside you with a low, content sigh, You cling to him like salvation.

You are his.

His Consort.

His forever.

His everything.

And as you fall apart beneath him again, body and soul already shattered and rebuilt countless times in his arms.

You know you will never, ever want anything else again.

one | masterlist

#bts fanfic #bangtanarmynet #bts fanfiction #bts au #fanfic #bts angst #bts jeon jungkook #bts jeongguk #jeongguk x reader #bts yandere #alien au #stockholm syndrome #forced proximity #mass extinction #spaceship #space #bts smut #SoundCloud

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belxveds · 1 year ago

Note

Could you write a fic where the reader is Stark’s daughter and he catches her and Peter fooling around in her room/main room whilst they think he is out?

caught in a web of kisses

pairings: peter parker x f!reader, tony stark x daughter!reader

brief: (requested!) misunderstandings and compromising situations with peter lead to a whole of cackling and screaming throughout the stark tower compound. a brief look into the life of y/n stark and your struggles with your stupidly overprotective dad and chaotically cute boyfriend.

tags: humour. fluff. borderline crack fic. "enemies" to lover. established relationship.

a/n: thank you so much for requesting! i appreciate it :) it always makes fills me with so much joy to know someone seeks out my writing <3

requests are open!

wc: 1.4k

Perhaps it wasn't your smartest idea to pretend to absolutely despise your father's intern in front of your parents and the Avengers but . . . well- how could you possibly resist yourself when it was so much fun sharing sneaky, mischievous smiles with Peter as you both shot teasing glares across the room to maintain your appearance as rivals?

Plus, it was just a little prank to keep your relationship with Peter, as well as the days spent at the compound, more interesting. If anything, you and Peter were single handedly entertaining the entirety of Avengers with your debates and arguments. You were fairly sure they had bets going on about the two of you. It was harmless, really.

And it wasn't like you were going to keep it from them forever! You would tell them . . . eventually. You just- hadn't thought anyone would find out like this. With you and Peter in such a . . . compromising situation?

You almost let out a small groan of exhaustion as you sunk into the unnecessarily large couch your dad had purchased for the lounge, melting into Peter's side as you fiddled with the remote to lower the lights and dim the windows. Pouting at the sliver of light that still managed to peek through the sunroof, you let out the smallest huff as you closed that as well before turning to take a glance at your boyfriend.

He let out a small yawn before shifting with your attention on him, cuddling into you tighter as he murmured, "You sure no one will be back for another 2 hours? 'Cause I swear if we get caught because you wanted to take a nap on the couch, I will never let you live this down."

Snuggling deeper into the blanket you'd draped over the two of you, you couldn't help but let out the smallest breathless laugh as you responded, "That's if they don't kill you first."

"Hey!" Peter quipped, voice growing the tiniest bit slurred as the nap you promised him began to look awfully tempting, "I'll have you know that I think your dad and also everyone else is quite fond of me, alright?"

You couldn't help but let out a snort as you mocked, pretending to push up fake glasses on the bridge of your nose as you raised the pitch of your voice, "I'll have you know-"

The gentle whack you got on your arm made you stop mid-sentence as you giggled, answering your boyfriend more seriously, "Everyone's schedule says they have stuff going on until at least 6:00, unless they were all just to magically-"

"What happened to, "God dad, if I have to see your stupid intern's face one more time, you're going to have to hold me back from stealing your repulsors and pulverizing the shit out of him?""

You're entire body pauses as you feel Peter tense in your arms, the both of you wincing in sync as you slowly, cautiously, turn your head around to face your dad, voice dragging out as you say nervously, "Uhm...so you see-".

Peter's bewilderment is audible as his head snaps to you, eyes furrowed in confused amusement as he hisses, "Why the fuck are you starting to quote Dhar Mann right now?"

"Peter", your dad interrupts, tone much too pleasant for the situation at hand and consequently sending both your spines into automatically locking up straight as you await his next move, fight or flight instincts activated, "You have 3 seconds to run."

"Mr. Stark, we can talk about this-"

"3 . . ."

"Oh shit!", your boyfriend scrambles, legs tangling into themselves and the blanket in his attempts to get free and run as he presses a ragged kiss to your forehead while declaring muffled through his panicked breath, "If I don't make it out of this alive, just know I wanted you to have my babies and be Y/N Parker-Stark."

The confession sends a surprised wheeze to rack through your body as you see him begin to take down the hallway, sparing a glance over his shoulder at you and your dad before maneuvering himself onto the ceiling and into the vents.

Your eyes tearing up from laughter, you try to speak through your immobilizing giggles as you address your dad, "Dad, father dearest, please- come on- spare him-" "2 . . ." "Dad! C'mon- you have to admit . . . from a completely scientific and objective lens with zero romantic emotions taken into account, considering all the teenage boys out there, Peter is definitely one of the better choices", you tried to level, summoning the critically-acclaimed award winning Y/N Stark inside of you and not the moderately concerned girlfriend worried that her boyfriend's cause of death may in fact be the same repulsors Peter had helped your father tweak in the lab earlier today. How unfortunately ironic. Shuffling over, albeit a bit awkwardly, to where your dad stood, you cautiously peered closer at his profile, trying your best to assess exactly how much trouble you were in. You knew deep down, he truly wasn't all that upset, though, maybe a bit grumpy about having been kept out of the loop for this long. In fact, you were positively confident he was quite happy with who you had chosen. Despite all of his teasing and successfully accomplished fatherly duties of bullying the both of you, it was stupidly evident how much he cared for Peter like a son. Not just anyone was allowed to intern for the Tony Stark, after all.

Lost in thought, you couldn't help but yelp slightly and flinch into your father's side as a muffled voice echoed down from the ceiling, cooing, "Aww Y/N, you really mean that?"

Cursing at your boyfriend's surprising lack of self preservation skills taking into consideration his literal job and particular set of talents, you glared upwards. Hoping your disappointment at his lack of distance somehow radiated through the insulated plaster, you deadpanned, "No, I was just playing. I wish I'd gotten with Harley."

"What?!" squeaked Peter, like a little vent rat, his offended gasp echoing in time with your dad's final countdown.

Giggling once again at Peter's frightened scuttling at the realization that he was out of time, you quickly reached to grip at your dad's suit clad bicep before he could make a motion to call at the Iron Man suit, your voice taking on a more serious tone as you asked softly, his opinion and approval still highly valuable to you, "You're ok with me and Peter dating though? Genuinely?"

The twitch of his signature smirk on the corner of his lips and the nodding glint in his eyes sent a happy thrill through your heart, instinctively grinning wide as you squealed and rushed to give him a tight hug, speaking through a stifled smile into his chest, "Ok, you have my consent to go squish my little spider now. Please don't bring him back to me flattened or burnt- I quite like how he is now." Your father's wrinkled nose and vocal sound of disgust at how you'd addressed his intern sent you into another fit of laughter as he spoke, "Ground rules since I know the kid's out of his freaky super-hearing range. One, ew. Never address him like that again, I might vomit. Two, if I see the two of you touch, I am immediately invoking a 50 year social-distancing ban between the two of you. 6 feet and everything. I'll throw in permanent masks if I ever catch you two kissing. Three, . . . no promises."

"In response- One, . . . no promises. Two, you don't want spider grandbabies crawling up the walls? All I'm hearing is that we can't get caught. Three, I'll tell mom", you grinned pulling back, your gaze filled with amusement and the look of humoured adoration you often had reserved specifically for your dad as he let out a little whine in complaint at your threat of telling Pepper.

It would just be a little rough up. You know, the classic "hurt my daughter and you're dead" speech. And Peter was Spider-Man! He'd be fine . . . probably.

mailbox ༶•┈ peter parker's mailbox! ┈•༶ send letter

#✩ belxveds #-ˋˏ belxveds wrote ༶ peter parker!#➵ ✩ ◛ ༶ oh belxveds ┈ they’ve sent letters!#peter parker #peter parker x stark!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x fem!reader #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader fluff #tony stark #tony stark x daughter!reader #tony stark x reader

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pupsec · 2 months ago

Text

𐔌 、gaara　ﾉ　one smile from you shatters gaara’s control and leads to a fevered, desperate claiming—trembling inside you, begging for warmth he was never meant to feel 𓈒　◟

cw: dubcon ノ angst ノ stalking ノ virginity loss ノ explicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

୨ৎ dead dove: do not eat！minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧

You met him when the sun was high and the market was loud.

It was humid. The smell of fried dumplings and grilled meat soaked the air, and vendors shouted over each other trying to sell fruit and knives and lucky charms and jars of pickled plum. Children chased each other between stalls. Wind bells rang faint and shrill.

You handed him a skewer of dango like it meant nothing.

You didn’t know who he was.

Just a boy with strange hair and strange eyes, standing too still near the edge of the vendor’s stall, like he didn’t belong to the noise or the smell or the colors of the market. A boy with dark circles under his eyes and no coins in his hand.

You smiled at him.

And something inside him broke.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t eat. Just stood there long after you left, fingers tight around the skewer until the thin wooden stick cracked and splinters buried deep in his palm. He didn’t bleed. He never bled. But he stared at the empty space where you’d stood until his mouth went dry.

You were warm.

And that was the beginning.

He began following you.

At first it was incidental—passing you in hallways, catching your voice in crowds. Then it became pattern. You trained in the west field; he stood under a tree nearby. You left the mission hall; he was behind the scroll rack. You returned from a three-day patrol; he was standing across the street from your apartment, arms crossed, gourd on his back.

Silent. Constant. Watching.

He didn't speak.

Not even when you waved once. Not even when you smiled again.

Not even when another boy—some leaf shinobi with a pretty mouth and messy hair—touched your elbow during a joke, and you laughed.

He crushed a metal fence post with one hand that night.

Didn’t feel it.

Didn’t care.

But Kakashi noticed. Kakashi always noticed.

He pulled you aside after a briefing. His voice was low. Not teasing. Not warm.

“Be careful around Gaara.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“He’s… quiet. Too quiet. Like a blade left under a pillow. You forget it’s there until you’re bleeding.”

You laughed, soft. “He just has a crush.”

Kakashi didn’t laugh back.

It happened on a night heavy with heat.

The air was thick. Your tiny apartment window was cracked open, but the breeze had died hours ago. You lay in bed with your pajama shorts riding up your thighs, sweat sticking your shirt to your skin, one leg kicked out from under the blanket. You couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t relax. Not after the patrol. Not after the way your body buzzed, exhausted but wound tight like something was about to happen.

And it was.

Because Gaara had been waiting.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t call your name.

You heard the soft slide of the window opening—the faint, deliberate whisper of wood on wood. You sat up too late. By the time you reached for a weapon, for a scream, for anything—

He was inside.

Crouched. Still. Watching.

Then moving.

You didn’t even hear the floor creak beneath him. Just the sudden heat of his body crawling over yours. You landed flat on your back, his hands braced on either side of your head, his hair hanging down, those sea-glass eyes locked on your face with something wild burning deep in them.

“Gaara?” you gasped. “What the fuck are you—”

His hand clamped over your mouth.

“I had to,” he whispered.

His voice was shaking. Not with rage. Not like when he fought.

With need.

“I tried staying away. I did. But every time I see you smile at someone else, I want to kill. I want to hurt them. I want to bury them. But I don’t. I don’t. I come here instead. I watch you sleep. I watch you breathe.”

You struggled under him. Your legs kicked, your fists hit—but he didn’t budge. His body was lean and dense, pure muscle coiled in silence. The gourd wasn’t on his back. He didn’t need it.

His hand slid down. Fingertips trembling against your bare stomach.

“I want to know what it feels like,” he whispered. “To be inside someone warm. To be wanted. To be held.”

Your stomach turned. But your chest ached.

Because his voice cracked.

You opened your mouth to scream. His fingers pushed into your waistband.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, tears already gathering in his lashes. “But I need this.”

You sobbed into his palm. But your hips tilted.

You didn’t mean to. Reflex. Shock. Pity. Curiosity. All of it.

His eyes widened. He felt it.

You were warm.

And wet.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. And then he pushed inside.

No warning. No rhythm. Just pressure, stretching pain, something blunt and needy driving into you with all the skill of someone who’d never done it before. You cried out, legs jerking, body clenching down around him.

“F-fuck,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re tight. So tight—I c-can’t—”

He tried to thrust. Failed. Hips stuttering, he began grinding instead, small desperate movements that made your cunt throb and burn, the intrusion thick and clumsy but deep. He whimpered.

You sobbed. But you didn’t push him off.

His hands fisted your sheets.

“I just wanted to feel love. Just once. Just once.”

He moaned, tears slipping down his cheeks as he humped against you, cock twitching inside you, your walls clenching as if trying to pull him deeper. His breath hitched.

“Why are you letting me?” he choked. “Why are you still warm?”

You didn’t answer.

You just wrapped your legs around his waist.

And he broke.

He sobbed into your neck as he came, hot and fast, hips jerking, his cock pulsing inside you, thick streams of cum flooding your cunt until it leaked out, sticky between your thighs. He collapsed onto you, face buried in your chest.

Shaking. Crying.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just stroked his hair.

Because he wasn’t a monster.

He was a boy who’d never been held.

#✦⁺⸝⸝ @smut #⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀#tw: cnc #gaara smut #gaara #naruto x reader #gaara x reader #dark content #dead dove do not eat #naruto smut #naruto #anime smut #smut fanfiction

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mggslover · 3 months ago

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spencer comforting you on your period

In which your dinner plans with your boyfriend spencer get ruined by your period, but he comforts you that any time spent with you is worth it. genre fluff x comfort cw moody and emotional reader, mention of eating habits during period, reader feeling blegh and insecure, mention of blood stain, spencer being a sweet and understanding bf, sappy and domestic wc 2,3k

Today was not your day.

You had known from the minute you woke up. It was a feeling you couldn’t quite place, but every bone in your body screamed at you to roll back around in the sheets. And so you did.

The universe had blessed this feeling to occur on a free Sunday. You would’ve loved to be productive, to clean the windows — a task you didn’t do often enough because life gets in the way — to meal prep your favorite lunch for the upcoming week, or to answer some emails to give yourself a head start on work.

But none of that happened.

You put your phone back on the nightstand, and sleep pulled you under for another two hours. When you woke up, you scrolled through some TikToks — ignoring Spencer’s voice that echoed in your mind, telling you how doom scrolling influences your mood and shortens your attention span drastically. Basically telling you that your actions will turn you into some brainless zombie.

Not feeling that hungry yet, you pulled your pillow over your face and drifted off again.

When you woke up for the third time that day, there was a brief moment where you thought that you did, in fact, turn into a zombie. The ones that appeared in The Walking Dead and were overcome by one emotion: hunger. Due to a lack of humans or brains in your fridge, you settled on a frozen pizza. Your appetite was stilled, but now your mind seemed to process the load of other emotions you were feeling. After a cry sesh (that you would not admit to Spencer was caused by watching videos of rescued puppies on TikTok), you found your way back to bed — again.

It was 5PM when you smiled for the first time that day, hearing your melodic ringtone accompanied by the name Spence ♡ on your phone screen.

Swiping your finger, you opened the call. The engine of the jet roared in the background, together with some muffled talking and a repeated shushing that could be no other than your boyfriend.

“Hey, Spence,” you start the conversation, a giddy smile on your face.

“Hi!” he chirped happily, then cleared his throat. “Can you hear me? I’m on the jet.”

“Hearing you loud and clear, Doctor.”

You knew that if you were with him right now, you’d catch the faint blush blossoming on his cheeks.

“I have good news,” he announced after a moment.

You sit up on the bed, pressing the phone closer to your ear. Spencer was away with his team to catch an unsub that had escaped prison by digging a tunnel in the ground that went on for miles. You remember when Spencer had told you about the case a month ago — how you clung on to every word, while holding his hand in your sweaty palm as your heartbeat raced, knowing your boyfriend was to face this dangerous and meticulous psychopath.

“You finally got him?”

He beamed. “We got him, sweetheart.”

Spencer walked you through the last couple of days, and yes, while it was clear that the team worked well together, they never would’ve found the unsub in time if it wasn’t for Spencer. His insights hadn’t only been brilliant, something that was to be expected from him, but genius.

Spending most of your days without having him at home was tough, but all those frustrations always vanished whenever he told you stories like these. Your heart swelled with pride, and if you could kiss him through the phone, you would.

“I thought we could celebrate tonight,” he said. “I’m landing in two hours. We could go to that fancy new Thai place downtown.”

“I don’t want to be a bother,” you murmured. You adored his colleagues, but sometimes you couldn’t help but feel out of place during their intense and detailed FBI talks — ones you had no clue what to contribute to.

“You won't be. It’s just the two of us.”

Your heart did a leap, and you bit back a smile, even though there was no one to hide it from in the solitude of your room.

“Okay,” you smiled, trying to keep your voice neutral and not show how pleased you were that it would just be the two of you.

“Hey pretty girl, not feeling in the mood for me today?”

Damn profilers.

“Hi, Derek,” you chuckle. “No offense to you, I just missed my very handsome and very smart boyfriend.”

Derek scoffed at the other side of the line. “You’re feeding his ego too much.”

“Oh, he deserves it. You know that,” you remind him. “I bet you haven’t complimented him yet, have you?”

As clearly as you could picture Spencer’s amused smirk, you saw Derek’s signature eye roll in the back of your mind.

“You heard that?” Spencer asked after some muffled exchanges of words in the background.

You responded with a proud mhm.

“Will you be ready when I pick you up?’

You nodded. “Count on it.”

♡

Well, that was a lie. Not a little, white one, but a big, fat lie.

Two hours seemed like a plentiful time. There were days where you had gotten ready in twenty minutes. So the first hour you spent — you’ve guessed it — doom scrolling on your phone.

Getting out of your bed an hour later was harder than expected. Your happy mood had tumbled down the second Spencer had hung up the call, and it seemed like it had created a snowball effect where everything went wrong after the other.

Starting out with a pimple on your face that you had sworn wasn’t there when you looked into the mirror yesterday. Trying to keep a positive mindset, you opened your makeup drawer. Things seemed to be looking up as you covered your face in powders, and you were almost done with applying all your products, when your arm made a sudden movement. Your eyeliner has created a sleek wing on your face instead of on your eyelid. And to make matters worse, you jumped up in panic, making you drop the liner so that the black tip fell down your elegant, ruby-colored top, marking a line you wished was washable.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Any logical-thinking person in your situation would’ve calmly made their way over to the sink and wiped the spot clean. You, however, were too wrapped up in panic to think straight, and instead yanked the top off your body and sprinted toward the closet.

Opening the closet doors, you came to the realization that your side looked tragically empty. You had done a big cleanup when moving in with Spencer, giving away lots of items in the hopes of a fresh start. It was the plan to go on a shopping spree, but because of the lack of dates you and Spencer had — blaming his demanding job — you were now faced with only one option left: a deep sapphire dress.

It is Spencer’s favorite. His eyes always doubled in size, and his adam’s apple would bob whenever he saw the smooth fabric hugging your curves. The dress made you feel confident — sexy, even. So you didn’t expect to feel the complete opposite when you looked in the mirror.

The dress clung to you in all the wrong places. It did not give the wow factor it usually gives; instead, you were overcome with insecurities, even noticing flaws you had never picked up on before.

Your throat tightened, and you tried to swallow the lump away. Tried to blink the building tears away. But to no success. Rather dramatically you lowered yourself to the ground with a defeated sigh, leaning against the mattress of your bed and wrapping your arms around your knees.

Today was not your day. It was too much. And you felt incredibly stupid for feeling that way. Your boyfriend had spent restless nights — plural — cracking his mind over a case, only being fed on caffeine. Saving lives. Making a change. And now he’s on his way to take you out to dinner. And what were you doing? Crying away your messed-up makeup and not being on time. Not even achieving the one single thing your boyfriend had asked of you.

Punctual as always, the front door of the apartment opened with a creak.

“Are you ready, baby?” Spencer’s voice called from the living room. “Restaurants usually get busiest around seven. They have a special this week, so if we want to get the window seat I know you will like, we have two more minutes to leave. One and a half if you’ll be wearing heels.”

His words only made you cry harder. When he entered the room — wearing a nice button-up he must’ve packed just in case there’d be something to celebrate — his puppy dog eyes landed on you, frowning at your figure.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, not even daring to face him.

“Hey,” he softly cooed, walking up to you and crouching to be at eye level. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I’m not ready,” you sniffled. “I look like a mess. I am a mess.”

Spencer brushes your hair out of your face, his warm palms gently cupping both cheeks as he makes you look up at him. “You’re not a mess. That’s nothing we can’t fix in a couple of minutes,” he encourages as he uses his thumb to swipe away the eyeliner stain on your cheek.

“We don’t have a couple of minutes. The window seat will be taken.”

“We’ll figure something out, angel,” he reassured, before a silly grin formed on his face. “I can do some flashing around with my badge, hm? That will work.”

A breathy chuckle escaped your throat, the corners of your mouth lifting slightly. You gathered the courage to meet his gaze. You were no profiler, but his soft eyes told you everything: that he didn’t mind, that it was okay.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated in apology, your voice calmer now. “This was supposed to be your day, and I ruined it.”

Spencer wrapped an arm around you, hugging you to his chest and pressing a kiss on top of your head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I know your period can be much.”

Period.

Of course.

How is it that the same occurrence happens every month for most of your life, and still it manages to surprise you each time? Like puzzle pieces clicking together, you mentally retrace the events of today, the world slowly making sense again.

You let out a frustrated groan. “How did you figure that out before me?”

“You are two days early, so it doesn’t match the cycle I’ve been tracking. It makes sense that you didn’t catch on right away.” He was quiet for a moment, wanting to bring his next words as carefully as possible. “But the bloodstain on your thigh made things pretty clear.”

You couldn’t even process your surprise of Spencer casually confessing to tracking your cycle, as the last words left his mouth. Looking down at your lap, there indeed was a crimson-colored spot on your thigh. And on your dress. Oh no.

Noting your anxiety before you could react, Spencer reached out to lock your wrists in his hands.

“Don’t panic,” he tutted. “I’ll put the dress in the washing machine, and you can focus on taking a warm shower and think about what food we can order.”

“But the restau—“

He tsked, catching you off guard. “Shower,” he repeated in one word, so as not to trigger any new thoughts in your mind. Just one word. One mission. Shower.

♡

In the time you and Spencer had been dating, he’s never been wrong. And the steaming shower he suggested was, in fact, exactly what you needed.

Dressed in a cozy pajama set, you made your way back to the bedroom. Spencer had changed too, dressed accordingly in a matching set as he lay on the bed, long legs crossed over each other, and an old-school paper menu held between his fingers.

Quietly you crawled into bed beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight as you snuggled up to Spencer’s side, humming as he had warmed the spot.

You glanced over his shoulder at the menu. “That one,” you said, pointing at your go-to dish.

Spencer hummed in approval. “Excellent choice, m’lady.”

“Ooh, new nickname,” you teased, running your fingers through his soft curls.

“It’s on theme, actually,” he grinned. “Because today we’ll be watching…” With a groan he leaned over the bed, hands reaching out and coming back up with three DvDs in hand.

“Medieval movies…” you finished the sentence, trying to sound cheerful, but it came out as more of a question.

Spencer didn’t catch on to the confusion that laced your tone; instead, he eagerly asked you which movie you preferred.

“I don’t mind, Spence. It’s your big day,” you answered genuinely.

He asked you once more if you were sure, but when you confirmed — and he was allowed to choose a movie — he was overcome with a giddy excitement that made your heart flutter.

You truly didn’t know how you got so lucky. To be with a person that never raised his voice at you, who never judged you, who always took all of your feelings like they mattered. Because to him, they did. To him, you mattered. And as long as he could spend his time with you, he didn’t care when or where.

He looked up at you, noticing you as you were staring at him, like he was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever laid your eyes upon.

“I’m so lucky you’re mine,” you whispered in adoration.

He leaned forward, cheeks heating as he pressed a small kiss to your lips. “Derek was right; you really feed my ego too much.”

“Maybe,” you agreed with a smirk. “But you better get used to it.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid comfort #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x oc #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid drabble #criminal minds fluff #loverrequests

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lotusdrops-world · 2 months ago

Text

After Hours

wc: 2.8k

rating: explicit

cross posted on ao3

tags: sylus x pregnant reader, pregnancy sex, husband/wife, established relationship, fluff with smut, plot with porn, hurt/comfort, use of baby oils, and creampie.

heavily inspired from one of BKS nsfw audio.

The rain fell in a steady rhythm against the windows as Sylus pulled into the driveway. Streetlights flickered through the misty downpour, illuminating the puddles that danced with each drop. His car engine hummed low, a sharp contrast to the silence pressing in from every side. It was later than he intended—again.

Sylus sighed, shutting the engine off and sitting for a moment, his hand resting on the steering wheel. He glanced at his phone—no messages from you. Usually, by now, there would’ve been a quick “Are on your way” or “Do you want me to reheat dinner?” but there was nothing tonight. It tugged at him.

He stepped out of the car, the wind catching his coat as he hurried toward the porch. The light by the front door was still on, glowing warmly, and the familiar scent of home—lavender and something softly sweet—greeted him the moment he stepped inside.

The house, however, was silent. Unusually so.

He hung his coat by the door and glanced around. The living room was neat, the blanket still folded on the edge of the couch. A novel lay half-open on the armrest. The television remote untouched. A tea mug sat on the side table, the contents cold and long-forgotten. The only light came from a single lamp in the corner, casting golden warmth over the shadows but doing little to ease the tension now building in his chest.

“Sweetie, I’m home,” he called gently.

Nothing.

A pit formed in his stomach. He walked into the kitchen—spotless. The dishes from dinner were clean and drying on the rack. The leftovers were wrapped, untouched. He ran a hand over the countertop and kept walking.

“Sweetness?” he tried again, his voice soft but edged with concern.

Still nothing.

He passed the bathroom. Empty. Your study, the laptop is off, the chair pushed in. Everything is still, too quiet.

Until he heard it.

A soft, broken sound.

Faint sobbing.

His heart stopped for a second before rushing into a frantic beat. He followed the sound, up the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The sobs were quiet but unmistakable—coming from your shared bedroom.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough to show the warm light inside. Sylus didn’t knock. He pushed it open slowly, heart pounding in his chest.

You were curled up on the bed, your body turned away from the door, cocooned in the thick blanket. Your shoulders shook with every breath, the occasional sniffle escaping into the quiet.

“Sweetie…” he breathed, stepping inside.

He knelt beside the bed, careful not to startle you. His hand reached out, gently touching your arm.

“What happened?” His voice cracked with concern.

You turned slowly, face red and tear-streaked. Your eyes met his for a brief moment before you looked away again, embarrassed, vulnerable.

“It’s nothing,” you whispered.

Sylus’ heart broke at the sight of you. “Don’t do that,” he said gently. “Don’t say it’s nothing when I can see it’s everything.”

You hesitated, then pulled the blanket back, revealing your swollen belly. Your hand rested on the lower part of it, pressing gently with a wince.

“It hurts,” you said quietly, barely a breath. “Not like contractions or anything serious. It’s just… a dull, dragging ache. I didn’t want to call you and bother you at work…”

He sat on the edge of the bed, cupping your cheek tenderly. “Baby, you’re never a bother. You should’ve called me. I would’ve come home in a heartbeat.”

You looked away again, the guilt still written on your face. “You work so hard… I didn’t want to be selfish.”

He shook his head. “You being in pain and alone isn’t selfish—it’s scary. For both of us. I want to be here, especially now.”

You reached for his hand, your fingers threading through his. “I just… felt so emotional today. Like everything was wrong. I cried over a commercial this morning.”

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “I bet it was one of those baby formula ads, wasn’t it?”

You sniffled. “It was the one where the dad gets home late but still rocks the baby to sleep.”

“That’s just cruel,” he said, smiling softly. “But I’m here now. And I’m going to make it up to you. All of it.”

You nodded slowly.

“Where does it hurt the most?” he asked.

You shifted slightly, your hand moving to the base of your belly, near your pelvis. “Here. It’s like a pressure. I’ve been lying still for hours but it won’t go away.”

He stood and walked around the bed to the nightstand, opening the drawer. He found the baby oil and returned, rubbing it between his palms to warm it.

“May I?” he asked, looking into your eyes.

You gave a small nod, heart fluttering with the intimacy of the moment.

He tugged your shorts down slowly, followed by your underwear, exposing the soft skin of your thighs and the curve of your belly. His touch was reverent, his hands moving in gentle, steady circles as he worked the oil into your skin.

You exhaled, your body finally beginning to unwind.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly.

You bit your lip, nodding. “Yeah… it’s helping.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Good. You scared me when I couldn’t find you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered. “I was just… ashamed, I guess. I felt like a burden.”

Sylus’ hand stilled.

“Sweetie…don’t ever say that,” he said, his voice suddenly firm. “You are the love of my life. The mother of my child. My everything. There’s not a second that goes by where I don’t want to be here for you.”

Tears filled your eyes again, but this time they weren’t from pain.

He leaned over you, pressing his lips to yours in a deep, grounding kiss. His hand still rested against your belly, feeling the slow rise and fall of your breath.

You opened your legs slightly to him, needing more—needing him.

“Sylus…” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire. “Please…Just to ease the pain…”

He looked at you, eyes darkening with understanding. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I need to feel close to you. I need this.”

His lips met yours again—deeper this time, needier. His hand slipped lower to your dripping slick, his fingers exploring your warmth with slow, careful touches, coaxing your body into readiness. You gasped softly, clutching at his arm, your hips lifting to meet his hand.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he whispered against your ear, his voice thick with arousal.

You whimpered, your body aching for more.

Sylus watched the way your breath hitched, how your fingers fisted the sheets, how the tension in your shoulders slowly unraveled under his touch. You were still sensitive—your skin electric under every pass of his hands. The baby oil glistened faintly under the lamplight, catching highlights on your swollen belly, and the soft swell of your thighs.

“Getting relaxed?” he asked softly, his voice warm as his palms.

You let out a soft, airy laugh between breaths. “More than I was an hour ago.”

He kissed the top of your belly, the space just beneath your navel. “I was worried,”his lips brushed to your skin, admitting, his eyes flicking up to yours. “You didn’t meet me at the door. Didn’t even leave a note. I thought something happened.”

You looked away for a second, eyes shimmering. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… I didn’t feel like myself.”

Sylus nodded slowly, understanding. He rested his head briefly against your bump, his voice muffled as he spoke. “It’s okay to not feel okay sometimes. Just don’t shut me out, alright? I’m here.”

You sniffled, then smiled faintly. “I know. I just… it’s hard, Sylus. My body hurts, I cry at dumb commercials, and I feel ugly most of the time. Like you’re here out of duty, not love.”

His head snapped up. “Don’t ever say that again.”

You blinked, startled by the intensity in his tone.

He leaned in, his hand cradling your face. “I love you. I want you. I think about you all day—your smile, the sound of your laugh, the way you roll your eyes when I make a dumb joke. And now? Seeing you like this, carrying our baby? I’ve never wanted you more.”

Your breath caught. The weight of his words settled into your chest like warmth, heavy but comforting. A different kind of ache bloomed inside you—no longer sadness, but longing.

You cupped his jaw. “Then show me.”

Sylus didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and kissed you—deep, slow, and searching. His lips moved against yours with quiet intensity, his hand sliding down to your hip, grounding you.

His other hand stayed resting protectively on your belly, even as he settled himself between your thighs. He moved with practiced care, nudging your legs apart gently, never breaking the kiss.

You gasped when his fingers ghosted over your pussy once again, already warm and wet from his earlier touch.

“Still sensitive,” he murmured with a quiet smile, watching the way your body reacted. “That’s okay. Let me take care of you.”

His fingers circled your entrance, teasing, coaxing soft gasps from you as he built your pleasure with slow, deliberate strokes. Your hips rolled up to meet him, and he chuckled, voice low and dark. “Needy tonight, aren’t we?”

You shot him a glare that melted into a moan. “You’re not exactly helping.”

Sylus leaned down, brushing your lips again, softer this time. “That’s the point.”

His free hand started to unbuckle his belt, and lowered down his trousers alongside his boxers. Exposing his hardened cock, already dripping with precum. He gave it a few strokes before lining up to your wet pussy, covering himself with your slick.

When his cock pressed against your entrance, you instinctively tensed. He noticed immediately and paused.

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. I want to feel you.”

He pressed in slowly, letting you take him inch by inch. The stretch made you gasp—sharp at first, then sweet and full, grounding.

You both groaned as he bottomed out, your bodies finally joined in full. Sylus exhaled through clenched teeth. “God, you feel… so tight. So warm.”

He stayed there, unmoving for a few heartbeats, giving you time to adjust. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing shallow.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, clinging to him. “Move, please.”

And so he did. He lifted both of your legs, not enough to put pressure on your belly as he started with slow, measured thrusts, rocking into you with careful control. Every movement was gentle, deliberate, full of unspoken reverence. You gasped as he filled you over and over, your body molding to his rhythm.

“Sylus…” you moaned softly.

His hand traveled down between you, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves nestled between your folds. He stroked in rhythm with his hips, coaxing more pleasure out of you, drawing you closer to the edge with each pass.

The sound of your skins colliding, and your breathless moans filled the bedroom. The pain from earlier starts to subside. The only thing you could feel right now is the pleasure and his warmth.

Your core pulsed around him, your breaths becoming shorter, your hips rising to meet his.

“Almost there?” he whispered. “Let go for me, sweetie. Let me feel you around me.”

With a strangled cry, you shattered. Your body clamped down around him, wave after wave of heat rippling through your core. Your hands clawed at his back, tears springing to your eyes again—but this time from release, not pain.

His hips continued, thrusting through your climax as he chased his own. He propped his arms to your sides as leverage and went deeper, faster.

“F-fuck. Baby, need you so m-much… I love you…”

He murmured incoherently. You were seeing stars. You want to tell him you loved him too, but words were stuck in your throat. Feeling overstimulated.

“Baby, tell me… where do you want it?”

“Sylus— hah. I-inside me…please…”

Sylus groaned your name and followed soon after, hips snapping forward one final time as he spilled inside you, his release warm and deep. He collapsed gently on top of you, careful not to press against your belly too hard, his breath ragged.

You lay there together, tangled and breathless, your bodies sticky with sweat and afterglow.

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then the tip of your nose. “You okay?”

You nodded, dazed. “Better than okay…”

Sylus smiled, brushing your hair back. “Good. Because I’m not done taking care of you.”

He reached over for a warm towel from the nightstand—a habit formed from nights just like this. He lifted your leg and began gently cleaning you up.

You watched him, heart full.

This man… this sweet, stubborn man who always knew what you needed before you even said a word. He was yours. And you were his.

The room was thick with silence, save for your steady breathing and the faint creak of the bed as you shifted slightly. Sylus’s fingers remained on your skin—soft, idle touches as he wiped you down with the warm towel. He took his time, not rushing, like you were something sacred. Something fragile and powerful all at once.

When he was done, he tossed the towel to the floor and pulled the sheets up over both of you. His hand instinctively rested over your belly again, palm splayed protectively. You could still feel the slight tremble in his fingertips.

You glanced over at him, eyelids heavy but heart wide open.

“You always clean me up after,” you murmured.

He raised an eyebrow, turning his head on the pillow to face you. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged with a faint smile. “It’s just… I don’t know. You always treat me like I’m worth taking care of.”

“You are,” he said without hesitation.

Your chest tightened at his sincerity. “Even when I’m sweaty, emotional, and have a baby pressing on my bladder?”

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “Especially then.”

A soft giggle escaped your lips before you could stop it. “God, I love you.”

“Good,” he whispered against your skin. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt the baby move again—just a flutter—but enough for both of you to notice. Sylus’s eyes lit up like they always did.

“They're gonna be a kicker, huh?” he said, brushing his fingers lightly over your bump.

“Like their dad,” you teased. “Always full of energy and never knowing when to quit.”

“Hey,” he protested with a smile, “I know when to quit. I just… don’t.”

You snorted. “That tracks.”

Sylus moved to lie on his side, propping his head up on one hand, watching you with a gaze that felt far too tender to be real.

“What?” you asked shyly, shifting under the blankets.

“I’m just thinking about how lucky I am.”

“You keep saying stuff like that and I might actually start believing you.”

“I hope you do,” he said, brushing your arm with his knuckles. “You’ve given me more than I ever thought I deserved. A home. A family. A reason to come back every single night.”

Your eyes welled up again, but this time, it was a good ache. Not from the pain earlier, but from how much love you still had room to feel, even after the storm of emotions earlier.

“Do you think they’ll have your nose?” you asked suddenly, glancing down at your stomach.

Sylus smiled. “I hope so. But if they have your eyes, I won’t complain.”

You laughed softly, feeling sleep starting to pull at the edges of your consciousness. “Also, tomorrow’s your day off, right? Are you gonna cook tomorrow? I’ve been craving pancakes.”

“I can cook tonight if you want.”

You gave him a look.

He sighed, defeated. “Midnight pancakes it is.”

You watched as he reluctantly slid out of bed, tugging on his boxers and walking barefoot to the door. You admired the way his back muscles shifted beneath his skin, the familiar curve of his shoulders. Strong, dependable, yours.

“Use the blueberry syrup,” you called out after him.

He looked back with a grin. “Demanding, aren’t we?”

You smirked, curling back under the covers. “Pregnancy perks.”

A few minutes later, the sound of clinking pans and a low hum of Sylus singing some off-key song filtered upstairs. The smell of batter and syrup wafted through the house like a lullaby.

You lay there, hand resting on your belly, heart full and warm.

Even with the hormones, the aches, the tears… you were never alone in this. Not really.

Because Sylus was here.

And he always would be.

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