#but Lighter just needed to soak all this in for a moment

[astrxlfinale]

To think this is where a modest start into their craft ends. Zarina Gigglefits Sokolova finding herself getting blindsided by a couch of all things. Oddly enough, it felt like a fitting foe, one that offers compromises amidst their antics even while his own gut found itself laced with a pleasant ache. In a silly feedback loop, her laughter sparked his, and the whole prior scenario turned even an idle embarrassment into a moment to further treasure.

While the option was certainly there to assist her from that descent in cozy cushions, his labored, recovering breaths offered a moment to contemplate. It felt as if allowing a moment of reprieve to be upon their feet just wasn't fitting. Professionalism left itself at the front door a nice long moment ago, and above all else? This couch that he's now leaning against as well deserves a new spark of memory. "Nah." He asserts instead. "If it can trip us up into a prime position?"

He most certainly said us. Lighter allows his weight to tip upon the opposing side, arms crossed close as his broad back creates immediately collides with the cushions alongside the veteran. Subjected to the same primary view of the ceiling as they're now shoulder to shoulder, those hazy jade eyes would flicker over to her instead, practically seeing the more personalized light of good fun adding shine across her figure.

Even now, that smile persists while that pillow is hugged up. (Part of him can't help but imagine the adorable sight of her treating Lamboo the same way, the little pearl of comfort that Bangboo manages to be.) "I think you've found the exact brand that needs a lil more company on it instead. Shameless as this would be to say, I'm feeling inspired to break this couch in a little more."

Visiting a lot more often just sounds worth it.

"Sure you'd be able to manage? Might have to get something pre-made, as there's quite the set of explosives set in you." A touch more brazen, it'd be in this moment where a gentle prod from the Champion makes contact with the flushed, pale cheek of Zarina. Dissolving from a modest schedule has enacted more of that playful side. "Gave even the drunk side of me a run for his money then, and lemme tell ya, that goofball can find anything a riot. So don't have me risking it all during a comedy movie then."

The emotion of ease flowed with each breath as he turned, bringing his lax but inquisitive gaze towards the ceiling. Part of him can't imagine how long it's been since he's just done acts like this with someone new. In a way, it was a testament that a good share of healing was being made in the company that drew out such a scale of loyalty from him. "Say, Zarina?"

"Do moments like this ever just get you more excited to spend time at home?" Lighter gives the question a good second to linger. "Normally, rest, rest, quick meal rest was an MO I once had. But a pace like this? I think I've come to appreciate it a whole lot more."

A lesson is forgotten in the flurry of laughter. There is something about this moment that reminds her of a golden dawn, when the beauty of a morning sky becomes poetic instead of just a usual happening. Laughter is a rare treasure, it is a gift that has been so little in the days when Hollows consume their world bit by bit. Fissures appear everywhere, HSO continues to dive deeper, the new generation of Void Hunters is not yet at the level of those who have left. But in this moment, within the four walls of her apartment, there is warmth that strikes the heart and soul instead of just the body. Joy is an emotion rarely experienced in such a pure discovery, reminding her of the good old days when Victor - her twin brother - would make her laugh as they were training, making faces and telling her jokes that were making her laugh her lungs out. Similarly to how it felt now. 

Lighter finds a way to make it worse for her. Just when she would slowly try to regain her breathing, he brings out the “Rrrgh. Krab Brawler” combination that makes the dam break again, making her choke on her laughter in that second, both hands on her belly as she continues. The burst of laughter at the krab brawler somehow got on a higher pitch of a note, eyes closed as she found herself almost keeling over, legs becoming unsteady as she staggered back to lean against the back of the couch. Her hand finds itself covering her mouth, as if she is physically trying to force the laughter back into herself but her body refuses to let go of this spike of serotonin and dopamine in the moment of delight. Lighter’s presence is a warm reminder of normalcy in the midst of Outer Ring, the heat outside may make her want to jump off into a frozen lake but behind closed doors? He is as warm as the Sun itself, a fireplace in the midst of winter that brings comfort and helps her live in the present and enjoy the present. His laughter sounds nice, she’d want to hear it again even through her hysterics.

“S-sure, f-full marks… Pfft,” she waves him off, wiping off the tears in her eyes. 

Zarina tries to take several deep breaths. The spark of giggle in her stomach slowly subsides until the photo is brought out. The cuteness alongside her still trying to recover makes her snort again, she has to look away from him and the phone at this second. Does he want her dead!? Not even a second! Endless and relentless assault with comedy that gets her chortling with laughter like she’s a little kid before the heaviness of tragedy and this world’s condition hit her. She needs this photo now! On her phone! This is perfection, but as much as it is perfection for long run? Right now, she…

“S-shhh, L-Lighter, s-stop,” she tries to shush him, gasping for air while trying to calm down, almost begging him to feed her laughter. It’s hard to breathe, her stomach is kicking her, lungs are stretched out thin. But it is funny, it is hilarious. Lamboo is clapping its little hands, swaying from left to right while watching what it sees. It even waves at Lighter when he looks at it, if it could give thumbs up, it certainly would. Lighter is causing her to lose her cool facade, too, blood rushing to her face from laughing so hard. On her porcelain skin, it’s more obvious to see the pink gathering at her cheeks. “I can’t… can’t brea- AH!” 

Her attempt to move just a bit more away to try and calm down makes her lean back against the couch’s back only to fall back on it. Back against the cushions she sits on, legs dangling from the back of the couch, hair falling off the sitting space on the floor as she finds herself staring at Lighter from a new angle. Her laughter, at least, stopped for a moment as she blinked, realizing that this laughter and entertainment caused her to be less aware of her space, which has never happened before. She is usually hyper aware of everything, but… Maybe it’s not bad. It feels more normal. 

“Pfft,” she once again snickers, bringing her hands to her mouth to hide her smile again. She dangles her legs a bit more, thanking her tall height for this hilarious and ridiculous showcase. “Man, am I glad this couch is wide and big, but probably should’ve gotten something with a higher back.” 

Once again, Sokolova laughs but it’s easier to cool off now as she thinks over whether she should roll over or ask Lighter to help her get up like this. This is actually quite comfortable, too, she finds it. Zarina exhales, taking one of her cushions next to her and hugging it to her chest while giving Lighter an inquiring look.

“What do you say about late lunch? Think our lesson’s pretty over for today.” 

And she should still get up. Maybe, if he offers her his hand, she’ll take it and will get up instead of rolling over. 

[ervotica]

hot rod — a.donaldson & p.zweig

pairings; art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x patrick zweig

summary; patrick comes to visit you and art at college. he finds college life is a lot more adventurous than once anticipated

warnings; mdni, 18+ only, SMUT, threesome, overstim, oral (m receiving), sub leaning!reader and art, more dom leaning!patrick, established throuple, polyamory

a/n; i’m not so sure how i feel about this tbh. i love the dynamic though so i pushed through even when it got away from me a little🥲 there will be another drabble for older!art and his pretty girl soon!!

you and art fuck until you’re brain dead and passed out from exhaustion. always have. neither of you possess an off switch, and when patrick’s not there to rein the pair of you in, things get a little… messy.

his cum is dried in your hair, the sticky substance smeared across your cheek, his knuckles still wet with slick.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don’t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.

“no more, you horndogs!”

[hatsbuckets]

Thinking about how price would do his best to be professional and stoic all the time, because of the mission... until he comes undone one day with the 141's affectionate little teammate...

Pairings: Price x Reader | TF141 x Reader (if you squint) Short Vers: Cutesy. Comfort. Flirty reader takin care of an injured Price. Literally just wanted to do something cute. WC: ~1700 Oops my hand slipped. Warnings: Canon typical violence-ish: severe leg injury, mention of blood

Price was used to you doting on the team—flirty comments tossed like grenades to break tension, soft kisses planted on cheeks when you thought they needed it most. It had become routine, a part of how you all coped with the relentless grind of the job. The boys, of course, lapped it up.

Soap practically thrived on it, leaning into your affection like a cat demanding more. “Oh, c’mon, give us another,” he’d tease, tapping his cheek with an exaggerated pout until you obliged, laughing at his antics. “Knew you couldn’t resist me, lass,” he’d quip, grinning ear to ear, his cheek still tingling from your touch.

Gaz was subtler about it, but the half-laugh, half-blush that lit up his face whenever you kissed his temple was all the evidence anyone needed. “You spoil us too much,” he’d say, shaking his head, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed how much he appreciated it. He’d never ask outright, but you noticed how he conveniently ended up in your orbit on the harder days.

And there was Ghost—well, Ghost didn’t protest. Not much, anyway. He’d stiffen slightly the first time you planted a quick kiss on the edge of his mask, murmuring something soft and teasing. You’d almost expected him to recoil or bark out a gruff warning, but instead, he’d let out a low huff, half-exasperated, half-resigned. Over time, the stiffness faded, and while he never sought your attention, he also never shied away from it. If anything, you started to catch the faintest shift in his body language, a subtle leaning toward you in those quiet, fleeting moments.

But Price? He was different. He kept his distance, the line between Captain and teammate drawn so firmly it might as well have been carved into stone. It wasn’t that he didn’t notice your affection—oh, he noticed. He saw the way Soap brightened under your banter, the way Gaz carried himself a little lighter after one of your quick, casual pecks. And he saw the way your touch had a way of pulling Ghost out of whatever dark corners he sometimes disappeared into.

He noticed it all, but he made damn sure none of it ever landed on him. Not because he didn’t want it, no—that was the real problem. He wasn’t sure he’d survive it. The idea of your warmth, your care, directed at him, even for a second? That was a vulnerability he couldn’t afford, not as your Captain.

So, when you flirted with him—and you did—he kept his reactions drawn. A grumble of “Focus,” if you were getting particularly cheeky. A muttered “Bloody hell,” paired with an eye roll when you’d wink in his direction with a half-lewd quip at his expense. He deflected it like incoming fire, always quick to push the moment away before it had a chance to stick. Never a crack in that armor. Not once.

Until he came back hurt.

The mission had gone sideways in a way that none of you could’ve predicted. A clean extraction turned into a chaotic firefight, and when the dust finally settled, Price had made damn sure every single one of his team made it out alive. But it wasn’t without cost.

The explosion had been too close, the deafening roar of it still echoing in his mind like an endless drumbeat. The searing heat and shrapnel tore through his leg before he even had a chance to register the pain. All he knew in the moment was the desperate need to keep you all moving, to ensure you made it to the evac point. His body screamed louder than the orders from his mouth.

By the time they reached the chopper, Price could barely stand. Blood soaked through his tactical pants, pooling beneath him as Soap and Ghost half-dragged, half-carried him aboard. His face was pale and tight with pain, his gruff voice reduced to sharp, pained grunts as the medics worked to stabilize him mid-flight.

You had been silent, and the team's usual banter was replaced with a heavy tension as you watched your Captain struggle to bite back a groan as medics worked. Despite their efforts, he wasn't conscious for long after you assured him you were all aboard and headed home. Soap had tried to lighten the mood, cracking a joke about how “the old man finally took a hit,” but it fell flat.

...

Price spent the first few days back on base confined to the medbay, his leg immobilized in a brace, stitches holding together what could barely be called a clean wound. The painkillers dulled the physical ache, but they did little for the simmering frustration underneath. He hated being sidelined, hated seeing the team tiptoe around him when you all visited--and you all visited frequently.

When they finally cleared him to return to his quarters, it was with strict orders to rest and lean on crutches—not that he’d been given much choice. Every step was a battle. Price had always been the one they could lean on when things went to hell. Now, he couldn’t even make it to the door without bracing himself against the walls.

He tried to keep up appearances, but the cracks were showing. The little things betrayed him—his jaw tightening when the pain flared, the way his hand trembled just slightly when he gripped his crutch too hard. And he hated it. Hated being stuck in his quarters, hated the helplessness that clawed at him every time he had to ask for something.

What he hated most, though, was how much he craved the comfort you offered. The way you lingered longer than the others, always making sure he was settled before you left. The softness in your voice when you asked if he needed anything, the gentle brush of your fingers against his arm when you adjusted a pillow or passed him his crutch. You were flirty all the time, sure, but this? This was care, raw and concerned. It was too much and not enough all at once, a lifeline he didn’t know how to reach for without breaking apart entirely.

You didn’t leave him much room to protest your hovering. It started small—a cup of coffee placed on his desk before he even thought to ask, the exact way he liked it. Then came the meals, arriving like clockwork, despite his grumbled insistence that he wasn’t helpless. You ignored the way his eyebrows knitted in irritation when you lingered, adjusting pillows or tugging the throw blanket over his lap when he’d shifted just a little too much and winced for it.

It wasn’t just the tasks, though. It was the quiet way you stayed, your presence filling the space. You didn’t push him to talk, didn’t pry, but you were there. And as much as Price told himself he didn’t need the comfort, as many times as he'd sent you away and to quit your worrying, he’d started to look for it—catching himself glancing at the door, wondering when you’d come back, feeling the silence more acutely when you weren’t around.

...

It was after one of those moments, late in the evening when the base was quiet. The day had dragged on longer than usual, and the ache in his leg had worsened, grinding at his patience. He didn’t ask for help as you guided him to the couch in his quarters, but he didn’t push you away, either. You’d taken one of the crutches and leaned it against the wall, leaving him with no option but to let you take the lead.

“Sit back, Captain,” you said softly, adjusting the cushions behind him. The teasing lilt in your voice was still there, but it was subdued, quiet earnestness that had started to unnerve him. “Relax a little.”

He grunted in response, settling back with a wince as you straightened the blanket over his lap. You stepped back, looking him over like you were assessing his comfort, and he swore he saw something flicker in your expression—hesitation, maybe. Or something deeper.

“That everything, Cap?” you asked, your voice low, softer than usual. The teasing note was still there, but it was almost... careful.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the cushions, moving his toes on his propped-up leg, his weariness in his words. “Yeah. That’s everything.”

But you didn’t leave. You stood there for a second, watching him like you wanted to say something else. Then, without a word, you stepped closer, leaning over him. Price froze, his breath catching as you bent slightly, your lips brushing against his forehead. It wasn’t the first time you’d done it, but something about this moment—the softness, the lingering touch—made his chest tighten.

“Get some rest, John,” you murmured, the way you said his name feeling like a balm he didn’t know he needed.

As you straightened, your hand brushed his, and before he could think better of it, his fingers closed around your wrist. You stilled, your eyes meeting his, wide and questioning. For a moment, the air shifted, warming yet frozen.

Price didn’t know what drove him—the exhaustion, the pain, or the quiet, gnawing need he’d buried for so long. Maybe it was all of it. But before he could stop himself, he tugged you forward, slow but deliberate, his other hand rising to cradle the side of your face.

His lips met yours. The kiss was soft, almost tentative at first, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. Gratitude, relief, and something—something raw and unyielding—poured into that single moment. He kissed you like a man letting himself feel for the first time in years, and when he finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed beneath his beard, his breaths uneven.

“Should’ve done that ages ago,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, tinged with something that sounded suspiciously like regret.

You blinked at him, stunned, your lips still parted as if the words hadn’t quite reached you yet. Then, slowly, a grin broke across your face, soft and teasing. “What changed?”

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back against the cushions. “You. You wore me down, love.”

And just like that, his walls crumbled.

[glamourscat]

୨ৎ Beautiful as...? BLLK edition

BACHIRA, CHIGIRI, BAROU, KAISER, RIN, ISAGI, REO, NAGI, SHIDOU

Bachira: beautiful as a fair carnival

His light and contagious smile can brighten a whole room. His presence, in a way, makes you feel like a child again. Running around and seeing the world through “naive” eyes. Staring off in space taken aback by the bright, colourful lights. High on way too much sugar. Seeing the beauty in life, aware that there are dangers and challenges out there, but for now, not knowing them is better than anything.

Chigiri: beautiful as spring

When the leaves come back, filled with life and green. Bright, vibrant flowers dot the grass. He is a splash of color that persists even on the darkest days, a lingering reminder that “everything will be okay.” The sun will shine again tomorrow.

Reo: beautiful as the ocean

The calm waves, the sea breeze and that distinctive seaside smell. The sand between your toes, the warm embrace of the sun and the cool water wrapping you in a blanket of shivers and warmth at the same time.

Shidou: beautiful as a museum

Different artists, different paintings, different forms of art. A carefully threaded puzzle filled with emotions, explosions of thoughts, liberty, and need. The need to scream, to ensure someone hears it. The need for a revolution. The hope that someone will remember you.

Kaiser: beautiful as a thunderstorm at night

Not everyone likes it, but many still enjoy it. The clouds fill the dark sky, illuminated by occasional flashes of lightning. It can give you chills just as it can give you comfort.

Isagi: beautiful as the moment after it stops raining

The smell lingers in the air, following you wherever you go. The sky starts to open up, grey clouds mixing with white and the sky is turning a lighter shade of blue. The faint sun rays start to poke through, a welcome touch against your cold skin. The few drops of water still present on the leaves of the trees might, or might not, fall on your head as you walk under them.

Nagi: beautiful as heavy snow

That serene feeling of no school, no work, no worries. The streets filled with mountains of snow, cold yet inviting to jump into. At first glance, soft yet hard and firm. Playful and forgiving when it wants to.

Rin: beautiful as a summer night

Nothing is forever. Summer, just as it came, will end too. It’s the feeling of looking out of your window, smelling the scent that’s unique to summer. Hearing the night insects’ serenade in the distance as you look at the stars with nothing particular on your mind. There’s a nostalgia hitting you, you’re not sure why. Your chest feels a bit heavier and emptier at the same time. You find yourself closing your eyes to soak in this feeling.

Barou: beautiful as fire

Destructive in some cases, yet warm and comforting in others. Wild and untamable. You think you have the upper hand but one piece of wood too much and everything is ablaze. Only the most skilled know how to control it. Not tame it, but understand it. Being able to turn the wild, bursting flame into something softer, something that feels like home.

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[vampirq]

saw the cait masterlist was a tad empty.. could i request cait using strap on virgin!reader for the first time and making her squirt??

make a mess for me, love.

caitlyn kiramann x virgin ! reader . strapping (r!receiving) . use of ‘mommy’ . strap is referred to as ‘cock’

“oh, what the fuck is that.”

your appalled expression and vulgar words elicits a giggle from caitlyn. you were referring to the deep blue phallic object resting on her bed. from your standpoint, you could see veins running up and down the sides, along with the slight curve plus the unfamiliar mushroom tip.

“it’s called a dildo, darling, or in this case, a strap.” caitlyn answers, taking your hand in hers and guiding you towards the bed.

“cait— baby, i can’t take that. that’s at least like what, 9 inches?”

“6.5 to be exact.”

“same thing, still big, still probably going to rip me open.”

she takes a step behind you, wrapping her long, slender arms around waist. you melt into her touch, tilting your head to give her access. she takes the bait and peppers loving kisses all over your neck. “i’ll be nice and gentle with you sweetheart. let mommy take care of you, mhm?”

you hesitate before responding. you know caitlyn wouldn’t put you through any thing you couldn’t handle. you also knew if you didn’t want this you could just say no and she’ll back off. but a part of you wanted the challenge.

you wanted to prove that you could take it, and hell, you’d be lying if the thought of her thrusting in and out of you didn’t turn you on. it takes you a moment to decide, your mind shifting between the lewd object, the way her hands tease at your waistband, her sweet voice whispering in your ear until you finally give in.

“okay, we can try it.”

needless to say you were absolutely loving it.

“oh, god, cait, y-you’re so deep.” your moans echo throughout the room, pushing your hips to meet hers.

“i know, angel. can see myself on your stomach.” she traces the bulge on your lower tummy, then applies just a bit of pressure on it with her hand. another loud whine leaves your lips, and she just smirks. “you sound so good, making a mess all over my cock.”

you give her a weak nod, your body not allowing you to do anything else but grip onto the satin sheets. your mind grows dizzy as she hits your g-spot with every thrust. it’s intoxicating, you can’t get enough, but there’s something else you need.

clearly, you’re unsure of what it is, and the unforgiving pace of her thrusts isn’t helping you think either. you don’t know how to tell her, so you settle for her name, well, you try to.

“c-cait, i, need, need more, please.”

“yeah? tell me, baby, let me help you.”

“d-don’t know, can’t think— oh,” your words are cut short with a sharp inhale. her slender fingers wrap around to work steady circles on your clit, making you see stars.

“this what you needed, dear? mommy’s been neglecting this poor clit for too long, hm?” she coos, keeping her voice sweet and alluring. you give her another weak nod, followed by a string of ‘yes, yes, yes.’

her hand finds the curve of your back and pushes it down, but she keeps your hips perched up. the new angle makes her tip hit your g-spot perfectly. you could cum any minute now, but something didn’t feel right. she notices how your muscles start to tense and your grip on the sheets tighten. that was something you never did and it made her panic, in fear she was hurting you or doing it wrong.

her pace slows, no longer slamming into you—just letting the tip slide in and out. she alleviates the pressure on your clit, moving her fingers in slower, lighter circles. “you okay? talk to me, sweetheart.”

“close, mommy. really, really close, but i think i have to pee.”

she lets out an airy chuckle of relief, reaching her hand up to cradle your face. “you’re not gonna pee, just let it out. cum for me, love.”

it only takes a few more strokes before you’re making a mess all over her, soaking the sheets beneath you. a wave of euphoria washes over you, barely registering caitlyn’s sweet words trying to lull you back to earth.

she pulls out of you and removes the harness from her hips, immediately wrapping you in her embrace. “you did so good, darling. took my cock so, so well, just like i knew you would.” she whispers, her lips grazing the top of your ear.

it doesn’t take you long to fall into a deep state of slumber, the last thing being on your mind is cait and her loving voice.

[rafes-slut]

Getting high with rafe and dry humping

Warnings:(Explicit content, Drug use, Mature themes, Physical intimacy)

-------------------------------------------------------

That sounds like a laid-back, intense kind of day. I can definitely help with that. Here's a start, and we can keep building from here:

The afternoon sun streamed lazily through the windows of Rafe’s house, casting a soft glow on the messy living room. The floor was littered with empty pizza boxes, candy wrappers, and the remnants of whatever late-night snack you two had shared the night before. Rafe was stretched out on the carpet, his body sprawled in a way that made him look comfortable but still restless, his eyes half-closed as he lounged in a loose shirt and faded jeans.

You had been here most of the day, doing nothing but soaking in the rare moment of calm with him. The house felt still—unusually quiet for a place usually buzzing with energy and chaos. Rafe wasn’t the kind of guy to just sit still for too long, but today he seemed content to lie there with you, letting the hours slip away like the smoke swirling lazily from the joint between his fingers.

You lay beside him, your body half on the carpet, half on the couch. You both barely spoke. There was no need to—just the occasional exchange of glances, a soft smile shared over the haze of smoke filling the air.

"Feels good," he murmured, his voice low and slow as he passed the joint to you. His eyes flicked toward you, his lips curling in that mischievous smirk that always made your heart skip a beat. You took it, inhaling deeply, your body feeling lighter with every pull. Rafe had always known how to make you relax, how to make you forget everything but the heat of his touch and the quiet hum of your shared silence.

As the day dragged on, the air seemed to thicken with the mix of lazy comfort and something else—a tension building slowly, almost imperceptibly. The high settled in deeper, making everything feel hazy and disconnected from time. You shifted on the floor, inching closer to him. His hand found your waist, pulling you in just a little, the soft contact making you feel warm all over. His fingers traced the curve of your body, like he was memorizing the feel of you under his touch.

The clock on the wall ticked away unnoticed as the day gave way to evening. The sky outside darkened to a rich, deep purple, the light of the setting sun fading as the house grew quieter. Rafe’s hand slipped to your thigh, squeezing it lightly before sliding up, making your breath hitch as he brushed against the edge of your skin. You shifted again, this time rolling over so you were on top of him, straddling his hips. Your face hovered close to his, the faint scent of weed and his cologne mixing in the air between you.

He chuckled softly, his lips grazing yours. "You’re not trying to be good today, are you?" he teased, his voice a little rougher now, more deliberate. You could feel the way his muscles tensed beneath you, his chest rising and falling with each breath he took.

You kissed him in response, slow and soft at first, just letting your lips linger as the pressure between you two slowly built. His hands moved to your back, pulling you closer as your body pressed against his. The heat between you two intensified, the slow grinding of your hips against his becoming more urgent as you both gave in to the growing need for touch.

You shifted against him, rolling your hips with the same slow rhythm, letting your bodies move together in a way that felt completely natural, completely right. His hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you, urging you to keep moving. The tension was palpable, each press of your bodies against each other sending waves of electricity coursing through your veins.

Rafe groaned softly, the sound low and needy. His eyes darkened, watching you with a hunger that matched the one building inside you. “Fuck, you feel good,” he muttered, his breath shallow as he dug his fingers into the fabric of your clothes, holding you in place.

You couldn’t help but moan, feeling the friction between you two building, making the world seem smaller, more focused on the moment you were sharing. Time seemed to stand still as you both let go of the edges of control, just existing in this slow, heated space. The floor beneath you felt hard and cold, but nothing else mattered—only the way Rafe’s lips tasted against yours, the way his hands moved over your skin, the way your bodies fit together perfectly.

[moonlightdreamzz]

BANG CHAN

🎧 ➤ waves by normani

SUMMARY ✰ You and Bang Chan can’t let each other go, no matter how hard you try—love, hate, and jealousy pulling you back every time. But when he sees you at an afterparty soaking up someone else’s attention, he can’t help but remind you who you really belong to.

GENRE ✰ (A)(S). ComplicatedEx!BangChan, Idol!Reader

“Chan, are you even listening?” Felix’s voice breaks through the quiet hum of the car, an edge of frustration in it.

Chan blinks, slowly coming back to reality. His gaze drifts over to his members—Felix, Seungmin, Hyunjin—all watching him with concerned, yet exasperated expressions. He can feel the weight of their eyes on him, but his mind is elsewhere. He doesn’t want to think about you. Not now. Not when everything inside of him is already tangled up.

“I hear you,” he mutters, but his voice feels distant, even to him.

“You hear us, but you’re not listening,” Seungmin presses, his tone gentle but firm. “Every time you see her, you lose it. You think you can walk in there and be fine, but it’s always the same thing. You end up making it worse.”

Chan sighs, leaning back against the seat, rubbing his temples. He knows they’re right. He knows how it always ends—confusion, regret, the same broken cycle. But no matter how hard he tries to escape it, he can’t.

“Yeah, Chan. What are you gonna do if you see her with another guy tonight? Hm?” Hyunjin’s voice is quiet, but it’s the question that hits him the hardest. He feels his chest tighten. The idea of you laughing, talking to someone who isn’t him, sends a wave of something—jealousy? Longing?—that he can’t quite name.

“Chan, please don’t do this to yourself,” Felix adds, the concern in his voice clear. “We’ve seen this before. You can’t keep going around in circles like this.”

But it’s already too late. Chan knows the feeling too well—the pull, the ache of wanting you when he shouldn’t, of seeing you with someone else and realizing all over again that he can’t let go.

“I won’t do anything,” Chan says, though even he doesn’t believe the words. They sound hollow. Empty.

Felix doesn’t respond. Seungmin just shakes his head, looking out the window.

They’ve said all they can say. But he knows they’re right. He can feel it in his bones, that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach.

He opens the door, stepping out into the night air, the cold biting at his skin. His heart races, and for the first time tonight, he’s not sure if he’s ready to face what’s coming. But he’s already in too deep, and he’s never been good at turning back.

He remembers how it all started, the first time he saw you backstage. The laughter, the way you seemed so effortlessly in control of your world, yet with eyes that hid a quiet sadness. He never could resist that mix of strength and vulnerability. That’s what drew him in and made him want to know you more. At first, it was easy. You were his best friend, his confidant. You made him laugh, made him forget about all the chaos around him. You had this way of taking the edge off, making the world feel a little lighter.

But as the months passed, he started to notice the cracks. They were small at first—an offhand comment here, a moment of silence there—but they grew, and eventually, they consumed everything. The late-night calls turned into long silences. The plans to see each other? They became last-minute, pushed aside for work or another obligation. Chan wasn’t blind to it. He could feel the space between him and you stretching, growing wider. And despite his efforts to keep it all together, the love you once had, the connection, started to wither.

He runs a hand through his hair as the memory hits him of the night it all fell apart. The fight you had. Words said that couldn’t be taken back. Feelings hurt that couldn’t be healed with a kiss. It wasn’t just the distance or the work—it was the way you hurt each other. He wasn’t there when you needed him, and you... you didn’t know how to let him in anymore.

Then there was the cheating. A mistake. A huge mistake that both of you made. But even after all that, neither of you could walk away. The pull, the connection, the history—it was too strong. And so you stayed in the mess of it all, the on-again, off-again dynamic that felt like it was slowly suffocating both of you. Neither of you could let go, but neither could you figure out how to make it work.

Now, you've settled into something that almost feels safe: late-night booty calls. It’s the one thing neither of them can resist. No strings attached, just the raw, heated tension they both try to ignore during the day. No conversations about what went wrong, no expectations about what happens next. It’s simple, at least for now. You call when the loneliness gets too much, when the memory of each other feels too strong to ignore. And he answers—because how could he not? The pull is always there. It’s messy, but it’s easier this way. It’s safer. No risk of heartbreak, no need to face the reality that they’re both still hurting. They can just be there for each other in the dark, in the silence, and it’s enough for now.

But right now, that doesn't matter, because you're off again.

Chan stopped keeping track of the fights a long time ago. Maybe it was because he was so exhausted with his rollercoaster of emotions, that he couldn't keep up if he tried. Or maybe it's because he knows that the reason doesn't matter—you both always find your way back to each other anyways.

The party’s electric, buzzing with laughter, flashing lights, and music so loud it vibrates in his chest. But to Chan, it all feels surreal, like a scene from a movie that he’s forced to watch, not be part of. The air is thick with the heat of bodies moving, the scent of alcohol, and the hum of a good time. But none of it feels right—because you’re not by his side.

He scans the room, fingers tightening around his drink as his eyes flicker across the crowd. His thoughts drift back to the nights when you two would sneak away from everyone else, just the two of you in your little bubble of secret smiles and stolen glances. Those nights felt different. They felt real. You were never loud about it, never making a show. It was in the quiet moments. A light brush of your fingertips against his arm as you walked past him, barely noticeable to anyone but him. Or when he’d press himself against you in the crowd, just to feel the heat of your body, the closeness that made him ache in ways he couldn't describe. The brush of your lips when you’d lean close to whisper something in his ear, and how every touch, every glance, sent a rush of excitement through him.

No one knew. Only your members, the ones who had seen the way you’d sneak off together when you thought no one was looking. That secrecy made it thrilling. It wasn’t just being with you—it was being with you in the dark, where nobody could judge, where no one could tear you apart. It was the unspoken understanding between the two of you, the way your body language said everything when words failed.

It was alive, in a way that nothing tonight felt.

“Starting your bullshit already?” Changbin sneers teasingly, his voice cutting through the pounding bass of the music.

“Shut up,” Chan mutters, his eyes snapping out of their search for you only momentarily to glare at his member.

Changbin’s laugh echoes loudly, even over the music. He lifts his hand high and slaps it onto Chan’s shoulder, shaking him aggressively—as if trying to snap him back into reality. “C’mon, hyung. I got a girl for each and every one of us. Y/N, as much as I adore her, is old news. Stop searching the room like some lovesick puppy. Take some shots, have a good time, and meet…” He pauses dramatically, swinging his free hand behind him like he’s presenting the grand prize.

Winter steps out from the shadows, radiant and self-assured, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.

“This,” Changbin declares, his grin wide, “is Winter.”

Winter’s eyes meet Chan’s, and she doesn’t look away. She’s bold, the kind of girl who doesn’t need to play coy. The other Aespa members hover close by, quiet and polite, but their presence only amplifies Winter’s confidence.

Chan doesn’t miss the silent exchange of looks between his single bandmates. They’re already thanking Changbin in their heads, no doubt.

He feels Winter’s gaze burning into him, waiting for a reaction. Maybe this is what he needs—someone new. Someone who doesn’t come with history, heartbreak, or late-night regrets.

“I—uh,” he starts, but Winter doesn’t let him finish.

“Do you dance?” she asks, her voice smooth and enticing.

“Not really,” he replies, shifting on his feet.

“Perfect,” she quips, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the crowd before he can protest.

The music feels louder here, the bass vibrating through the floor and up his legs. Winter’s hand is warm in his, her movements confident and fluid as she guides him into the rhythm. She doesn’t push too hard, just enough to make it easy to follow her lead.

Chan tries. He really tries. But then he sees you.

You’re on the other side of the room, dancing with Nicholas from &TEAM. You’re smiling, your face lit up with the kind of joy that makes his chest ache.

The world tilts.

For a moment, it’s just you and Nicholas, the way he spins you effortlessly, your laughter ringing out even over the music. And suddenly, nothing else matters.

Chan’s grip on Winter loosens. The memory of his last conversation with you slams into him, unrelenting. “I don’t know what I want,” he’d told you, the words slipping out in the heat of frustration. He’d left you standing there, hurt and confused.

And now here you are, moving on. Or at least pretending to.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” Winter says, her voice cutting through the noise as she leans in closer.

“I don’t,” he mutters, barely paying attention.

Winter studies him, her eyes narrowing slightly. She’s no fool—she can see where his focus lies.

Across the room, Nicholas pulls you closer, his hand resting on your lower back, and it’s all Chan can take. Without thinking, he moves.

Winter calls after him, but he doesn’t look back. He’s pushing through the crowd, his steps quick and determined, until he’s standing in front of you and Nicholas.

You blink up at him, surprised, your smile faltering just slightly.

“Can we talk?” Chan says, his voice low, almost lost in the noise of the party.

Nicholas raises an eyebrow but doesn’t speak.

“Please,” Chan adds, the word slipping out before he can stop it.

The moment the bathroom door shuts, you turn to face him, arms crossed and a smirk already tugging at your lips. “Oh, this should be good,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Go ahead, Chan. Explain why you just had to drag me away from having a perfectly good time.”

His jaw tightens as he leans against the sink, staring at you like you’re the problem. “I couldn’t just stand there,” he says, his tone sharp.

“Why not?” you shoot back, stepping closer. “You’re the one who left, remember? You said you didn’t know what you wanted, so why does it matter what I’m doing now?”

He runs a hand through his hair, the frustration pouring off him in waves. “Because I see you with him, and it makes me—” He stops, biting down on the words like they might burn him.

“Say it,” you challenge, tilting your head. “What, Chan? It makes you jealous? Possessive? You can’t have it both ways. You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me either. Do you hear how insane that sounds?”

“Like you’re any better,” he snaps, stepping into your space now. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing out there. Dancing with him, laughing like you’re so happy. You knew I’d see it.”

“Of course, I knew,” you reply, unfazed. “Why do you think I did it? You think you can just leave me and expect me to sit around waiting for you to figure out your shit? Please.”

His lips twitch, caught somewhere between anger and something darker. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re predictable,” you counter, crossing your arms tighter. “Every time I start to move on, here you come, pulling me back in like clockwork.”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You think I want to feel like this? Like I’m losing my mind every time I see you with someone else? I hate it, Y/N. I hate that I can’t let you go, but I don’t know how.”

You scoff, but your voice softens, the cracks in your armor showing. “You think I don’t get it? I do. I feel the same way, Chan. Every time you’re with someone else, it’s like—” You break off, shaking your head with a bitter laugh. “It doesn’t even matter. None of it matters because, at the end of the day, we’re always right back here, aren’t we?”

His gaze locks onto yours, the anger melting into something softer, more desperate. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “We are.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence thick with unspoken truths. Then you break it, your voice dripping with venom even as your eyes betray your longing.

“You’re a mess,” you say, shaking your head.

“And you’re any better?” he retorts, his lips curving into a dark smile.

The tension crackles like a live wire between you, the bathroom suddenly feeling too small, too suffocating. You take a step back, your resolve wavering.

“I hate you,” you say, but the words lack conviction.

“I hate you too,” he replies, but his voice cracks just enough to betray him.

“I hate you,” you say, a smirk curling at the edge of your lips. Your voice is sharp, dripping with venom, but your eyes tell a different story—challenging, taunting.

“I hate you too,” Chan snaps back, his steps deliberate as he closes the space between you.

“Good,” you purr, leaning into the tension like you’re daring him to keep going.

“Great,” he growls, his smirk matching yours.

“You’re so predictable,” you say, tilting your head as if you’re bored. Your gaze dips to his clenched fists before rising to meet his eyes again. “Always running back when you see someone else enjoying me.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t stop moving forward. “And you love it, don’t you? The attention. The games.”

You shrug, pretending to think. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like watching you lose your mind.”

“Careful,” he warns, his voice low and dangerous.

“Careful?” You laugh, the sound light and airy, cutting through the heavy tension like a blade. “You think I’m scared of you, Chan?”

“You should be.”

“Please,” you scoff, taking a step toward him instead of away. Now it’s his turn to stop in his tracks, his confidence flickering under your steady gaze. “I’ve seen you at your worst. You think this is supposed to intimidate me?”

His eyes narrow, the air thickening, heavy with the unspoken truth between you. Without a moment’s hesitation, he steps into your space, his hands moving to grip your wrists as he pins you against the wall. His lips crash against yours, urgency and hunger taking over, a kiss that speaks volumes of the years of unspoken desire and tension building between you.

The kiss is raw, hungry—teeth clashing, lips bruising, each touch igniting the sparks between you. But it’s his hands that drive you wild, pulling at your clothes, fingers working to expose more of you, to claim what he’s always wanted.

You fight him for control, sliding your hands up his chest, your fingers curling into his shirt. But he’s too strong, his touch too demanding, the power dynamic shifting as he forces you back into the wall, his body pressed against yours with a possessiveness you can’t ignore.

“Is this what you wanted?” he mutters against your skin, his voice thick, his breath hot.

You can barely answer before his lips are on your neck, sucking and biting as his hands roam, caressing every inch of exposed skin. You gasp, biting back a moan as your hands travel lower, desperate to feel him, to pull him closer.

“I think I want more,” you whisper, your voice trembling with desire.

Before anything else can happen, Chan pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. His chest rises and falls with quick breaths, his grip on you firm, almost possessive.

“We should get out of here,” he mutters, his voice rough, the weight of what’s about to happen settling between you.

You nod wordlessly, a silent agreement passing between you. The game is over. The act of pretending, of keeping this thing between you casual, is over.

With one last heated kiss, Chan pulls away, quickly adjusting his clothes and reaching for the door. You follow his lead, stepping out of the bathroom with him, hand in hand, both of you silently agreeing that the rest of the night belongs to you.

Meanwhile, back at the bar, the rest of Stray Kids are watching, their eyes trained on the bathroom door. Hyunjin leans over to Felix with a sly grin, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"It's like taking candy from a baby." Hyunjin chuckles. He takes each individual bill from Felix"s defeated hand, blessing each one with a "thank you".

Unbeknownst to Chan, Felix and Hyunjin placed a bet while he was vigorously showering and coating himself with cologne, all "just because". Hyunjin had no faith in Chan being able to control himself, but Felix was carrying a generous heart today.

"I don't know why I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Shit is embarrassing." Felix scoffs--annoyed and amused all in one.

Seungmin appears behind the two of them, placing his arms over both of their shoulders. "The real bet isn't whether Chan was going to lose his shit--it's how long they're going to stay together this time."

Immediately, the bets start flying out of their mouths. Two weeks! A month! 48 hours!

Meanwhile, you and Chan didn't make it to either one of your dorms. The second the door shut in the car, he threw you into the back seat. He knew you well enough to know you didn't have on panties. He can't help himself right now. His face is buried deep into your p__sy, he's missed you so much. His face is covered in you, and the only words he can mutter as you grind onto his tounge is "I love you so much" "You taste so good, baby" 'Use me like the slut I am"

[eyelessfaces]

coming home

miguel o'hara x reader

summary: miguel comes back home from a long day and wakes you up by sticking his dick inside of you<3

warnings: smut, porn without plot literally, unprotected piv sex, creampie, consensual somnophilia (prior consent established), sleepy sex

tags: f!reader, fluff

word count: 2k

masterlist | taglist | ao3

The idea had come to his mind way long before he created the portal that would bring him back home.

In fact, the thought had stuck and hadn’t left his mind since the day that you talked about it, but tonight just happened to seem like the right moment.

He desperately, so desperately needed to blow off some steam, to think about something else than the fact that the future of every universe was relying on him.

He slowly pushed your shared bedroom door open, trying his best not to make a sound so you wouldn’t wake up from your deep sleep.

He quietly joined the bed, tiptoeing around, carefully avoiding the squeaky area of the floorboards before his suit disappeared from his body, leaving him bare.

You were laying on your side, the thin sheet brought up to your shoulders, the slight chill of the night forming goosebumps over your exposed skin.

Miguel slides under the sheets, the mattress dipping under his weight, and presses his body flush against yours, his chest facing your back.

He is so warm compared to you, his hand sliding under your shirt and resting over your bare stomach, rubbing his thumb over your cold skin as he nuzzles the back of your head, leaving kisses at the juncture between your neck and shoulder.

Your scent soothes him, he finally feels like he's home, the tension weighing on him finally feels a bit lighter.

Slowly, his hand slides up under your shirt to cup your breast, his thumb tracing back and forth over your hard nipple perked from the cold, eliciting a soft sigh from you and making you stir in your sleep.

Your reaction makes him chuckle softly, still careful not to wake you up. He keeps on toying with you, caressing over your nub as he kisses under your ear, his broad hand then trailing down your stomach, burying into your underwear to cup your mound.

His breath catches in his throat when he realizes how ready you already are for him; his fingertips barely graze against your slit and feel the wetness pooling there, the thin material of your underwear all soaked.

He can feel his erection twitch against the back of your leg when he realizes how aroused you already are, a surprise for him that thought that he would have to tease you and work you up a bit to get you wet and ready to take him.

It's a blessing that you're making it easier for him, it comforts him in the fact that he's allowed to do this; even though you have thoroughly talked about this before and established prior consent and rules, Miguel always feared that you might not be in the mood when the moment comes or that he could scare you; hurting you was the very last thing he wanted, and he knew he would feel extremely guilty if all of this ended up going wrong.

It is with affirmed confidence that he slides your ruined underwear down your ass, a part of him wanting to make his claw go through it so he could tear it off to get it out of the way for good.

He makes sure the piece of cloth reaches your knees before he presses himself closer to you, the contact against the bare cheek of your ass already driving him crazy.

He takes his shaft in hand, pumping it slowly, smearing the trail of precum drooling from the head along the length before directing the tip towards your entrance. He doesn’t even want to tease you, to try to get a reaction out of you before he goes in; he needs to be inside of you, he needs to fuck the stress out of him, he needs to feel you constricted around him.

Miguel slowly, so slowly and carefully pushes into your heat, inch by inch. His forehead presses against your shoulder as he gradually eases himself inside you, the delicious first contact against your velvety walls making him bite hard on his bottom lip, accompanied by a muffled grunt escaping from his gritted teeth when a small whimper leaves your mouth, your hand clutching the bedsheet in your sleep.

It is always a stretch when you take him, the size of him always requiring him to go slow for you to take him fully.

He has to press his mouth against your skin to prevent any sound from coming out of his mouth as he pushes deeper into you, progressively easing himself in, stretching you out little by little.

You sleepily hum at the sweet feeling of the gradual intrusion, softly squirming in place, a wrecked moan leaving Miguel's mouth when you shift in your sleep and unexpectedly impale yourself further onto his length, his cock now filling you to the hilt.

He wraps an arm around your waist as he whispers profanities under his breath, his face burying into your neck, breathing you in as he starts to grind into you, small thrusts to make sure you're accommodating to his size.

He's holding you tight, his arm firmly wrapped around your sleeping figure, his mouth falling agape at the feeling of your cunt swallowing him whole; it's all he needed right now, to be home with you, to hold you tight and to be buried deep inside of you.

His thrusts are slow, languid and gentle at first, letting you get used to the stretch, until he starts to grow needier, hungrier, the way your cunt flutters around him only spurring him to grow bolder.

His grip around your waist loosens up, his hand shifting to rest against your hip when he pulls almost all the way out, only leaving the tip inside before pushing into you until his hips are flush against your ass, the soft stroke against your walls making him mutter curses in his mother language.

He repeats his movements over and over again, going a bit faster each time, bucking into you at a steady rhythm and your body reacts at once; you writhe in your sleep, soft sounds and small moans leaving your mouth as Miguel whispers words of praise into your ear though they're most likely unheard and therefore useless; he can't help himself, not when you're taking him so well, not when you feel the way you feel around him.

His hand grabs at the inside of your thigh to hold it up, offering him a new angle allowing him to go deeper, the snapping sounds of skin on skin resonating inside the dark bedroom as he gradually pounds deeper and faster into you.

Your small and drowsy sounds slowly start to grow more affirmed and more present; Miguel is far too gone to register that fact, his face buried in the crook of your neck, and he doesn't notice your breath faltering, growing faster and sharper, until–

"Fuck, Miguel" your voice is gravely with sleep, a bit rough, his hips involuntarily snapping sharply against your rear when he realizes that you're awake, the sudden movement eliciting a choked sound from you.

A raspy groan resonates against your shoulder, his warm breath and the hot feeling of his chest pressed flush against your back greatly contrasting with the freezing temperature that was hanging in the atmosphere when you went to bed.

His hand leaves your thigh to cup your jaw, angling your face towards him so he can capture your lips in a kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, making him hum in contentment at the familiar taste and feeling of your tongue against his while your hand buries and fists into his hair.

"Feels okay?" he asks as he pulls away from your mouth, his thumb stroking your cheek, his red eyes boring into yours as his hips continue snapping up into you, sharp thrusts that knock the air out of your lungs.

"Better than okay" you reassure him, another choked moan leaving your mouth and making you tug hard on his hair when he unexpectedly hits just the right spot deep inside of you. "F-Fuck" you hiss through your teeth, your hand shifting from his hair to grasp his wrist as his hand rests over your neck, not applying any pressure there. "Right there" you mutter out of breath, your grip tightening around his wrist.

"I know baby, I know" he kisses your cheek, biting down on his lip as he watches how you squirm under him. "Look at you" he whispers into your ear, his voice dropping to an octave. "Thought about this all day long" he sighs as he rams into your sweet spot repeatedly while you whimper his name over and over again, your face burying into the pillow, his burying into your neck again.

His rhythm doesn't falter, doesn't slow down as his movements repeat themselves; you wonder how he still has all that energy left when you know the kind of days he’s used to – not one minute to settle down, not one second to breathe even – but you're way too far gone to really think about it in depth; not when it feels that good.

"Miguel– I'm close" the words struggle to come out of your mouth because by the time you say them out loud you're almost already there – you can feel the searing feeling starting to build inside your lower stomach, all of your nerves endings setting on fire, and finally you snap; it comes in waves and it washes out over you, the blinding feeling taking over your whole body; you can hear Miguel talking but you can’t figure out what he’s saying, you can only feel the floaty feeling being prolonged as he continues to grind into you with the same pace.

Miguel grunts loudly, relishing in the feeling of your walls clenching and contracting around him, your orgasm squeezing him tight and drawing a choked sound out of him.

His hips stutter and press as deep inside of you as possible as he throbs and spills himself into you, rope after rope of his warm spent filling you to the brim, a mess of spanish profanities whimpered into the shell of your ear.

He remains inside of you until you both come back to your senses, nuzzling the crook of your neck as he catches his breath, the back of his hand wiping away the thin layer of sweat having built over his forehead. He lets out a soft sigh as he slowly eases his softening cock out of you, his hand guiding your face towards his again so he could slot his lips against yours in a gentle kiss.

"Rough day?" you ask once you pull away, only the faint light of the streetlamp outside your window allowing you to see the side of his face hovering over you, conveniently hiding the small cut over his cheek at the opposite side. You know his heightened senses allow him to see you as clear as daylight, and you know that unlike you, he can see every littlest expression over your face.

"Yeah. Rough day. I'm glad I'm home" he declares with a coy smile, the tip of his fingers pushing the hair out of your face.

You smile back at him before pulling him down into a kiss again, and you smile against his lips when he softly hums into your mouth.

"Was that okay?" he asks, still remaining close to your face, his nose brushing against yours.

"What? Waking up with you inside of me? Does it look like I didn't enjoy it?" you ask rhetorically, which earns a small chuckle from him.

He lays back down onto the mattress with a small grunt, humming in contentment when you turn to him so you can wrap your arms around his waist and lay your head against his chest as he wraps his arm around your shoulders.

"Maybe I'll be the one to wake you up next time" you teasingly coo looking up at him, biting back a smile when you see the way his eyebrows rise.

"I better fall asleep soon then" he grins, his expression softening but getting cockier.

"Mhm," you hum in agreement, feeling your eyes getting heavy with sleep.

—

please give me feedback if you liked this, I appreciate every single comment and they motivate me to keep going!!

masterlist | taglist | ao3

spiderman 2099 taglist: @bubuslutty @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @mintgreen24 @dameronshandholder @spider-starry @jakecockley @midnight-the-shadow-wolf @cocodiem @pedropascalsidechick @spxctorsslxt @roxannarichie @vicolangelo @amb3rrz @inluvvwithme @friedwings @chaotic-neon-sign @foxglove-grove @ilovemiguelohara @pandq707 @gobblegluckgluckgod @weasleybuns @I-like-eating-leaves @doudou00125 @luxisluxurious @himesuedi

[the-queen-of-hell-666]

One Good Thing

Kinktober 2024 - Day 26

Pairing: Older!Daryl Dixon (Alexandria Era) x 20s!Sunshine!Fem!Reader

Kink: Age Difference

Word Count: 1100+

Summary: In Daryl's opinion, you are the one good thing in Alexandria.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (unprotected vaginal sex, vaginal sex, creampie, rough sex, missionary position, light spanking, age difference kink, slight d/s dynamics), soft!Daryl, a little more plot than porn, fluff, mentions of Walkers, pre-saviors arc

a/n: So I know it's late but I do want to finish it! I will do my best to post the rest! Hope you all enjoy it!

Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Daryl was convinced that the only good thing about Alexandria was you. You were perky, smiley, and so cute, you invaded his thoughts since the moment his eyes landed on you. You were guarding the gate with a crossbow just like his but yours was wrapped in black glitter duct tape. Your arrows were handmade and wrapped in pink glitter duct tape. You and him were polar opposites but the same in some ways. 

When he had arrived, he spent most of his time on the front porch of the house Deanna had given to the group. You gave him a friendly smile and introduced yourself, you were met with grunts but it didn’t affect you. You just kept smiling and offered him a basket of dried fruits, jerkies, bottles of water, and trail mixes. “Cause I know you’re a hunter, and you need sustenance.” You had said, handing him the wicker basket before walking off. 

Since then, he couldn’t get you off his mind. Wherever he went, he saw you. You liked to spend your days up in the crows nest with your crossbow, watching over the barrier, protecting your home. He was walking down the street and saw you in the nest and he decided to join. He already had his bow and he climbed up the latter and sat next to you. 

You didn’t look over at him, just offered him the binoculars. “It’s quiet tonight.” You hummed as you sipped your water. 

He looked through them and observed the dark street, “Mhm.” He grunted and set the binoculars down between you two. 

You pulled a crushed pack of cigarettes from your flannel pocket and you opened it. You pulled one out with your teeth and offered one to Daryl, “Hm?”

He nodded and grabbed the one from your lips and you looked at him with a surprised look. He put in between his lips and grabbed his lighter, “Ya don’ need to be smokin’ these things.” He huffed as he lit the cigarette puffing on it.

You immediately grabbed the cigarette back, “Hey, I found these on a run, you hypocrite.” You huffed and took a drag of the cigarette. 

He chuckled and plucked it back, “These things will kill ya.” He grunted and took his own drag. 

“Rather these things than a roamer.” You chuckled and stole the cigarette back from him. 

He snorted and you two passed the cigarette back and forth till the filter was left. You put out the cigarette and you sighed and looked at your watch. “It’s almost shift change.” 

He nodded and grabbed one of the extra water bottles and opened it, “Let me walk you back to your place.” He offered and you gave him a small smile, grateful for the dark that covered the blush on your face.

“That’d be nice.” You smiled and a few minutes later, Aaron came over and relieved you of your watch. Daryl helped you down from the tower and he placed a hand on your lower back. He walked you down the dark street and you liked the comfortable silence as he walked you to your place. You lived in the basement of one of the apartments and you walked down the stairs and Daryl followed. 

You unlocked the door and pushed it open before turning to him. “Do you want to come in?” You offered as you rested your hip against the door frame.

That’s how you found yourself under Daryl as he slipped his cock into your soaked cunt. He had you stripped bare and you had yanked his clothes off as well, wanting to see him fully. His large callused hands gripped your hips as he bottomed out in you. You cried softly as you dug your nails into his shoulders making him groan at the pain mixed with the pleasure of your walls convulsing around him. His strong hands pinned your hips to the mattress and he started pounding in and out of your cunt, and he slid his hands up to your breasts and squeezed and palmed at your mounds. You yanked him down to kiss your lips passionately, your hands cupped his face gently as your lips devoured his. 

You pulled away, resting your forehead against his. “Mm, wanted this since you got here. Tall, dark, and brooding. A girl’s dream.” You panted out as your thighs squeezed his sides. 

He let out a gruff chuckle, “You like older men, huh?” He smirked down at you as he pulled gently on your peaked nipples. You moaned and nodded as you arched into his warm touch, your hands moving to his shoulders, pulling him closer to you. “Bad girl.” He grunted and yanked you closer to him, 

He pounded in and out of you fast and hard as his strong hands moved down to your ass, squeezing and giving you a light spank. You moaned at the spank, loving the pain and pleasure he was giving you. A smirk broke out across his face and he gave you another spank. Your nails dug into his shoulder, leaving marks on his tan skin. You bit your lip, “F-fuck, Dar. M’so close.” You moaned and pulled him down and kissed him deeply as you felt your orgasm grow closer. 

“C’mon, darlin’. Let me feel ya.” He grunted as he grasped your thighs and pulled them up around his hips. His fingers dug into the plush of your thighs as his thrusts grew faster and sloppier. You cried out his name as you came around his cock, your walls pulsing around his hard cock. Your thighs quivered around his waist as he helped you through your orgasm. 

He grunted loudly as he reached his own peak and thrusted deep into your cunt and painted your walls with his hot cum. You moaned as you felt him fill your cunt with his cum, and he huffed and slumped against you, nuzzling his face against your breasts. Your thighs fell from their place around his waist and you nuzzled your nose into his hair. He lifted his head and looked you in the eyes, his blue eyes full of love. “That, um, was unexpected.” You hummed as you ran your fingers through his hair, his brows furrowed with concern. You smiled and let out a soft chuckle, “But it was amazing, a very welcomed encounter.” 

He let out a small chuckle and kissed your lips passionately, “M’glad.” He whispered and he went to pull away but you stopped him with a hand in his hair. 

“Don’t go. Want you to stay with me.” You whispered softly and kissed his lips softly. He gave you a soft grin and gently rolled you two over with you laying on his chest and his cock slipped out of you, making you let out a soft moan. You looked up at him with love in your eyes and wanted nothing more than to stay with him forever.

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Here For You (Matt Murdock)

Summary: Matt needs you

WC: 727

Warnings: angst,a an argument

Read on Ao3!

--

The rain poured relentlessly against the windows of Nelson & Murdock, casting a gloomy shadow over the office. You sat at your desk, the glow of the computer screen illuminating your furrowed brow. You had come to the office early, hoping to catch Matt before he slipped into that brooding state he often fell into after a long night of fighting crime.

But the silence stretched on, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of raindrops. It was unusual for Matt to be late, especially when you had plans for dinner. The gnawing worry in your stomach grew as you glanced at the clock.

Just then, the door swung open, and Matt stepped inside, his soaked jacket clinging to him. His dark hair was slicked back, and his face bore the marks of exhaustion. But it was the look in his eyes that struck you—an unreadable mix of determination and despair.

“Hey,” you said softly, rising to meet him. “I was starting to worry.”

He offered a weak smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sorry. Things got... complicated.”

You could sense it—something heavy weighed on him, and you instinctively stepped closer, wanting to bridge the gap. “Matt, what’s going on? You can tell me.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly. “It’s just... the cases, the people I can’t save. It feels like I’m fighting a losing battle sometimes.”

You reached for him, but he stepped back, shaking his head. “I don’t want to drag you into this.”

Your heart sank. “Drag me into what? I’m already in it, Matt. I care about you. We’re a team.”

He looked away, staring out the window, the city shrouded in rain. “You deserve someone who can be there for you, who isn’t constantly fighting his own demons.”

“Is that what you think?” you asked, hurt lacing your voice. “That I can’t handle it? I thought we were meant to be together, Matt. That we could face this together.”

He turned to you, pain etched across his features. “You don’t understand. Every time I put on the mask, I put you at risk. I can’t let that happen.”

“Is that what this is about? Protecting me?” Your frustration bubbled over. “I’m not some fragile thing that needs saving. I want to be there for you, just like you’re there for me. But you keep shutting me out.”

“Because I care about you!” he snapped, his voice rising. “I care too much to let you get hurt because of me.”

You took a deep breath, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. “But shutting me out doesn’t protect me, Matt. It pushes me away. It makes me feel like I’m fighting this alone.”

He stepped closer, his expression softening, but the conflict was still there. “I just don’t want you to see the worst parts of me.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I want all of you, Matt. The good and the bad. I want to fight alongside you, not from the sidelines.”

His eyes searched yours, filled with a depth of emotion that made your heart race. “What if I can’t be what you need?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then we figure it out together,” you replied, your voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere. I believe in us.”

A heavy silence settled between you, the air thick with unspoken words. Finally, he took a step closer, his hand gently brushing against yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then don’t push me away,” you urged, your heart pounding as you locked eyes with him. “Let me in, Matt. Please.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. When he opened them, the storm inside him seemed to calm just a little. “Okay,” he said softly, reaching for your hand. “I’ll try. I don’t want to fight this alone either.”

You smiled through the tears, relief washing over you as he stepped closer, pulling you into an embrace. In that moment, the weight of the world felt a little lighter. Together, you could face whatever Gotham threw your way.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you knew that love was a battle worth fighting for—one you wouldn’t have to face alone.

[capquinn]

bug just trying to make quinn feel better when he’s injured and she plays nurse, and quinn is js soaking in her attention and cuddles as much as he can

Bug playing nurse for injured Quinn would be the sweetest thing.

He’d be sprawled out on the couch, his left hand taped up neatly, the kind of injury that wasn’t serious enough to warrant panic but still enough to sideline him for a while. It wasn’t the pain that got to him — it was the discomfort, the awkwardness of not being able to use it properly, and, of course, the frustration of not being able to play. He’s clearly sulking a bit — not in a dramatic way, but enough that his frown deepens every time he tries to adjust or do something simple like pick up his glass of water. And then Bug toddles over, her little doctor's kit she had been gifted for her birthday clutched tightly in her hands, her face a perfect mix of determination and concern.

“Daddy, you need a check-up,” she announces, her voice brimming with authority, and Quinn’s sulk immediately softens into something lighter, something warm.

He shifts to give her room, biting back a smile as she climbs onto the couch with all the seriousness of someone about to perform life-saving surgery. She pulls out the wooden stethoscope first, letting it dangle around her neck like a real doctor, and Quinn plays along, tilting his head down toward her.

“Where does it hurt, daddy?” she asks, her little brow furrowed.

He wiggles his fingers slightly, nodding toward the injured hand. “Right here, Doctor Bug.”

Bug doesn’t even blink. The stethoscope goes directly to his forehead — because clearly, that’s where all vital information comes from ("your brain is okay"), — then to his chest.

“Your heart’s beeping,” she says with an approving nod. “That’s good.”

“Very good,” Quinn agrees solemnly, barely suppressing a grin.

Next comes the Band-Aid. It doesn’t matter that his hand is under an ice pack; she decides it needs to go on his knee instead, smoothing it down with careful precision.

“There,” she says proudly, as if the adhesive alone has magical healing properties.

But Bug isn’t done yet. She fluffs the pillows behind him, tugs her favourite blanket from her room to drape over his shoulders, and pats his cheek with her tiny hand. “You need cuddles now. That helps.”

“Doctor’s orders?” Quinn teases.

“Mm-hmm,” she says with a nod that’s far too serious for her little frame. She climbs up beside him, wedging herself into his side like she belongs there (which, let's be honest, she does), and throws an arm over his chest. “No moving. That’s bad for healing.”

Quinn lets out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbles deep in his chest, and kisses the top of her head.

“You’re the best doctor I’ve ever had,” he murmurs, soaking in the way her little fingers fiddle absentmindedly with the edge of the blanket.

She starts chattering about what he needs next — soup, maybe, even though she hates soup, and more Band-Aids, and maybe a teddy bear to make him feel brave. But by the time she’s halfway through listing her treatment plan, she’s already half-asleep, her head resting against his shoulder, her little hand still clutching the edge of the blanket.

And Quinn? He just sits there, his arm snug around her, his hand forgotten in the warmth of the moment. Because, sure, the ice pack is slipping and the Band-Aid is peeling off, but how could he possibly care when Bug is so full of love and care, giving him all of herself in the only way she knows how? If this is what healing feels like, he thinks, he’s perfectly okay with staying injured a little while longer.

[wittyandobsessed]

𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐍𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Chandler Bing x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | none.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘺. 𝘐𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘯.

You had just moved into this building. At only 24 years old, you desperately needed to distance yourself from your parents. You loved them, of course, but they could be suffocating at times, and you craved your own space, your independence. Yet, as fate would have it, everything seemed to be working against you that day. The rain was pouring relentlessly, and your umbrella had flipped inside out under the force of the wind, leaving you drenched from head to toe. And as if that wasn’t enough, a taxi sped past, splashing a massive puddle that soaked you in muddy water, leaving your pants heavy and stained. But the real breaking point came when you reached the door of your apartment at the end of the hallway. You tried the key in the lock, turning it every which way, but it wouldn’t budge. The lock was stuck. With a frustrated groan, you rested your forehead against the door, muttering curses under your breath.

You didn’t hear the door of the apartment further down the hallway open. Chandler, who had been planning to head to Monica’s to borrow some eggs, was momentarily distracted by the sound of someone grumbling. He turned his head and spotted you standing there, your back to him, still fighting with the door.

From behind, you were stunning—your silhouette striking, curves in all the right places, and even with your hair plastered to your face from the rain, you looked effortlessly beautiful. Chandler glanced down the hallway, making sure no one else was around before he cautiously approached you, deciding to break the silence.

“Uh, it’s the handle you need to turn,” he said, his voice laced with a charming, playful sarcasm, attempting to lighten the mood with his usual humor.

You jumped, startled by his voice, and turned to face him. Chandler froze. You were, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even soaking wet, your hair clinging to your skin, you still radiated an ethereal kind of beauty that took his breath away. For a long moment, he stood there, speechless.

“Oh, uh... it’s the key, it’s not working,” you explained, sounding a little embarrassed. “The lock seems to be jammed.”

Chandler blinked, momentarily snapping out of his daze. He chuckled softly, trying to regain his composure.

“Yeah, locks... they can be a bit stubborn sometimes,” he said with a light-hearted grin, trying to make you feel better about the situation.

You smiled, thankful for his attempt at lightening the mood, even though your frustration was still palpable. Despite the mess you were in, there was something about Chandler’s presence that made you feel just a little bit lighter, as if everything wasn’t quite so bad after all.

Chandler offered to give it a try, stepping closer with a confident grin that barely masked the slight awkwardness in his expression. You moved aside, letting him take the key from your hand. The brief brush of his fingers against yours sent a small jolt of warmth through your otherwise chilled body. You stepped back, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt to stay warm as he inserted the key into the lock with an exaggerated sense of determination.

“Alright,” he said, glancing back at you with a smirk. “Time to show this lock who’s boss.”

You chuckled softly despite yourself, the lightheartedness in his voice a welcome distraction from the miserable day you’d had.

Chandler jiggled the key, turning it left and then right, his brow furrowing when it didn’t move. He twisted harder, his knuckles whitening as he put his weight into it. The lock gave a soft metallic click, but it refused to turn any further.

“Okay, so the lock is stubborn. No problem,” he muttered, half to himself. He leaned in closer as if staring it down would intimidate it into submission. “I’ll just—hold on—” He tried again, this time bracing his other hand against the doorframe for leverage.

You couldn’t help but laugh quietly, shaking your head. “Are you always this persistent?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Only when there’s a damsel in distress. Or, you know, when my ego’s on the line. This lock and I are in a battle now, and I’m not losing.”

But after another minute of struggling, it was clear that the lock wasn’t going to budge. Chandler let out a dramatic sigh, pulling the key out and stepping back. “Alright, you win this round,” he muttered to the door, then turned to you with a sheepish grin. “It’s officially stuck. I gave it my best shot.”

“Thanks for trying,” you said with a small smile, though the heaviness of your situation quickly returned. “It’s not your fault. I guess I’ll just… find a hotel or something.”

His brow furrowed. 

“I just moved in. And I didn’t think to check the lock when I got the keys. Guess that’ll teach me to put things off.”

Your voice was light, but the frustration and exhaustion were evident. Chandler watched as you glanced at the staircase, your shoulders slumping under the weight of the day. Something about the way you looked—drenched, disheartened, and so utterly alone—hit him harder than he expected.

“Wait!” he called out just as you turned to leave.

You stopped, turning back to him with a mix of hesitation and curiosity. Rainwater dripped from your hair and clothes, forming a small puddle on the hallway floor. “Yes?”

“My friend Monica,” Chandler began, his voice a little breathless, as though he’d rushed to get the words out. He pointed to the door across the hall from his own. “She lives right there, and she’s amazing. Super organized, probably has extra clothes, towels—everything you’d need. Plus, we can use her phone to call the super.”

Your brow furrowed as you glanced toward the door he indicated. “That’s… really thoughtful, but I don’t want to disturb her. I mean, I don’t even know her.”

Chandler waved a dismissive hand, stepping closer to you. “Trust me, you wouldn’t be disturbing her. Monica lives for moments like this. Helping people is her thing. She’s like a fixer-upper queen, but for situations, not houses.”

You hesitated, glancing back toward the staircase. “I don’t know…”

“Look,” he said, his voice softening, “I can’t let you go back out there. It’s pouring, it’s freezing, and you’re already soaked. You’ll catch your death, and then I’ll have to live with the guilt of being the guy who let the most gorgeous woman he’s ever met freeze in the rain. Please, don’t make me carry that kind of emotional baggage.”

The corners of your lips twitched at his words, his earnestness wrapped in humor managing to chip away at your reluctance.

“Okay,” you said finally, giving him a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Chandler’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “You won’t regret it, I promise. Monica’s probably already baking something ridiculously good-smelling. She’s weirdly domestic like that.”

He led the way across the hall, his hand brushing against the wall as he motioned toward Monica’s door. With a confident flourish, he grabbed the doorknob and twisted. It didn’t budge.

“Huh.” He blinked, trying again with a little more force. “That’s weird. It’s locked. She’s usually home at this time…”

You tilted your head, crossing your arms against the lingering chill in the air. “Maybe she’s out?”

“Unlikely,” Chandler said, rapping his knuckles lightly against the door. “Monica? You in there?” He paused, waiting for a response. When none came, he knocked again, louder this time. “Mon? It’s Chandler. Open up!”

The hallway remained silent except for the sound of rain battering against the building. Chandler frowned, leaning slightly closer to the door as if willing it to open.

“Looks like she’s not home,” you said gently, trying not to sound too disappointed.

Chandler straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, they’re probably out. She and Rachel are big on spontaneous outings. I bet they’re at some yoga class or pottery workshop that Rachel dragged her to. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” you said, managing a soft laugh. “You tried.”

Chandler’s expression turned thoughtful, his gaze flicking between Monica’s door and you. Then, almost as if deciding on something, he turned to face you fully. “Alright, Plan B,” he announced, spreading his arms wide as if unveiling something grand. “You’ll just have to settle for my place after all.”

“Settle?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“Impose? Please. If anything, you’re saving me from another night of scrolling through TV channels and trying to convince myself to start a new hobby.” He grinned and stepped toward his door, opening it wide. “Come on. Dry clothes, warm air, and maybe even some tea if I can figure out how my kettle works. What do you say?”

You hesitated for a moment longer, but the storm outside made the decision easier. “Alright. Thank you."

You hesitated, glancing one last time toward the stairwell as if testing your resolve to leave. But the storm outside still raged, and the warm invitation from the man standing before you was impossible to ignore. You sighed softly, finally relenting. “Alright. Thank you,” you said, your voice tinged with both relief and gratitude.

Chandler’s expression brightened immediately, as if he’d just won a small victory. He turned and opened his apartment door, stepping aside with an exaggerated gesture. “Welcome to my humble, slightly cluttered abode. Watch out for the rogue Legos. They’ve been known to attack unsuspecting feet.”

You chuckled at his playful tone as you stepped inside. The warmth of the room hit you instantly, a stark contrast to the cold that had seeped into your bones.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” you said, glancing back at him as he closed the door behind you.

“Chandler,” he replied with a quick smile, rubbing his hands together like he was preparing for a mission. “Now that introductions are out of the way, let’s get you warm and dry. You’re, uh…” His gaze flicked over you briefly, taking in your soaked appearance. “Kind of dripping all over my floor. Not that I mind! I mean, it’s just water. But, you know… you look freezing.”

You gave him an apologetic look, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to leave a puddle trail.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Are you kidding? It’s fine. My carpet’s been through worse. Long story involving pizza and a very enthusiastic duck.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite yourself. “A duck?”

“Don’t ask,” he said with a grin, heading toward what you assumed was his bedroom. “Anyway, let me grab you something dry to wear. My fashion sense is… let’s call it ‘casual,’ but it’ll do the job.”

While he rummaged through his closet, you took a moment to look around the apartment. It was cozy and unpretentious, with an inviting lived-in feel. The coffee table held a mix of magazines, takeout menus, and a half-empty mug. A dartboard hung crookedly on the wall, and the faint aroma of coffee lingered in the air.

Chandler returned moments later, holding a sweatshirt that looked hilariously oversized. “Okay, here we go. This baby’s seen me through many a lazy Sunday, and now it’s your turn to experience its magic. Fair warning—it’s two sizes too big, but hey, that just makes it comfier.”

You accepted the sweatshirt with a small smile, your fingers brushing against his briefly. It was soft and carried a faint scent of detergent and something distinctly him. “Thank you,” you said again, meaning it.

“No problem,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck in an almost bashful gesture. “Oh, and the bathroom’s just here. Hot water’s good to go, and there are fresh towels in the cabinet. Take your time. I’ll just… be out here”

You laughed softly, the warmth of his humor cutting through the lingering chill in your body. “I’ll try not to use all the hot water.”

“Use as much as you want,” he replied, stepping back to give you space. “Seriously, go nuts. It’s not like I have a hot date waiting for me tonight. Or, you know, any date.”

With a faint smile, you made your way to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. The small space was neat, with a lemon-scented candle sitting on the counter and fluffy towels folded neatly in the corner. You set down the sweatshirt and began peeling off your wet clothes, shivering as the cold air hit your skin.

When you stepped under the hot spray of the shower, a sigh of relief escaped your lips. The warmth seeped into your muscles, easing the tension that had built up over the day. Steam filled the bathroom, and for the first time, you felt like you could finally relax.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Chandler paced nervously, stealing glances at the closed bathroom door. His hands fidgeted as he muttered under his breath. “Okay, Chandler, play it cool. She’s just a neighbor. A beautiful, funny, possibly mythical neighbor who just happens to smell really nice, even when she’s soaked. No big deal.”

He glanced at the couch, considering whether to straighten the pillows. Then he moved a stack of magazines from the coffee table to the side, only to move them back again. “Stop overthinking,” he told himself firmly, flopping onto the couch. “You’re just being nice. It’s not like you’re planning your wedding or anything. Right? Right.”

When the sound of running water stopped, Chandler’s heart skipped a beat. He shot a quick glance at the bathroom door, then down at himself, smoothing his shirt as if that would somehow make him appear more composed. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax, mentally rehearsing something casual to say.

But when the door opened, his carefully constructed composure shattered.

You stepped out, wrapped in his oversized sweatshirt that hung loosely on your frame. The hem stopped just above your knees, leaving your legs bare and glistening faintly under the soft light of the apartment. The sleeves were comically long, your hands barely visible as they peeked out of the fabric. Your damp hair curled gently, framing your face with a softness that made his breath catch. Your cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the shower, and the faintest trace of a smile played on your lips as you glanced up at him.

Chandler froze. For a split second, he forgot how to breathe. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this—you, standing there like some kind of ethereal vision—was definitely not it. His brain scrambled for words, but all that came out was, “Oh.”

You tilted your head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Oh?”

Realizing how dumb he must’ve sounded, he quickly cleared his throat and stood up, rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to cover his reaction. “Uh, I mean—wow. I mean, uh… better? You feel better?”

You nodded, seemingly unaware of the effect you had on him. “Much better,” you replied, your voice soft and warm. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated a hot shower this much.”

Chandler blinked a few times, forcing himself to focus on your words rather than the way the sweatshirt clung to you in all the right places. “Good. That’s, uh, that’s good. Showers are great. Big fan of showers.”

You laughed lightly, the sound like music to his ears. “Well, you’ve officially saved me tonight. Between the sweatshirt and the shower, I owe you one.”

His lips twitched into a lopsided grin, though his mind was still racing. Get it together, Bing. “Hey, no need to thank me. It’s all part of the, uh, Chandler Bing hospitality package.”

Chandler’s lopsided grin remained as he gestured toward the phone on the counter. “Feel free to call the super. I’ll, uh, get started on that tea I promised. 

You chuckled softly, picking up the phone and dialing. “Thanks, Chandler.”

As you began your call, Chandler turned toward the kitchenette, mentally preparing himself to focus on the tea. But when he glanced over and saw you perched on one of the high stools at the bar, your legs elegantly crossed and your hair still damp from the shower, his resolve crumbled.

You looked completely at ease, one hand tucked under your chin as you spoke into the phone. His sweatshirt, oversized and cozy on you, hung loosely off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of your collarbone. The sleeves were so long they nearly swallowed your hands, and the sight made him smile despite himself.

How does she make that look so good?

He fumbled with the kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove. As it began to heat, he grabbed the tea box, pausing for a second as another thought crept into his mind. There was something almost surreal about the scene—like you belonged here, perched at his counter, wearing his clothes, filling his apartment with your warmth. He shook his head, forcing the thought away. Get a grip, Bing. She’s just a neighbor who got locked out. That’s it.

“Hello? Yes, this is Y/N from apartment 3C,” you said into the phone. Chandler couldn’t help but steal another glance. The way your voice softened as you explained the situation made something in his chest tighten.

“No, the lock seems completely jammed,” you continued. “I’ve tried the key every way I can think of… Oh, I see. No problem. Thank you.”

When you hung up, you sighed softly, your fingers brushing the edge of the counter as you turned to face him. “The super’s not in the building right now,” you explained. “But he said he’d be here in about half an hour.”

Chandler nodded, pouring steaming water into two mugs. “Half an hour, huh? That’s not too bad. Enough time to let the tea work its magic.” He slid a mug across the counter to you, his fingers brushing yours briefly. The warmth of the ceramic mirrored the faint heat that spread through you at the simple contact.

“Thank you,” you said softly, cradling the mug in your hands. The steam curled lazily upward, warming your face.

Chandler leaned against the counter across from you, crossing his arms in an attempt to look casual. “So,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “how’s my tea-making holding up? Should I add it to my résumé?”

You took a sip, smiling at him over the rim of the mug. “It’s actually really good. I think you undersold yourself.”

“Of course, I did,” he said with a smirk. “Can’t let the world know I’m secretly a tea master. Gotta keep some mystery alive.”

You laughed lightly, and the sound made his chest swell with an unexpected sense of pride. “Well, consider me impressed. But seriously, Chandler, you didn’t have to do all of this—letting me in, lending me your sweatshirt, making tea… It’s a lot for someone you’ve just met.”

He shrugged, his grin softening into something more genuine. “It’s really not a big deal. What was I supposed to do? Let you freeze out there in the rain?” He paused, his voice lowering slightly. “Besides, you seem like someone worth helping.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you ducked your head, hiding your smile behind your mug. “That’s… really kind of you to say.”

“Well, don’t get used to it,” he said, his usual sarcasm slipping back into place. “I’m not always this charming.”

You raised an eyebrow, your playful smirk returning. “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve been pretty charming so far.”

Chandler blinked, momentarily caught off guard by your response. He felt a flutter of nerves in his chest, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. “Yeah, well… stick around. I might surprise you.”

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment as you sipped your tea. Chandler’s eyes wandered back to you, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “So, uh… what brings you to the city?”

You glanced at him, setting your mug down on the counter. “Honestly? A fresh start. I wanted to get away from my small town, try something new. It’s been a little overwhelming so far, but… I’m hoping it’s worth it.”

He nodded, leaning forward slightly. “Big city life can be a lot, but trust me, it grows on you. And hey, now you’ve got a neighbor who makes killer tea, so you’re already ahead of the game.”

You laughed again, the tension from the night easing with each passing moment. “True. I think I might be luckier than I thought.”

Chandler felt his heart skip again, his grin widening despite himself. “Well, in that case, welcome to the building. If you ever need anything—like, say, a sweatshirt or some world-class tea—you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Chandler,” you said softly, your gaze meeting his. For a moment, the air between you felt charged, like something unspoken was lingering just beneath the surface.

He cleared his throat, breaking the spell. “So, uh, wanna see the rest of the place while we wait? It’s not much, but it’s home.”

You nodded, your smile warm and inviting. “I’d like that.”

As he led you around the apartment, pointing out quirky features and cracking jokes about his questionable decorating choices, Chandler couldn’t help but think that tonight had turned out far better than he’d ever expected. And for the first time in a long while, he found himself hoping for more nights like this—nights with you.

The half-hour spent waiting for the super passed faster than either of you expected. You stayed on Chandler’s couch, sipping your tea while laughing at his endless stream of sarcastic jokes and stories about his eccentric group of friends. He painted a vivid picture of Joey’s antics, Monica’s obsession with cleaning, and Ross’s dinosaur lectures, all while gesturing animatedly, his eyes lighting up as he spoke.

“You’re serious?” you asked between fits of laughter. “Joey really got stuck in the entertainment unit?”

“Oh, not just stuck,” Chandler said, his tone rich with exaggerated drama. “He lived there for an hour. We almost had to charge him rent.”

Your laughter was bright and infectious, filling his apartment with a warmth that Chandler hadn’t realized it was missing. He found himself leaning closer without thinking, his arm resting along the back of the couch, his attention entirely on you.

For your part, you felt oddly at ease. You had just met Chandler, but there was something about him that made you feel safe, like you’d known him far longer. His humor, his kindness—it all drew you in, making you wish the night didn’t have to end so soon.

But then came the knock at the door.

Chandler’s smile faltered briefly, but he quickly recovered, standing and heading toward the door. “That’ll be the super. Excuse me while I roll out the red carpet.”

You chuckled, following him as he opened the door to reveal an older man in a worn jacket holding a toolbox. The super gave a gruff nod. “Apartment 3C?”

“That’s us,” Chandler said

The three of you walked down the hallway to your door. The super knelt down and began fiddling with the lock, muttering about poor maintenance and how everyone always called him during storms. You stood nearby, your arms crossed loosely over your chest, feeling both grateful and strangely wistful. Chandler, standing close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours, turned to you with a small, lopsided grin.

“Well,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, “looks like the great lock adventure is almost over.”

You met his eyes, your smile warm but tinged with reluctance. “Yeah… I guess so.”

He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets, his gaze lingering on you. For all his humor and quick wit, Chandler found himself at a loss for words. He didn’t want the night to end. He didn’t want you to walk into your apartment, leaving him alone with only the faint scent of your shampoo lingering in the air.

“There,” the super said, interrupting the moment as he straightened up. “Try it now.”

You stepped forward, sliding the key into the lock. This time, it turned smoothly, the door creaking open with ease. Relief flooded you, but it was quickly accompanied by a pang of sadness.

You turned back to Chandler, your eyes soft and grateful. “Thank you so much for everything tonight, Chandler. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

He shrugged, forcing a playful grin onto his face. “Hey, it was nothing. Just your friendly neighborhood Chandler Bing, here to save the day.”

You laughed softly, and before he could say anything else, you leaned in, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Chandler,” you said gently, pulling back and stepping into your apartment.

He stood there, frozen, his hand instinctively rising to touch the spot where your lips had brushed his skin. His heart thudded in his chest, his mind spinning with a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite pin down.

The sound of your door closing pulled him out of his daze. He stared at it for a long moment, his lips twitching into a soft smile.

“Bing, what are you doing out here?”

Chandler turned to see Joey strolling down the hallway, his brow furrowed as he took in the scene.

“Nothing,” Chandler said quickly, dropping his hand from his cheek and trying to sound nonchalant.

Joey raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “You’ve been standing here for like five minutes. Did you get hit by lightning or something?”

Chandler smirked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Nope. Just… helping a new neighbor. Very heroic of me, really.”

Joey squinted at him suspiciously, then glanced at the door you’d just disappeared behind. “New neighbor, huh? She cute?”

Chandler rolled his eyes, though a faint blush crept up his neck. “Go to bed, Joey.”

Joey grinned, clapping him on the shoulder as he walked past. “Alright, man. But if she’s single, call dibs now. You know the rules.”

Chandler shook his head, muttering under his breath as Joey disappeared into their apartment. He turned back toward your door, his smile softening.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he murmured quietly to himself before finally heading back inside.

[techhiz]

Can I request es Bumblebee having a very physically affectionate human s/o that pampers him whenever they aren't busy?

-🦝 anon

Bee Loved.

Bumblebee had grown accustomed to the warmth of human companionship during his time with the Maltos. Their kindness and bond with the Terrans were like nothing he’d ever experienced. But you? You took it to a whole new level.

Every spare moment you had, you poured affection into the yellow mech. Whether it was resting against his alt mode, gently tracing the lines of his plating, or finding creative ways to pamper him, you made him feel like the most cherished bot on Earth.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm orange glow over the Maltos’ backyard. Bumblebee was sitting under the shade of a large tree, his frame relaxed but his optics bright as he watched you approach with a determined look and a bag slung over your shoulder.

"You look way too tense, Bee," you teased, setting the bag down beside him.

"Tense? Me?" He chuckled, shifting slightly to give you more space. "I’m as loose as a Cybertronian can be."

"Sure you are." You smirked, pulling out a soft, microfiber cloth. "Just let me take care of you."

Bumblebee’s optics flickered in amusement, but he leaned back to indulge you. "Alright, I’m all yours."

Carefully, you began wiping down his plating, removing specks of dust and grime from his most recent mission. Your movements were deliberate, your touch gentle as you polished his bright yellow armor until it gleamed.

"Y’know, you don’t have to do this," he said softly, though he didn’t make a move to stop you.

"I want to," you replied, your voice full of warmth. "You deserve to be taken care of, too, Bumblebee."

His spark hummed at your words, and he let out a contented sigh. "Well, when you put it that way..."

When Bumblebee transformed into his alt mode, you’d often hop into the driver’s seat, leaning forward to hug the steering wheel.

"You’re the best ride ever, Bee," you’d say, pressing a kiss to the dash.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," he’d tease through the radio, his voice full of fondness.

On quieter days, you’d bring snacks and sit beside him, chatting about your day while he listened intently. Sometimes, you’d even share music with him, creating playlists tailored to his tastes.

And then there were the cuddles.

Whenever he was in bot mode and you had time to spare, you’d climb up to sit on his shoulder or curl up against his chest. Bumblebee would wrap his arms around you protectively, his chassis vibrating softly with his low, comforting hum.

"You’re so warm," you’d murmur, resting your head against him.

"And you’re ridiculously sweet," he’d reply, his optics dimming slightly as he soaked in the moment.

As much as Bumblebee loved your affection, it also left him in awe. Cybertronians weren’t typically accustomed to such intimate, tactile gestures, but you made it seem so natural. It wasn’t just the physical touch—it was the way you looked at him, the way you always seemed to know when he needed a little extra care.

It made him feel... whole.

The two of you were lying in the grass, the stars twinkling above. Bumblebee had transformed into his alt mode, and you were stretched out on his hood, staring at the sky.

"You’re really something, y’know that?" he said, his voice soft through the radio.

You turned your head to face him, smiling. "So are you."

He hesitated for a moment before adding, "I mean it. I’ve been through a lot, but you... you make it all feel lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, things can really be okay."

Your heart swelled at his words. Sitting up, you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his hood, your lips lingering against the warm metal.

"Bee, you deserve all the love in the world," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, Bumblebee was silent, his spark practically glowing. Then, his radio crackled softly.

"I think I already have it."

You laughed softly, lying back down and placing a hand against his smooth plating.

And for the rest of the night, you stayed like that—no words needed, just the quiet hum of his engine and the steady rhythm of your breathing. (I swear, bumblebee needs a hug-)

[mamayan]

★彡 Too Bad? ☆彡

Gyomei Himejima x Fem! Reader

I dreamt of this lol

tw: NSFW • FLUFF • Fingering (F) • Thigh Fucking •

“You’re doing so well songbird,” his voice is even and soft juxtaposed to the lewd wet squelching noises and warbled moans from your lips.

It wasn’t fair.

He had you losing your mind with two fingers inside your sopping pussy alone, but he was serene as ever doing it. Aside from a light dusting of pink across his cheeks, nothing else was different from his regular expression.

You reached out, gripping onto the fabric of his haori and tugging until he leaned down for you, slotting his soft warm lips against your own. He kisses you like he wasn’t about to ruin you with another orgasm, like he didn’t plan to add a third finger and stretch you further in preparation for his cock.

You’d both been working up to it so long, and admittedly you were a little impatient.

When his tongue slips into your mouth, your gooey walls clamp down, strangling his fingers as liquid gushed and soaks his hand.

“That’s it,” he coos, curling his fingers up and prolonging the quakes which wrack your poor sweaty body, mouth opened as if electrocuted as your mind goes blank.

“‘M-Mei—,” you can hardly even pant his name, as he sweetly kisses your clammy forehead and begins to press another finger inside.

It hurts. You don’t voice it but you don’t need to, not when your finger nails nearly break skin as they dig into his forearm, your breathing labored when he finally slides it in with the other two.

You feel heavy, so full and you know his cock is even more but you want him closer.

“We can stop at any time little bird, tell me please,” you nearly cry when he tried to pull his fingers free, clamping your legs closed and halting his movements in shock.

“No Mei! I’m okay, please, I want you, I want this.”

His lips press into a line, but he relents as he pushes his fingers back in, your overly sensitive walls fluttering and constricting as you whine.

He fucks you slowly, no real force used but just pushing and pulling required a bit strength due to how tightly you clung to his fingers.

He let his knees take his weight and free his other hand, which slid up your soft waist and to your chest, where he lightly rolled and plucked your nipples, tightening them into buds before he was letting his mouth take over. Your symphony of moans only had his cock twitching in his pants, hard and leaking as he imaged just how wonderful it would feel to be fully connected with you.

Three fingers started with an ache and ended with overwhelming pleasure as you began moving your hips for more friction, feeling the knot inside you begin twisting tighter as you sink your fingers into Gyomei’s soft short locks. Your grip only tightens, chest pushing up into his mouth for more as your back arches, before you come apart. Whining and crying as your sensitivity becomes almost painful.

Gyomei can’t see it, but he can feel the mess he’s made of you, covered in your own slick and fluids, and clearly at your ropes end as you senselessly beg for what you truly wanted.

He wanted it to.

Flipping your positions easily, Gyomei slide his haori off as he began unbuckling his belt, your hands becoming impatient and knocking his away as you took over undressing him with a huff.

He chuckles, smile dripping honey as he lets you take control. “Be easy with me song bird, I’m fragile,” his teasing isn’t lost on you, the mood already lighter despite your nerves heightening.

You’d seen him shirtless before, it was nothing to toss his top, but as you opened up his pants, and helped him bring them down his thighs, you truly couldn’t help pausing.

You must’ve stared too long, or maybe you’d made a noise. “Little bird, we can stop here and now, I promise. Hey,” your cheeks are cupped, your face turned up to look at him and you realize his kind expression is all for you in this moment. “We don’t need to rush anything, I know I’m not, hmm… I know I’m not going to comfortably fit ever, but there’s no reason it should be painful for you.”

His words only filled you with a renewed sense of warmth and vigor, as you quickly pressed your lips to his and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He held you in his lap for a moment, savoring your lips and mouth as your tongues danced until your let your legs spread wide and core nestle against his own.

He jolted from the feeling of your hot wet core pressed against his cock, and he moaned when you sat up more and slid against him. Your folds parting for the engorged shaft pressed against them, twitching as you ground against him. He broke the kiss to groan low in his throat, his own hips bucking back against you as you continued to lubricate him with your own release.

His large palms rested against your hips, only light pressure in his grip as he lets you set whatever pace you wanted.

Apparently, the pace was trying to impale yourself like a fool.

It shocked you both silly when you’d wrapped your arms around his neck and lifted up, letting his swollen reddened tip kiss your entrance, before attempting to slam down and take him at once.

“Ha!” Your cry was not of pleasure, and even Gyomei released a hiss of pain as his hands yanked your hips back up and removed you from his cock.

Your poor cunt burned, the weight and force had taken him about a quarter inside of you, but the speed gave your body no time to relax. It felt like you’d branded yourself down there, as tears welled up in your eyes because it still stung.

“Namu Amida Butsu— tsk, my love are you alright?” He didn’t sound as hurt as you, his strong arms quick to wrap you up and pull you close.

Your little sniffle does nothing to help ease his anxiety, and the pathetic “m’okay…” isn’t reassuring either.

“We’re done. Do you need to see Shinobu? We’ll get cleaned up and go see her now—,”

“Absolutely not! I’m fine! Really, I-I want to continue!” The pain was nothing compared to the embarrassment of admitting to that woman you’d harmed yourself with your lover’s cock. “Mei, we’ve been working towards this so long, a-and I’m already sort of opened up now, so let’s just—“

“No.” You freeze, taking in the serious lines of his face, and having known him so long, you knew arguing wouldn’t sway him. Nothing would now.

“I’ll respect your decision not to see Shinobu, but we’re stopping here today. I should’ve stopped us earlier…” he trails off with regret at the end, and you’re struck with a sense of unwillingness.

“Mei, this isn’t fair, I’m always the one being pleased, you hardly let me touch you, I want to make you feel good too—,” he cuts you off.

“Too bad.”

“Mei—,” his head shakes, and he’s ready to deny you again, but a spur of the moment thought helps you shut him down before he can begin.

“What if you don’t put it inside me?” He halts, mouth open but he slowly closes it again, waiting for you to continue.

You wince as you sit up a bit, the fiery pain from earlier gone and replaced with a dull manageable ache. You swallow thickly, realizing now what you’re about to ask and becoming a bit flustered. Was it weird…? You weren’t sure, but you needed to steel yourself or he’d end the night and force you both to bed after a bath.

He’s truly a man of patience, because you couldn’t count the number of times he hadn’t finished when you’d be intimate. You wanted him to fall apart like that too, like you always do.

“We, well you, could use my…my thighs.” You felt awkward, but the tilt of his head and no immediate refute was a good sigh. His arms were crossed, and he seemed to think it over for a moment.

“Okay… but you need to promise me you’re truly alright. I’m not going to use your body when you’re hurt.” You were elated, giddy almost, because a well of pride was bubbling inside you.

“I’m a little sore, but other than that I’m fine. There’s no pain anymore.” He nods, and you realize he was no longer hard anymore. Well of course he wouldn’t be, you grimace, you’d tried to break it when you slammed down on him.

“Oh! I’m sorry…” He sighs, but the smile playing on his lips comforts you, and he encourages you back on his lap. You’re happy to return his gentle kiss as he leans down.

Gentle turns to passionate, as the earlier fumble gets dismissed as you both begin rubbing and kissing one another.

His cock is quick to harden again after feeling your soft lips and knowing you were alright. He also couldn’t help the erotic thought of using your thighs, something he was a bit ashamed not to have come up with sooner.

When he felt you grinding your core against him again, he sat up on his knees, turning you so your back was against his chest. He pulls you flush against him, actually holding up all your weight and keeping you off the futon so his cock could jut out from between your legs.

The sight was debauched, your head looking down at his enormous dick covered in your sticky arousal, resting heavy between your soft smooth thighs and dripping cunt. You couldn’t help clamping them closed, as Gyomei helped you both lay on your sides, his entire chest encompassing your smaller frame.

He’s careful not to lean too much weight onto you, as he slides one thigh under yours, and the other on top, caging your legs between his own.

“Mei…?” You glance up curiously, but his brows are furrowed in concentration as you feel him begin to apply pressure and clamp your thighs even tighter. “Oh!” You gasp, feeling his cock pressed against your core so much more like this, and his own little sigh is filled with pleasure too, as he rocks his hips a little.

The glide is easy, your copious release enough to coat him thoroughly and slide between your thighs seamlessly.

“Little bird you feel so good,” his groan sends shivers down your spine, as one arms wraps around your waist and anchors you to him, his pace picking up.

He’s fucking your thighs. Cock sliding back and forth against your pussy as warmth spreads throughout you both. He keeps gently grazing your clit with his tip, the sensitive nub sparking to life your arousal as you grind back against him, moaning with him now.

You watch it, as it pops out and disappears between you, the speed in which you see it increasing as his pants and groans do.

You look up at him again, his face even more flushed and skin sweaty as he uses you like a toy for his pleasure.

Granted a toy he made cum many, many times before.

“Do you—hah, feel good Mei?” He looks down at the sound of your voice, eyes lidded and nearly closed as he nods, “You’re so wet little bird, do you like how my cock rubs against you?”

You moan, loving how the passion rises when he’s close to his release.

The erotic noises increasing as his heavy balls slap against the soaked skin of your ass, his hips beginning to add more weight as his rhythm falters.

“Mei, m’gonna—,” you gasp, feeling him angle his hips up to rub even harder against your clit.

“Me too, cum for me—,” when his cock gets even wetter as you cry out, his thighs tense and increase the pressure as he twitches and his load shoots out.

Hot cum coats you, him, and all between your thighs and pussy as he grips you in a bear hug against him and pants. His hips rutting and humping you until every pearly drop of his cum is milked.

You go limp, this orgasm finally your limit as you nearly fall asleep despite the mess you both made.

He chuckles, kissing your cheek and hair line as he releases you to sit up.

“Do you want a bath song bird, or just to clean up and go to bed?”

“I don’t know… do you want to use my mouth next time?”

He nearly choked on his own saliva. He hasn’t thought of that either…

[zot3-flopped]

Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

[stinmybubs]

“Rot My Brain” Fluff!

AN: I cannot stop thinking about Katsuki, he’s rotting my brain to the core. I’m gonna mix in some of my irl bfs actions with Katsuki’s personality cuz sometimes they clash. And omg I can write Kenma off my bf for sure. This will be my titles for all my brain rots!

Here’s a lazy Picrew banner divider thingy -

B. Katsuki x AFAB! Reader!

Katsuki can’t keep his hands off you. Every minute he has his hands somewhere on your body, for him it’s not only comforting but he loves to keep you close. Making sure every moment he has is next to you, not to mention he barley knows how to express his love in any other way.

This became a habit ever since you two became close friends, except it was more platonic touches than how of course. When you were friends he would put his hand on your back any time you were just standing next to him.

Katsuki doesn’t care for other eyeing where he touches you, because why would he care what a bunch of extras think? You’re his girl now, with your consent he can touch you wherever he wants!

“Katsuki~!” You giggled as he grabbed you from behind and just sat there for a minute, pressing his face into the nape of your neck. “My love!” You smile in the comfort of his arms. The two of you were currently in the dorm room hallways, he had caught you on the way back to your dorm from the showers.

“Hm?” He answered, just trying to soak in the fresh smell of your shampoo and body wash. “I need to put all my things away.” You place your empty hand on his arms, hanging on to your small basket of shower necessities. “Don’t wanna let you go..” he tightened his grip onto your waist.

“Love I need to put these away then go talk to the girls about something.” You try moving forward a bit only to be stopped in place by your bulky boyfriend. Damn, why’d he have to be this beefy? You thought to yourself trying to look at him by turning your head slightly, only seeing the top of his head.

Katsuki loved holding you. It felt like everything would melt away as soon as you were in his arms. He felt just lighter, calmer, and overall recharged after dealing with the idiots in Class 1-A.

“One min’…” he pressed his face deeper into your neck, taking a deep breath. This action tickled you, letting out a beautiful giggle as he took in your scent. “Katsu that tickles!” You laugh.

Oh how Katsuki loves your laugh. He can never get enough of you.

Katsuki was clingy, indeed. But he of course gives space you need or space he needs. But sometimes you two don’t even notice when he’s clinging onto you, or any sort of touch he has because it’s just so normal for the two of you.

Well everyone else knows and try not to say anything about it.

“You and Bakugou are so cute!!” Mina cheers, shaking you violently “oh how I wish I had a man like that…!” She was so giggly. Finally you were able to hang out with the girls after Bakugou let himself recharge and let you be.

“Thank you Mina.” You grab her arms to stop her from shaking you. The girls loves to gush about relationships, especially as one as lovey dovey as you and Katsuki’s relationship. They always tell you to spill, kiss and tell.

You only shared small details, not too many because you knew how Katsuki likes to keep your relationship stuff private. He really doesn’t want it to get to the guys. Even though they see how clingy he is and tease him about it all the time.

“Fuck off! Yer’ all just mad you can’t get a girl to touch ya!” Katsuki yelled, rolling his eyes at Sero and Denki’s teasing.

Katsuki, sadly his room was bombarded by some of the Class 1-A idiots. What did they want? To poke, tease, and stick their noses in each others business. All he wanted was you in his bed, letting him hold you.

“Cmon man! You don’t even hide it, at least some guys would keep the touching on the low!” Denki teased. Katsuki just glared at him, slumping against the edge of his bed.

“Guys he does have a point, how can you tease him for loving his girl when you guys don’t even have one?” Kirishima, always coming to defend Katsuki. At this point Katsuki was just tuning them all out, he just wished he stopped you from going to hang out with the girls so he could cuddle you.

Katsuki loves you, he wouldn’t stop you from pursuing anything. He wouldn’t stop you from having friends, or even going out with them. Sucks that he just wants to be with you all the time. Just being around you was comforting.

Katsuki was getting impatient, he wanted these guys gone and you in here pronto.

“Alright fuckers get out.” He stood up, starting to push out the protesting guys. And once those guys were out, he pulled out his phone to text you.

Katsu( ˘ ³˘)♥︎: cmover. Now.

The sudden buzz of your phone startled you, going to see who had texted you, a smile spreading across your face. You excuse yourself from the rest of the girls and they all happily wave you bye. Off you go to see your clingy loving boyfriend.

Katsuki loved touching you. No matter what nothing will change. His eyes will never leave you, and his hands will always cling to you. You’re a high that never ends. And he loves that you accept his touch, his love, and his temper. He loves you.

AN: I hope you like this! I was spit balling and just rotting my own brain with Katsu :3 let me know if you’d like a tag list or anything! Love you guysss.