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drgnflyteabox · 3 months ago

Text

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day.

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb.

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved.

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk.

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

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sturniqlo · 2 months ago

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Motherly Instincts- M.S

summary: mom!y/n has trouble putting the baby back to sleep, dad!matt sees that's she's getting overwhelmed and near the edge of breaking down. BLURB

cw: slight cursing, ANGST; crying, being overwhelmed, postpartum depression, FLUFF; soft kisses, reassurance, comforting

an: i tried my best to not use a name for the baby but i kept getting confused when i used the baby and y/n in a sentence so i chose a random name | lowercase intended | a continuation(?) to spilled water

masterlist | mia masterlist | join my taglist

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"got the baby back to sleep?" matt asked and opened his arms back up for y/n to crawl into him. "mhm." she hums, and snugs herself into his arms. he wraps his arm around her shoulder and she leans her head on his chest. y/n's eyes keep going back and forth between the movie playing on the television in front of them and the baby monitor that sits on the coffee table.

"hey, she's okay, i promise you. i'm sure she's fast asleep by now." he whispers and places a kiss on her forehead. "i know, but what if her swaddles comes undone. or what if it's too tight?" she bites the inside of her cheek, worrying.

matt frowns slightly, for the past couple of weeks, y/n hasn't really been herself. she's more quiet, she gets irritated quickly, she only interacts with the baby when it's necessary "i just- she's so fragile, you know?" is her excuse.

in reality, everything is right. y/n has been trying so hard to create a bond with her baby girl. she's tried so hard but, there's something inside of her- almost like a voice- telling her that she isn't fit to be a mother, that her baby doesn't like her. she sees how matt and his brothers have a bond with her own baby, who she grew for nine months. it gets to her.

y/n always has to excuse herself and cry in the bathroom when she sees her baby crack a smile with someone who isn't her, or when mia isn't fussy when someone is carrying her. there has been multiple occasions where mia doesn't let y/n carry her and she squirms in her arms but, when she's given to matt, she isn't fussy anymore. it breaks y/n's heart.

2:36am

the clock on y/ns nightstand reads. the speakers of the baby monitor begin to fill the room with the wails of baby mia. she mutes the monitor so matt won't wake up. swinging her legs over the bed, she puts her slippers on and walks to the door to leave the room. entering the nursery, the cries only get louder. she goes to the crib and sees that her pacifier had fallen next to her small head.

"hi, baby. mommy's here." she whispers, she carefully picks her up in her arms and grabs the pacifier and tries to put it back in her mouth. mia takes it and y/n sighs in relief. she cradles her for a couple more seconds until she sees the babys face churn in discomfort, the pacifier coming out of her mouth and hitting the floor, cries fill the room again.

"oh no, let's get this cleaned up." she tries to stay calm and squats down to pick up the pacifier. before she heads down she places mia down on the changing table and undos the swaddle. "do you need a diaper change, is that it?" her shaky hands unclip the onesie and starts to take off the diaper.

cleaning her up and changing her into a new diaper, her cries don't stop. y/n feels a lump start to form in her throat and she blinks her tears away. "are you hungry, baby? let's get you a bottle." she puts her back in her arms and grabs the pacifier so she can clean it while she's downstairs.

y/n runs one of her frozen breast milk pouches under warm water and proceeds to pour it into a bottle once it's warm and melted, however with a crying baby in her left arm, and a shaky right hand, the bottle falls on its side and the pouch of milk slips from her grip. "shit." she curses and a tear slips down her face. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry." she tells the crying baby in her arm. grabbing a different frozen pouch she manages to pour all of it into the small bottle.

putting the nipple of the bottle into the babys mouth, she refuses and her cries get louder. y/n tries not more time and mia takes it for a couple of seconds and repeats what she previously did with the pacifier. y/n places the bottle down next to the spilled milk and cleans the pacifier before heading back up into the nursery.

she moves side to side patting the baby lightly on the bottom, trying to soothe her to sleep. "i- i don't know what you want." she whispers, looking down at the baby's blue eyes that resembles matt's so much. however, these pair of eyes are sad and leaking tears.

in their shared room, matt flips over and tries to put an arm around y/n. he feels the spot empty and cold, waking up and sitting up he begins to come conscious of his surroundings and hears the cries of his baby. his bare feet meet the cold wooden floor and he heads out the room into the nursery where he sees y/n wiping tears from her eyes and hears the wails of the baby.

"babe, what's going on?" his raspy voice says. y/n looks up and sees matt standing there. "she's- i don't- she won't stop crying, i don't know what she wants. i've- i've tried everything, she won't stop, matt." his heart aches at her quivering voice. "it's okay, let me have her." matt walks closer to his two girls and y/n hands mia to him.

once the baby is in matt's arms, her cries stop. this makes y/n's eyes well up even more. "hey, why don't you go to our room, i'll be there in a sec, okay?" he grabs her jaw and kisses her forehead. "o- okay." she nods. as bad as it sounds, matt wished that she hadn't stopped crying right away in his arms. he saw the way y/n's eyes welled up again. he wished it would've taken him some time to get the baby to calm down.

y/n remembers of the mess downstairs and heads down to the kitchen. wiping both the milk and her tears, she hears matt coming down the stairs and she turns around. "hey, is she- is she asleep?" she says, trying her best to smile. "yeah, here, i'll clean this up." matt grabs the napkins from her and he cleans it up. "is it okay if i go back up?" y/n asks.

"of course, i'll be right up." matt turns around and nods at her. matt waits a couple of minutes before going back upstairs so y/n can have a moment to herself.

"you okay?" matt says as he closes the third bedroom door. y/n places the baby monitor back down on her nightstand after unmuting it and turns around to matt's voice. "am i a good mom?" she blurts out and sits on the edge of the bed. "what? of course you are. you're the best. why do you ask?" he goes to sit next to her. "i feel like i'm not. i mean, mia doesn't even like me. she doesn't let me hold her whenever i just want to. i cant even put her to sleep when she wakes up. i- you put her straight to sleep by just carrying her, i can't do that." she cries into matt.

"y/n, baby, you're the best mom ever." matt says and she shakes her head. "matt, you're not listening to me, i can't- i'm- i'm not good enough. i don't have motherly instincts. i'm- i'm the worst."

matt shakes his head and gently grabs her face in his hands. "baby, believe me when i say this. you are the best mommy for mia. did you change her diaper just now?" he asks and she nods. "did you make her a bottle?" she nods. "did you give her, her pacifier?" she nods again. "did you go to her when you heard her crying?" she nods. "see, you do have motherly instincts, my love. nobody told you what to do, you just did it." he smiles at her. "please, believe me, babe."

"and, it's okay if we can't figure it out right away. we're first time parents, of course it's going to be hard. we're learning." her cries have now turned into sniffles. matt wipes away the last of her tears and kisses her nose, making her giggle lightly.

"feelin' better?" matt murmurs against her hair. they had moved from sitting on the edge of the bed to matt cuddling her, kissing her hair from time to time. "much better. thank you, babe. i- i think i have postpartum depression." she whispers the last part. "oh." he says. "i want to get help, i don't want to feel like this anymore. i want to enjoy these moment with her. she's not going to be this little for so long." she looks up at him.

"you get all the help you need. i'll be with you every step of the way, alright? me and mia will be right next to you." she smiles at his words and he presses a soft kiss to his lips. "thank you." there's a beat of silence until matt speaks. "please don't ever say that she won't be this little for so long. one moment she needs us to change her diaper and next thing you know, i'm walking her down the aisle." y/n gasps. "okay, let's not go that far. she's not even two months old yet."

"you're right."

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luveline · 6 months ago

Note

Spencer’s oldest child (either with reader or previous relationship) wanting to help out with readers baby!

“So…”

“So,” Spencer echoes, hooking Amy under the arms before she can wriggle away. He props her on the counter, cloth already in hand.

“About the baby.”

“What about the baby?” he asks, encouraging her head back gently to wipe her mouth. She’s covered in butter and omelette, a chive stuck to her chin.

“You know how she’s little?”

“Yes.” Spencer wipes her face clean very gently. It’s not a good plan, Amy wriggles and squirms away from the warm water and it takes a long time, but Spencer can’t bring himself to be rough. “She’s really little. I know all about it.”

“And mom is tired.”

Spencer grins. “Yes, mom is tired.”

“Can I look after the baby? ‘Cos I’m big?”

Spencer isn’t in the habit of lying to her, perhaps to the detriment of his own easy life. “Probably not. You are getting bigger, but she’s so little she’s actually quite fragile. We have to be careful to hold her the right way, and to carry her gently, because she’s not done forming. You don’t have the dexterity to do this all the time. Plus, she’s heavy.” Spencer puts the cloth aside. He leans down enough to be face to face with Amy, puckered up for a kiss.

Amy frowns. Spencer kisses her damp cheek.

“I do too have dex-trity.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to look after the baby.”

“Then who will look after me?” Spencer asks cheekily.

“Mom.”

“Okay. Listen,” he takes her face carefully into his hand, wiping at the place where he’d kissed affectionately, “there are ways you can help with the baby. Lots of ways! Stuff we already do, like making dinner, and stuff we’ve been doing to help mom, like washing her clothes and watering her plants.”

“I love mom so I water the plants, that’s not the baby.”

“I know,” he says, rubbing her cheek. “That’s why I do it too. But I promise it helps mommy more than you realise when we do this stuff for her.”

“Let’s do something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

Spencer opens his arms for her and she latches on like his baby sloth. He used to say it to her all the time, how she was his lazy sloth pup, always on his chest. “How about we ask?”

He carries her out of the kitchen and upstairs to find you, only you’re not where they left you in the master bedroom. Instead, you're sitting on the floor of Amy’s bedroom with the baby swaddled to your chest. “Oh, hey, it’s big Reid and little Reid.”

“What Reid does that make you?” Spencer asks.

“I’m ambiguously sized Reid.” You look down at the baby. “And this is tiny Reid.”

“What are you doing?” Amy asks.

“I’m cleaning up your humongous mess, angel.”

“What!” Amy shouts. Spencer laughs at her outburst. “Mom, I’m supposed to help you!”

“Says who?”

“Says me! Daddy, put me down.”

Spencer obliges her and sets her down. Amy runs to you and takes the doll from your hand, to your surprise, sweeping the pile of her dolls away, mixing the ones you’d redressed with naked and ragged ones. You cover the baby’s back, sighing. Spencer knows from experience those dolls are finicky.

“I was just trying to help,” you say, pouting at her. “It was a big mess, you can’t do it all by yourself, you’re just my little girl.”

Spencer appreciates the way you say it. It’s good to love someone, but it feels like great luck to have fallen in love with a mom who couldn’t adore her children more than you do. He wanted kids so badly, and your love for them cements a great decision. Amy doesn’t feel so lucky, throwing herself against the side of her bed with a dramatic, forlorn whine.

You tip your head back as Spencer kneels by your side. “What’s wrong?” you ask.

He pulls the swaddle from the baby’s face to see her. She’s awake but quiet. Recognition lights her features when she notices his poking, giving him a gurgling smile. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says to you. “Amy just wants to help today, ‘cos she’s our lovely girl.” His voice turns to sweetness as the baby’s smile widens. “Hello, angel. Hi, hi, hi.”

“You wanna help me?” you ask.

Amy pulls her face up from her messy bed sheets. “Yes, please.”

“Well, nobody’s given me a hug in a while.”

“I want to help with the baby!”

“Nobody’s given her a cuddle today, either.”

“She’s cuddling you right now!”

“She’s just resting. What she needs is a good hug and a good kiss.” You stretch your legs out in front of you and reach back to pull at the swaddle. Spencer helps before you can stretch your shoulder in the wrong way, taking the fabric down your arms and releasing you from its confines. You cup the baby’s weight in one hand, her head the other, and slide her into your arm. “Come on, best big sister. Come and hold her for me.”

Amy rushes to do as you’ve said. Spencer smiles to himself and pulls the mound of dolls toward him —there’s a lot of work to do in here, you weren’t kidding about the mess.

You put the baby in Amy’s lap.

“Now,” you say, leaning into Spencer’s, arms opening expectantly, “for me?”

Spencer can’t wait to abandon the doll and bend down over you. He almost pokes your kidney out with a Barbie, but he’s never been any good at resisting you when you ask for a cuddle. It’s not your most comfortable embrace, and yet it’s as perfect as any other, his laugh lost in your shoulder, wrapping his arms behind your back.

“Keep an eye on the babies,” you whisper.

Spencer checks that Amy’s holding the baby the right way and makes you into a Reid sandwich. “She told me she is too dexterous.”

“Did you imply she wasn’t?”

“I said,” he relents, smiling to himself as you squeeze his waist, “that she’s not dexterous enough to carry the baby all day long.”

“But how do you know?”

“I read a couple parenting books a few years ago, I tend to have a pretty good memory.”

“Do you remember how to rub my back?” you tease, softly, still a little shy after all these years.

Spencer rubs your back. Amy babbles loving nonsense at the baby for a few minutes, and then complains of being bored and wanting another omelette.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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anantaru · 1 year ago

Text

DAY 18 — OVERSTIMULATION

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including — gorou, lyney, alhaitham, kazuha

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, overstimulation, oral (fem! receiving), fingering, dom/sub dynamics, teasing, skilled genshin men

𖧡 — GOROU

subtle twitches— the very ones that conceal little hints of excitement that resonated over gorou's ears when he moves himself closer in between your parted thighs, the insides full on glistening with your arousal laced over your folds— and time had passed, surely it did, yet it didn't feel this way to you, not when gorou couldn't stop himself from being trapped within the warm wrap of your legs swaddled around his head.

he's obsessed with it, driven by it.

you're feverishly riding his tongue and keep him as close as possible, your gaze falling down through your tear-stricken lashes as you get a thunderous thrill out of his tongue pressing painfully against the spongy flesh of your folds, your bottom lip tied in between your sharp teeth to hold back on your quivering moans.

you're still too sensitive from the hour long drags of his tongue, really, just pleasure and pain, a ripple of galvanic stirs overloading your senses until you're quivering all over, his sloppy tongue teasing and prodding at your stimulated hole, attempting to push inside as your toes curl inwards, your back arching like a bow.

gorou always sucks so hard on your cunt that it feels like he's trying to draw your pending orgasm out through the sheer force of his mouth attached on your pussy, using your glossy arousal to lubricate his mouth further as he pushes past the aching ring of your slit at last, his nostrils flaring and jaw tightening due to immense concentration.

who knew the general was that good at this?

and gorou was so handsome, so pretty, when he swiftly returns a shy smile at you, pearly whites peaking from underneath his glimmering mouth, whilst his lips never leave your warm pussy and remain on top, because he was truly, utterly, hair-raisingly shameless when it got to pleasuring his perfection of a darling— he'd do anything for your hips to keep on wiggling and aching through timid ruts that would ultimately manifest into a desperate grind of your swollen sex battering his cheeks.

𖧡 — LYNEY

lyney casts a single glance down on your face and falls, head first, in love with you once again— straight from the shoulder, it doesn't matter to him how you look right now, because even though your mascara was cementing under your lower lashes, your eyes transpicuous with mellow tears slithering all over your warm cheeks the moment you whine out his name, it's still not of significant importance.

because for the magician himself, you're still and always will be— the most drop-dead gorgeous being on earth.

you're so good to him and he wants to pay you back for it, every touch and thrust of his thudding dick setting a path of electricity straight to the furthest part inside your ribbed walls and ending at the tip of his his cockhead curling up all nicely inside of you, adding his scent on all the right places that needed the most attention.

and lyney was becoming hungrier by the minute, rocking his length in and out of your pulsating pussy to smear your slick all over your squishy folds and clit, while teasing your nipples with one hand and never downgrading the brimming thrusts of his hips, not until your body was aching, the curves on your frame incandescent of a sharp glow, powered by alight beads of perspiration scattering over the shivers on your skin.

"fuck, so fucking hot, you're so fucking hot, my love,"

lyney's body seem to scream of thrill, indulging of the salacious puffiness on your cunt when you moan through a slacked jaw, step by step falling apart underneath his looming figure as your body suffers from an overstimulating sensation.

oh no, it's way way way too much now, you shiver and cry out his name, yet beg for lyney to continue, wince at the penetrative pressure getting so close that it squeezes the air from your lungs, the electrifying buzzes on your sensitivity move so fast they're unstoppable, it's too much, again, too much;

but it's so fucking perfect.

𖧡 — ALHAITHAM

alhaitham derives gleaming pleasure into your person, an exclaimed heat luxuriating across your face as you return his kiss grouped by rapture— and your boyfriend was outright intoxicated on the way you offered yourself to him so gracefully.

the more your thighs twitched apart and enclosed his waist— the more he convulses when pressing in and out of your glistening cunt, breaking waves of colliding grunts and whines that get swallowed by you both tangling your tongues as he gropes the flesh of your ass to tug and push you into his dripping erection even further.

for that passion that was set free within the confines of the perspiring room— there was also love, determination and the excitement to bring you close to the edge, it turned alhaitham more eager to fasten his blows on you, which, for someone who preferred to take the slowed route, when it came to this, fuck, this, he'd never end it with you being unsatisfied in his performance.

your fingers rummage at the back of alhaitham's shoulders as he kisses your neck before moving the pink muscle and drawing the flat of his tongue right behind your ear— his exhaled breathes were menacing on you, his hair all tousled and disheveled with a couple strands sticking on his dampened forehead, he looked utterly devilish, beautiful and handsome when he grunts in bliss.

shuddering and bucking, you jerk your hips up as you notice the perspiring pressure on your wet sex, something was suddenly different and your entire frame begins to twitch and shake whilst pressed underneath his bulky figure suffocating any form of distance on your bodies.

the most plausible reason for this being on how alhaitham precisely gyrated his hips to penetrate over the clenching base on your entrance, delving through the devious pleasure points in your sensitivity as he explores the totality of your soaking wet walls, the sum of his moments decorated by the heavenly noises slithering from the tip of your tongue.

the surplus of stimulations on your luscious cunt melted into your skin, beating the air with copious amounts of small, hiccoughy moans as you clung yourself tight against alhaitham's body to ride out the powerful shudders as you intensely, came and came apart— your hips curling up mindlessly against his girthy shaped length as your eyes fall shut from exhaustion, mind hanging above the clouds— your pussy throbbing from the musky scent from the scribe, not to mention of pheromones and filth that had been everywhere, all pendant around your bodies— jutting into empty air with your arms forevermore enclosed around each other, overwhelming you in the most beautiful of ways.

𖧡 — KAZUHA

kazuha clearly knows what he's doing to you, and he sees how it's working on each corner of your eyes desperately holding on to a droplet of tears— and he swiftly slides his fingers in and out, his eyes manifesting through a lidded glance, a languishing haze obscuring over your heads as he keeps your legs apart with his body, spending enough time to stretch you, although going slow.

you see, when you suddenly make a sound, kind of a vocalized panting that showed kazuha that you're much more sensitive and reactive than usually, he is aware that it's doing something to you, he knows he needs to keep his slender digits hidden in your cunt for a much longer procedure, perhaps even coax out a real, harboring orgasm from you without using his cock this time.

"just leave it to me," he coos as you're gaped open by his fingers being knuckles deep inside, scattering your bodily scent over his hand as kazuha scissors your creamy arousal back into you, fucking that little cunt of yours silly and proving to you— that you really had nothing to worry about, besides the strong radiation of overstimulation circulating through your entire blood stream.

"just keep your attention on me," he adds onto his mutters, long lashes tickling your cheeks before moving his fingers faster and faster through your tensed walls, the wet echos of your cunt diffusing into the entire humidity of your room.

slap, slap, slap, it's so noisy— ugh, and you drawl out an embarrassed whimper as well as a flustered writhe from how impossibly loud it had become, not to mention on how fast kazuha thrusted the two digits in and out of you and appeared to be utterly delighted by the noises your sweet sex could make, almost as if that was part of his plan.

you stumble and hiccup over your short-lived heaves, wriggling and writhing from the deep curls on your g-spot as he suddenly places his warm thumb on your clit.

it's over now, you're done for, and kazuha's whole, intense ministrations on your body were being downright relentless, his fingers pressing in and out of your wet sex as your exposed figure couldn't do anything other than endure the tasteful traces— with your tits in perfect view for him to indulge in, bouncing up and down in rhythm with the fast pumps of his hand, the underside of your breasts faintly doused with a glow of sweat and perspiration.

"i know, i know," kazuha whispers at you, sensually kissing your cheek when he perceives the soft cries pulled from your throat, the looming begs and whines developing and revealing themselves afterwards— all due to the expanding pressure of his finger over the stretch on your sloppy walls messing you up,

"but you can do it for me, okay? my love, can you?"

3K notes · View notes

happy74827 · 7 months ago

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Butterflies

[Harvey Specter x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: You know you’re screwed when you feel them fluttering in your chest {GIF Creds: jeysuso}.

WC: 717

Category: Fluff

For all my Harvey lovers out there, I made a cute fluffy quickie (I’m seeing a lot of my fics being swarmed with love so why not add to it 🤗)

『••✎••』

It happened over a bottle of bourbon. A spilled bottle, actually. But a bottle of bourbon nonetheless, and that is important to note.

You didn’t mean to spill the alcohol all over your date, but he had made some comment about how you shouldn't be wearing a dress with a plunging neckline, so you just… happened to tip the entire thing over him.

The man was furious, of course, but he left pretty quickly after that. And you were left with a mess on the floor and a waiter hovering at the side, asking if you wanted another bottle.

You told him no. You just wanted to go home.

You didn't want a new date; you didn't want to sit at this stupid table with the stupid white tablecloth, the stupid, gaudy candlesticks, or the stupid waiter with the stupid, expectant look on his face.

"Miss?"

"No, thank you," you say, a little more firmly, gathering up your things and leaving as much cash as you can on the table. If you were smart, you'd have brought an umbrella, but you're not smart, so you'll just get drenched like an idiot.

But, fortunately for you, the person calling your name knew you well enough to know you weren’t that smart.

Before a drop of water could even hit your hair, a tall, dark figure steps out in front of you and blocks the downpour. Some might consider this a gentlemanly action, but you knew the man, and he was hardly ever gentle.

"You're welcome," Harvey says, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You're a pain," you reply, but you're grateful for the cover.

"And you're dateless. So, I see two options: we can have dinner and a drink back at my place, or we can do dinner and a drink back at mine."

You can't help but laugh. "Did you use this on Scottie? I see why she left. That line was bad."

"You're not going to ask how I knew you were here?"

"Nope. You probably had Louis stalk me."

"Don't talk about the puppy like that."

"So you did have him stalk me!"

"I prefer the term 'make sure you were alright,'" Harvey replies, and he holds out his arm to you. "Guy was a douche. Let me buy you dessert to make up for it. And I don’t mean in the biblical sense, although that can be arranged, too, if you'd like."

"Harvey, you’re such—"

You turned to him, ready to tell him exactly what you thought of him, but the words died when you met his eyes. Those same eyes that allured you into taking his offer at Pearson Hardman. The same eyes that made you agree to work with him on the case despite your better judgment.

In a flash, you saw the whole thing: your first meeting, the cases, the laughs, the looks, the touches. And now, the moment.

When you were younger, the term butterflies had never really made sense to you. The idea of feeling them in your stomach seemed ridiculous, and yet, there you were, feeling them for the very first time.

They were all fluttering around inside of you, and all you could think was, "Oh, no."

And as if the universe had heard you, it suddenly stopped raining, and you both stood there in the middle of the street, the moon casting a warm light on your faces.

Harvey noticed it, too, and his expression softened. His usual cockiness was replaced with a gentle concern. "You okay?"

You nodded, biting your lip. "Yeah."

Harvey reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his hand lingering a moment longer than it needed to. He gave you that signature grin and asked, "You look like a velvet cake kind of girl. Am I right?"

He was right.

Goddamnit, he was right.

And as he swaddled you in his coat to keep you warm as you both went back inside, the anger and confusion you felt earlier melted into a quiet, warm glow.

Date night had not gone according to plan, but when his lips met yours and your hands slid through his soft, brown hair, you realized that, perhaps, sometimes, it was good to deviate from the plan.

The butterflies seemed to agree.

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envy-of-the-apple · 8 months ago

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Monsoon

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

10.1k wc

Synopsis: Four years after Toji Fushiguro died, Satoru decided to give his widow a visit

(Warnings: age difference (nothing underaged), dark content, AFAB reader, pregnancy kink, non con, overstimulation, piv sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, rough sex)

It was raining when Gojo Satoru entered your flat.

Not particularly harshly, but more than enough for a scare. You weren't in the mood for visitors; the rain made you drowsy, and it was coincidentally your one day off. You wanted to lean against the window and watch the droplets fall against the pavement with a warm blanket. You did not want to exchange pleasantries with some kid.

The only reason you didn't slam the door in his face was because he said your husband's name.

It was why you were bringing tea to someone who clearly couldn't care less about it as he lounged on the sofa. You sat on the other end, staring at the scuffed coffee table. Out of anxiety, you play with the ring wrapped around your finger.

"...He's dead?"

It's a question, but you already know the answer. Gojo doesn't even bother to reply, humming, taking a sip of the lukewarm liquid. You still stare at the coffee table. It's slightly crooked. One of the legs was broken. Toji promised he'd fix it.

That was four years ago. You hadn't seen him since.

You should have expected this. You knew the kind of man Toji was even before he stuck that flimsy ring on your finger. The kinds of people he hung out with. The suspicious amounts of money he would shower you with. There would have never been a happy end for the two of you.

You can still feel your throat close up, bile rise from your belly. You can't do anything but watch the old table you never threw out because he promised he'd come back and fix it.

The only reason you close your eyes, sucked in a tight breath, was because you still had a guest over. One that clearly wouldn't care about your crocodile tears.

You've never seen someone his age so apathetic before. That temperament was associated with the people of your generation. The people who've already been in the workforce, who carried stress on their backs and hips. You can't see his eyes, but the slouch in his posture is indicative enough. Maybe all kids his age were like this. Uncaring, indifferent, subtly disrespectful.

Because he was a kid. It didn't matter how tall he was, how much bigger than you he was. A single look was all you needed to know that this boy was at least a decade younger than you. Unkept white hair, sunglasses despite the weather, a cocky smile, a voice oozing with misplaced confidence.

You don't acknowledge it; it's clear he didn't come here just to tell you your husband is dead.

"How old's your kid? Eight?" Gojo tilts his head. "You gotta' know what that means, right?"

You do. Even if you weren't steeped into the world your husband willfully left, you know enough. You know how important your son is.

It's why you stop Gojo before he can make his offer. You've already heard this before, a week ago when men with Zenin as their last names knocked on your door.

"Thank you for your concern," you tell him as calmly and respectfully as you can. For the first time, the man straightens up, as if your answer wasn't what he expected. You can sense he isn't used to being told no.

You keep your smile neutral, pleasant, final.

"But we're fine as we are."

Moments later, when he's about to leave, you offer an umbrella, insistent on him taking it. It was raining after all. He takes it with him without any protest.

You don't notice that, despite the downpour, he was perfectly dry when he stepped into your home.

☔︎︎

Megumi was always special.

Every mother thinks that for their child. You're no exception. As soon as he was born, tiny in your arms, swaddled in blankets, something shifted within you. You'd always wanted children, but the concrete feeling of your child in your arms when he's so vulnerable. You'd never felt anything more right.

To you, Megumi was always special. But when Megumi turned 5, he became special to the entire world.

Toji was never tight-lipped about the world he came from. Shamans, sorcerers, shikigami, curses. You weren't an expert, but you certainly knew more than the average person. He'd often tell you things, when he was drunk, pulling you against his bare chest, underneath cheap blankets. You always heard the bitterness in his voice. That world had rejected him. It would reject anyone who wasn't special enough. Special people were rare.

It's why you were convinced Megumi would never have to deal with any of that. His father wasn't a sorcerer, neither were you. He'd live a normal life and would only be special to you.

"It's on your other shoulder."

You switched hands, reaching over to tug on your sleeve. Like always, you couldn't feel anything. There was no weight on your skin, nothing tangible that you could grab and toss. There was just this small feeling of dread. A small ache in your bones.

He waves a tiny hand. Instantly, the feeling of dread is gone. The ache lifts and you roll your shoulders.

"Thank you," you tell him with a strained, but grateful smile. He nods, turning back to his food.

"You're getting more, now," he simply says.

"Haha, sorry," you reply instinctively because even though he's eight, you feel like you've burdened him.

"It's okay," he mutters, quiet as always. His gaze flicks back up at you, before glancing back down. He takes a second to gnaw on his lip.

"Are...are you okay?"

You're being so obvious even your own son could see it.

Your smile feels more forced as you placate him with the usual lie of 'Mommy's just tired, long day at work'. He doesn't buy it, but he doesn't say anything back. He's so much like his father in these moments. Truthfully, you didn't think Megumi got a single thing from you. His black hair is Toji's, his blue eyes are Toji's, his pale skin is Toji's, and even his forever-present scowl is your late husband's. You supposed that should have been the first sign: Megumi would be anything but normal.

You hadn't told him about the visits. You're his parent, you had justified to yourself. He's a child. He doesn't need to know about the visits. Especially, considering you decided for him. Megumi would be raised out of the jujutsu world, away from curses, and sorcerers.

You can't have your son taken away from you like his father was.

('Special Grade', Gojo had told you. A powerful cursed spirit. You hadn't gotten closure until you let him in. No body was ever recovered.)

You can't let your son end up like that.

But was this the right life for him? You watch as Megumi's gaze trails up, like he's tracing the movement of a fly or something bigger that you would never see.

You can't relate to Megumi. You don't have cursed energy. You can't see the things he can. As much as you loved him, you'd never be able to understand what he is. None of his classmates can. None of his teachers. It sounds lonely. Isolating.

Only a handful of people that could ever give Megumi that connection exist. And they're willing to accept him with open arms.

He had been an older man, flanked by another. They eyed your home with relative disgust; you, with mild derision. It'd been their words that echo in your head today. How much happier Megumi would be surrounded by his own kind. How the clan would welcome him and teach him to hone his technique.

They were words that would sate the parent of a lonely boy, but you couldn't help but remember the disregard in his voice. Their words made Megumi sound like a tool, instead of a child.

The offer of payment for your son was enough to turn them away.

Was Gojo Satoru any better? From your brief encounter, you couldn't tell. There was always a smile on his lips whenever he talked about Megumi's future and Jujutsu Tech. The lilt of his voice felt fake, artificial. But at least he didn't ask to outright buy your son.

When Megumi's tucked into bed, you pace around the living room. You glance at the slip of paper he'd left behind. The scrawl of numbers in neat handwriting. The thing he slipped into your unsuspecting hand. You've had a glass of wine before, maybe that's why your hands are a little more steady when you punch in the numbers.

He picks up after the second ring. It oddly feels like he was waiting for your call.

"Can jujutsu sorcerers live normal lives?"

There's a laugh on the other end. Light. Amused.

"No," his response is cold, even when his tone isn't, "Even if they leave the jujutsu world, they will never have normal lives."

The answer you were afraid of, but you weren't surprised. Special people rarely live normal lives. You knew what this meant: trying to protect Megumi from his father's fate would be pointless. No matter how far you run, no matter how far you take him, it will never be enough.

"Does it really matter, then?" you ask, "who Megumi goes with."

"In that sense, no, not really," his voice crackles back, "But I think you've already made your decision."

You had days ago. You were just wasting time, picking up the phone only to drop it just as quickly. As much as you'd wanted to keep your son away from the jujutsu world, you knew, even before they knocked on your door, it was a failed endeavor. Megumi was special. Megumi was too special for you to hide. He shone too brightly.

The Zenin clan would extinguish that. You knew it. Toji knew it too. It's why he took on your name.

It's silent again. You bite your lip. You've been doing that a lot lately.

"Gojo, may I ask a favor?" He gives a hum.

"Please, don't tell him about Toji."

There's a beat of silence. The line clicks.

Two days later, Megumi meets the strongest sorcerer of the modern era.

☔︎

There was always something clinical about Megumi's and Gojo's relationship.

You wouldn't call them father-son, let alone brotherly. It was strictly student and teacher. From the start, it was clear Megumi wasn't impressed with the sorcerer. His scowl would somehow get deeper whenever the young man was around.

Gojo didn't seem all that impressed either. He wasn't as blatant, but you could sense that it was a chore for him, rather than anything else. You don't think you can blame him. He's barely twenty. He should be doing other things. Living his youth, and continuing his education.

Gojo grew up too fast. You can see it in his face. He's never not smiling, but it's never truly sincere. It's not clinical either. It looks exhausted. You wonder-if he wasn't wearing those glasses all the time-if you'd see dark circles.

He's too young to be running around this much. He's too young to carry the entire world of jujutsu sorcery on his back. He's too young to be an educator. A mentor.

Yet he is. Yet he does. All with a smile on his face.

You're less intense nowadays to him. When Megumi comes home, clearly a bit more roughed up than when he left, you criticize Gojo less harshly. When you make lunch for Megumi, you ask if he'd like anything as well. Gojo has a bigger sweet tooth than your eight-year-old son does. You never nag him for it.

The change doesn't fully happen until that fateful conversation. It's an offhanded remark he makes about him not being there to train Megumi for a few weeks because of a mission.

"A curse?" you ask, as if they aren't all around you.

Gojo grins because you've discovered he likes talking. "Reports are coming down from Sendai. The running bet currently is special grade."

You frown. "Oh. Well, be careful."

He freezes at that. You think he's staring at you, but you're not too sure. His glasses give away nothing. Your fingers dance with nerves. Had you said something wrong?

"What?"

You tilt your head. "Oh! Uh, 'be careful'. Stay safe." You end your sentence awkwardly.

Eventually, Gojo recovers. "Yeah. Well, obviously." He smiles.

You watch him leave, keeping your eye on him until he disappears into the sleek black car.

It doesn't occur to you until much later that Gojo probably hasn't had someone worry about him before.

☔︎︎

Whenever Megumi's training continues much later in the evenings, you go to the Gojo estate to pick him up yourself.

It's a grand house. Practically a mansion. You've never felt so embarrassed about your humble apartment until you saw the lavishness Satoru lived in. A part of you is now even more impressed by Megumi's stubbornness. Children are the first to fall for the affluent.

It's big, but you've never quite gotten over how empty it looks. Every time you visit, there's always just Satoru. You haven't seen his mom, his dad, any siblings. It looks like a family home, but he's the only one who's ever there.

He's never mentioned any family. You wonder what happened to them. Where they are now.

Somedays, you arrive a bit earlier than needed. During that time, you tend to stroll through the gardens. They're so beautiful. Large and expansive. They're empty, however, just like that grand house. No flowers. Not even weeds. It's just a bunch of dirt and stones, plainly stacked on top of each other. It disappoints you a bit. The grounds had so much potential.

"Whatcha' got for me this time?" You jump, whirling around. Satoru is right behind you, a teasing grin on his face.

You give him a disapproving look, though it lacks any real heat. "I told you to stop doing that."

"Doing what?" Though he may be twenty, he acts like he's younger than your son. Speaking of your child:

"Where's Megumi?" You prod, glancing behind Satoru, as though your grumpy child would pop up behind him. No such thing happens. Satoru's incriminating smile grows wider.

"Homework," he cryptically replies, "also, he didn't want to disturb us adults having our grown-up conversations."

"Of course he did," is all you say, but you acquiesce regardless, digging through your bag.

You've always been taught to bring something when visiting another person's home. You found it rude not to, despite how casual Satoru acts around you. You discovered he liked sweets the most, so you have tried your best to satisfy his sweet tooth. He seems happy with whatever you give him. One thing you like about Satoru is how he cherishes all the gifts he's received from you without any complaint. You spotted the umbrella you'd given him all those weeks ago, sitting right by the door. He'd never given it back. You'd never asked for it.

You try to ignore the feeling that the only reason he gets excited about your gifts is that it's rare for him to receive anything at all. Satoru doesn't need to be pitied.

It's nothing too big, just a bag of saltwater taffy from an Americanized store. He's already ripping the package open, pulling one out of the wrapper to stick it in his mouth.

You blink when he extends his hand, another piece of candy between his fingers.

"Say 'ah'!"

"Oh no, I'm fine. They're for you—" Satoru interrupts you by popping the piece right in your mouth. Your lips instinctively close.

"Oh." You say after you taste the sweet. "Peppermint."

He laughs, taking another one out for himself. You follow him through the abandoned gardens.

"So, how's Megumi's-"

"Nuh-uh," Satoru immediately stops you, "enough about work. Let's talk about something else!"

You roll your eyes, but your smile is too affectionate. You ask him about his latest trip overseas. He tells you about the country he visited, the curse he exorcised, practically giddy from excitement. Conversation starts there before moving onto other things, small talk, your job.

"It's a shame the gardens are so empty," you say when the conversation reaches a lull.

He stares at the bare patches of dirt with you. "When I was younger, the gardeners would take care of 'em for us. Flowers would bloom every spring."

You feel him recoil. Satoru does that sometimes. Say something too intimate, hissing when it's too late to take them back. For his sake, you don't comment on it.

"It must have looked beautiful." Is all you respond. Understanding, but closed enough to give him relief.

You stand there in silence for a couple of seconds. In the dirt, you can see a tiny ant carrying a grain of sand.

"Roleplay time!" Satoru suddenly exclaims. You whirl your head to look at him. "Imagine you become the great Gojo Satoru." You stifle a laugh at that. His grin only gets wider. "What kind of flowers would you choose?"

Toji always thought bouquets were stupid. 'There's no point' he'd always say 'the weeds will just die anyway, why you somethin' like that?'. But sometimes, he'd bring home these tiny, golden flowers. Simple. Pretty. He'd tuck it behind your ear, grinning at his work. You'd kiss him in return.

"Marigolds," you say at last.

Satoru only hums in response. A few seconds later, he's leading you out of the garden, rambling about how expensive sushi was overseas.

A few days later, you see men with barrels of soil, combing through the garden.

A week after, tiny golden flowers start poking through the dirt. Simple. Pretty.

☔︎︎

You had that same dream again. The day Toji left.

It's rare to have these dreams. They wouldn't leave you alone the first year he'd disappeared. Back when you thought he'd gotten bored of you and your son, like he'd finally decided he was sick of the family life.

They come back sporadically, nowadays. You can't sleep after you have them, so you often find yourself curled up in the living room, looking at the window. It was raining. Heavy droplets thud on the glass. The violence seems desperate somehow. Like the weather is begging to be let in, to snuggle underneath the warm blankets too.

On nights like this, it's a habit to stare at the tiny golden band on your finger. You slip it off, holding it in your palm. It's nothing extravagant—tiny with a simple design—but it's the last thing you have of him. Toji was never that sentimental.

It's not really a dream. Dreams are more whimsical, cloudy. You can remember everything, down to the outfit he'd been wearing, the fly that had been buzzing around your door. It was like you were there all over again, begging him not to go.

"You promised you'd stop."

"This is different," Toji said and you flinched when he tucks away his gun. You thought he'd gotten rid of it.

"The money?" You're pressing, "we have enough money, you-"

"This isn't about fuckin' cash," his voice cuts through you, sharper than any blade he carried.

"It's somethin' else. Somethin' you wouldn't understand. It goes beyond money."

Your gaze lowers, curling your fists on the table. You can't understand, not when he refuses to tell you. Not when he barely explains why he's going back to his old ways in the first place.

Sensing he's upset you, Toji sighs. You can hear him place something down on the dining table, metallic and clanky. Calloused, rough fingers brush your cheek, your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. You don't, forcing him to lean forward, giving a chaste kiss on your cheek. His lips are rough, cracked, but overwhelmingly gentle on your skin.

"I love you," Toji mutters into your skin.

You don't respond. You wish you had, you wish you'd gotten over your pride and told him because maybe then he'd still be here with you. He's giving another sigh, tucking your hair into place before he's leaving. He closes the door behind him.

That day, you told yourself you wouldn't forgive him. Whenever he came back, you'd tell him you were done. You'd take Megumi and you'd leave.

Now, you think you would have forgiven him. Eventually. It would have taken a while, a lot more than measly flowers and apologies. But, if he had come back, you would have let him back into your heart.

"Couldn't sleep?" you ask.

Megumi blinks his eyes. It's past his bedtime, but you aren't going to nag him for it. You place the cup of steaming tea down on the coffee table, clicking your tongue when it wobbles. Right, four years later and you still hadn't fixed it,

"The rain was too loud." He gives.

Wordlessly, you invite him into the cocoon you'd nestled yourself into. The sofa sinks under his weight as he settles next to you, leaning against your side. You tuck the warm blanket around his tiny body. He's still small enough to fully wrap your arm around him, bringing him even closer. You take advantage of it. You don't know how much time you have until he's too big to cuddle with anymore.

His breaths are even and slow. He's a boy of few words, but even you think he's asleep until he's mumbling something into your ear.

"I hate him."

You give a confused hum, leaning down, resting your head on top of his. The coffee table looks even more uneven at this angle. It burns to even look at, these days.

"He makes you cry, even when he's not around anymore."

You laugh at that. It's a quiet huff. When you glance down, you think you spot a faint smile on the boy's lips. He’s so much like his fathers, in the little things. You don’t think you will ever tell Megumi that. You don’t think he’ll take that observation well.

"I wasn't crying.” You tell him. “I was just thinking.”

He doesn't give a response after that. A few minutes later when you look down again, his eyes are closed, and he's drooling against your shoulder. You laugh again before gently gathering your son in your arms and settling him down to bed.

The next day, you notice the monstrous amount of duct tape wrapped around the leg of the coffee table. When you ask Megumi about it, he just shrugs, his ears twinging a bright red.

You throw the coffee table away. It's replaced by a new one the following week.

☔︎︎

Satoru didn't like talking about Toji.

You only tried prying once or twice. He was tight-lipped about it. Not quite cold, but he'd shut the conversation down quickly, more than eager to talk about something else. You missed it the first few times, but it became clear that Satoru disdained even the mention of your late husband. You can't tell if it's whether Satoru admired Toji enough that the mere mention of his name sends him into grief, or if it's something a lot more complicated.

Now that you think of it, you barely even knew the relationship Gojo had with Toji. Had they been close? Was he just an acquaintance? Satoru had always been so cryptic about it.

Toji hadn't.

"He's called the strongest man?" you ask, amusement twinged in your voice, "I thought he was 12."

"They don't care about age when giving titles," Toji replied.

You were leaning onto his shoulder, watching your son sleep in his crib. Only three months old and he had this permanent frown on his face, as if he was already sick of the world. 'He already acts like you' you once told your husband. He'd scoffed, but he didn't disagree.

"That's a little funny," you find yourself saying. "What, can he lift a car? Does he benchpress 200?"

Toji doesn't find the image of a child casually lifting 150lb weights as funny. He only grunts, drawing you closer.

"I met him once," he says after a beat of silence, "back when he was barely older than a toddler."

"Hm?" you prodded, still mesmerized by a sleeping Megumi, "what'd you think?"

"Power," Toji responds, "more power than I'd ever have."

You tear your gaze away from your son, glancing at your husband. Toji's eyes were looking somewhere, farther than you could see. It's the envy in his voice that you can't help but keep. A mere child already has everything Toji could ever want. Strength, a name, honor.

You should have realized then that Toji would never belong to you. Not truly. His heart, whether or not he swore up and down otherwise, would always belong to the Jujujtsu world. It's a tragedy. Someplace that he always longed for acceptance, will never truly see him. Even when he died for it.

Satoru will probably never answer your questions about Toji, but perhaps you could get close.

"Why did you do it?"

It was after dinner. Satoru had dropped your son off, and you had practically dragged the white-haired man inside with you, sitting him down on the dining table. He'd complained, but you know he secretly liked being coddled. He didn't deny the second helpings, nor the thirds. Sometimes you wondered if he was a man or a black hole.

Megumi had already gone to bed, and you supposed he had enough of Satoru for one day. It left you and him in the kitchen, putting away the dishes. Rather, you put away the dishes, and Satoru watched. Not that you minded. It was nice to have company.

"Hm?" He was typing away at his phone, blearily turning back to look at you. You couldn't get why he didn't just go home if he was so uninterested.

"Why did you interfere when the Zenin came?" You repeat your question, putting the last of the plates in the dishwasher.

Looking back, things could have gone much differently for you. For your son. You didn't realize how much power the Zenin clan had back then. Had Satoru not stepped in, had you kept rejecting them, you honestly wonder what sorts of drastic measures men like them would take for the sake of power.

"Are you upset?" He asks, tilting his head.

"Of course not." You smile. You were grateful for Satoru, you always have been. He's helped your family out in more ways than you could imagine. After all he's helped Megumi with, there was nothing Satoru could do to get you mad at him, hate him, not truly.

"I was just wondering. It's not like you had an obligation to."

You close the dishwasher with a soft click. The machine starts with a soft hum. He doesn't reply, not for a long while, when you look up, you see him staring back at you. His sunglasses were off, folded, tucked under his collar.

"Clans are bullshit." You're surprised by the venom in his voice. There's a cinch in his jaw. You wonder how many years his hatred has been festering like this.

"The entire Jujujstu world is, honestly. But clans are the worst of all. The hierarchy. Traditions. All dogshit. They'd gobble the kid and spit him back out. I-I didn't want him-" He stops with a hiss, like he'd said too much.

This time, you don't let him run away.

"...you didn't want him to end up like you." You finish.

It clicks, fits together like a jigsaw piece. The Gojo name had ruined Satoru, turned him into something he was too young to be. The name forced him to grow up faster, stronger. The name forced him to be isolated, lonely.

That conversation with Toji curls up inside of you. Back then, you'd only empathized with Toji's pain, but what about Satoru's pain? What about the amount of expectations that had been piled on top of a 12-year-old boy? What about the responsibilities he's forced to carry, each weight growing heavier and heavier but he can't break because he is Gojo?

Satoru stands before you, but you can easily picture him as Megumi. Tiny, small Megumi who didn't speak much but whose heart was bigger than anyone you knew. He could end up like Satoru. Standing at the top of the mountain. All powerful. All alone.

You don't want Megumi to be alone.

You don't want Satoru to be alone.

"Satoru." You step forward. "Could...could I give you a hug?"

He doesn't respond. You step closer. No barrier.

When you wrap your arms around him, you think you can feel him tremble. It takes a moment for him to catch up, for his arms to drape across your back. You clutch onto him tighter, silently promising not to let go until he does.

He doesn't, not for a long while.

☔︎︎

Satoru had a mission on his twenty-second birthday. So, you celebrate five days after he turns twenty-two.

"Again," you say for the nth time, "If-if you have other plans, or anything else, I don't have to stay-"

"Will you stop it, already," Satoru interrupts, "You're gonna make me depressed. I already told you, I got no other plans."

"Well," you frown, "if you change your mind, and you'd rather spend time with your friends..."

"What other friends? You're the only one I got."

You frown at that. He smiles, barely lingering on his loneliness. He does that a lot lately, brush it off. Perhaps it's become easier to. Perhaps it's because you're here now.

The sun had already set on the Gojo estate. The stars were already out. Typically, you would have been antsy staying too late over, especially when Megumi was still home, but your son was a few cities over. He was training with another sorcerer, his new mentor stating that your son wouldn't be back for a couple more days.

Wait, now that you think of it.

"Satoru," you say, your voice heavy with disapproval, "Did you send Megumi off purely because it was your birthday?”

He grins wider, showing off his pearly whites. "No idea what you’re talking about."

You frown harder. He clicks his tongue in distaste.

"It's not like the kid would wanna come celebrate anyway, and now you can focus on me! Two birds one stone." He flops on the couch.

"Satoru."

"Cake! Cake! Cake! Cake!" Satoru chants, as if that'll distract you.

Unfortunately, it does. You roll your eyes, but you lean down, pulling out the pastry out of the bag. It's nothing special, and you do not consider yourself an expert in baking. It certainly isn't fancy, but you were still a little proud. Simple, a small chocolate cake, perfect for two.

Satoru stares.

"I know it isn't much-"

"I love it," he says and you can't tell if he's joking or not, "I'm gonna make it a family heirloom."

You laugh at that. It shakes your shoulders.

"I don't think cakes are built to last that long. How about you just eat it, instead."

"Much better plan," Satoru responds, grabbing a fork, eager to dig in.

He yelps when you slap his hand away as you give him a stern look. You touched his skin. You try not to linger at that, at the fact that he let you touch him.

"Not now," you say, but you still smile, "you need to blow out the candles first."

He huffs but doesn't protest when you stick two candles into the soft frosting. It takes a while to work the old lighter; you have to shoo him away when he tries to snatch it from you. You force Satoru to sit there for at least a minute as you sing the dreadful happy birthday song. He doesn't seem to mind, a mean grin growing on his face, letting you finish up the lyrics.

Toji was mortified every time you managed to stick a birthday hat onto him, dragging him to the living room for his cake. He'd hold his infant son in his arms, his frown even less amused. Even then, he never interrupted the stupid tradition you put him through. He'd sit through the entire ceremony, Megumi asleep on his chest. A scowl would twitch on his lips whenever you managed to smear a dab of frosting on his nose.

You clap when Satoru blows out the candles.

"What did you wish for?" You ask minutes later, swallowing down a bite of frosting. He was already on his third piece. You know you should tell him to slow down but you don't think it will do much.

"If I tell you, it won't come true," Satoru responds, his tone light.

"That's a myth," you point out, "but keep your secrets if you must."

You set your plate down when Satoru speaks the next time.

"I wished for us to do this again."

His voice is shallow, echoing throughout the empty house. You look at him, his white hair, his pink lips, his blue eyes. Everything that encompasses Gojo Satoru is focused entirely on you.

"That next year, we'll celebrate the exact same way."

He sounded so small, as though he were younger than 22. Perhaps, a part of him was. A gentle smile spreads on your face.

"Of course we will," you assure, before your voice gets teasing, "the next year, the year after that, and the next year until you get sick of me." You laugh. He doesn't laugh back. It's silent again, the kind of quiet that's full and meaningful. Distantly, you hear a clock ticking somewhere. It's a nice night. Peaceful. God, you were so tired from all the stressing you did for the cake. Satoru wanted to watch a movie after the cake cutting, but you wonder if he'll forgive you if you fell asleep during the film. You were exhausted.

That's why it takes you a second to register his lips are on yours.

The kiss is soft, and patient. His mouth moves slowly against yours. You can taste the chocolate. It takes a second to understand what Satoru was doing that he wasn't Toji before your hands are moving, reaching up to his shoulders, keeping him there as you shy away, breaking the kiss. You two stay like that for a few more moments, still touching. You can hear your breath, feel your heartbeat. A little while later, he moves closer, intent on following your mouth, before your brain kicks in and you're shutting him down, standing up.

Satoru blinks up at you, the realization of rejection sinking into his eyes before you stumble over yourself to apologize because, dear god, you should have seen this coming.

"I'm so sorry, Satoru," your voice is coming out in clumps, "I never meant to... I always thought...I'm a decade older than you."

The ocean eyes crystalize, turning into cold tanzanite. You're too muddled with guilt and self-hatred to notice. Of course, Satoru would take things the wrong way. Of course, he'd misunderstand. You always thought he was wise for his age, but he's still in his early twenties. You should have been better and made your boundaries known. God, you were so stupid.

"So?" he asks, but his voice lacks the usual snark. "Who cares how old you are?"

You resist the urge to say something accidentally condescending. 'You'll understand when you're older' stings in the back of your tongue, and you wonder if it's fair to say considering how you acted when you were younger than Satoru-- when Toji was an older man who found you amusing enough for dinner and a warm bed.

It's different now. You were older, wiser. Toji had been a mistake. A mistake you miss every day.

"Of course, you don't," you say, and despite it all, a laugh fumbles out your throat. Shaky, delirious. "Again, I'm so sorry. It's entirely my fault-I-I should have communicated things better."

"Why does any of that matter?." It's his turn to stand up, and it makes everything so much worse because Satoru's taller than you. "It doesn't, not to me. I lo-"

"Stop."

It's not a yell, but it's the harshest tone you've ever used on him. Still, it's enough for his breath to falter, to give you a moment of reprieve because the only other person who said that to you and meant it died six years ago. You touch the cold metal of your ring. You twist it around your finger. When Satoru's eyes gaze down, following your movements, you force yourself to stop self-soothing.

The ticking of the clock starts back up again. You want to smash it.

"I should go."

You already know it's a bad idea. You shouldn't leave Satoru alone. You should stay, sort things out, mend his heart, but you're human. You want to run, sort yourself out first. You want to take the cowards' way out. Satoru doesn't stop you. You can't bear to look at him, not when it's so much to even be here. Your mind is already being thrown into disarray and you're barely remembering to grab your purse.

Your hands rest on the door when you pause. You don't bother turning around. You know he's already looking at you.

"Happy birthday, Satoru."

For some reason, you cry the entire ride home.

☔︎︎

Surprisingly, it's Megumi who asks about it.

It'd been a week since you'd last spoken to Satoru. Communication stills, and stops completely. It goes both ways, he doesn't randomly pop by anymore, scaring the daylights out of you. You no longer buy strange-sounding sweets because you know you won't be seeing him later. One week ago, Satoru was there. The next, he wasn't.

"Has he said sorry yet?"

You jolt up, staring at your son. Megumi is still glowering at the vegetables you'd put on his plate. At this point, you know he doesn't hate the food. He just always looks like that.

"What?"

"He obviously did something to you." He mutters. "Did he at least say sorry?"

No matter how uninterested your son always portrayed himself as, he was very observant. Of course, he would. As much as you loved Megumi, you wish he'd be just 10 percent less attentive.

You force yourself to laugh anyway. "Satoru didn't do anything." You assure. "What makes you say that?"

"The idiot's been sulking all week," Megumi responds, "everyone's been wondering what's up with him."

You give him a disapproving look, but you doubt it did anything. Instead, you glance down, mindlessly poking at your plate.

"Don't call him that," you say softly.

Megumi only shrugs. Despite everything, you still have this strange urge to defend Satoru, if only to save your own dignity of fighting with someone 10 years younger than you.

"Nothing happened. It-it was a misunderstanding, that's all." You hope your smile doesn't look uncertain. He's only ten, but he's already so perceptive. You don't think it's enough to convince him. Your smile drops. You roll your shoulders.

Another thing you should have seen coming. Of course, Megumi would notice. Despite how annoyed Megumi acts around him, there's still a sort of bond between the two boys. A connection between two sorcerers, something you will never have with your son. You were wrong about your initial assessment about their relationship. They were much closer than you thought. Satoru cared about Megumi, as did Megumi about Satoru. Your souring relationship with Satoru might break that. .

Your actions have consequences. To everyone, not just yourself.

"I'll talk to him soon about it, I promise." As if to placate him further, you reach over, patting his hair. He frowns deeper but doesn't make a move to shove you off.

To your chagrin, soon comes later that evening. Satoru breaks the ice first with a single text.

you free tomorrow

It's nothing like him. No emoticons. No exclamation marks. You say yes, regardless. The next evening, you step out of the taxi, thanking the driver before stepping onto the Gojo property.

It was raining, barely a drizzle, not enough to make you want to bring an umbrella. Still, the air was chilly, just enough so that you clutched the coat covering your body tighter. You carefully avoid the puddles adorning the sidewalk.

You agreed to come here, but it's hard to keep that in mind as you climb the patio steps. You stand in front of the door for an entire minute, counting each second, before you knock.

"Finally! Took you long enough."

It's hard to look at him. Already, your gaze threatens to waver. You force yourself not to wrap your arms around your sides. For once, you're glad he wears those sunglasses of his.

Satoru, on the other hand, barely looks affected by the encounter. He's dressed well, in a white collared shirt and black pants. He smiles cheerily, widening the door so you can step inside. You thank him when he wordlessly mentions for your coat.

Your eyes catch the living room, along with the coffee table. There'd been a half-eaten birthday cake the last time you'd been here. Now the table is completely clean. You wonder what Satoru had done with it. You hoped he threw it away because the thought of him sitting there, alone, finishing the pastry filled you with so much guilt you could almost feel sick.

"Did you see the weather just an hour ago?" He asks offhandedly, "thought the rain would smash through my windows, from how loud it was."

"Oh?" You ask genuinely because you honestly hadn't noticed anything regarding the weather. You'd been stressing about the reunion, mind too preoccupied to care about the skies.

"'hope the violets survived. I just planted 'em yesterday." He glances out the window as though he could see through the sheets of rain. You hum, already feeling out of place. The silence is only accompanied by the rain lightly patting on the windows.

"You still love him." When you don't answer right away, Satoru turns back. "That Zenin guy. You love him."

It catches you so off guard that you can't help but tell the truth. You nod once.

He's still smiling, but the air feels off somehow. Like you're passing unmarked territory. It's a silly thought, and you brush it off immediately. Despite how strained your relationship is currently, Satoru isn't dangerous. He never will be.

"Yeah," he responds, "I just don't get why, y'know?"

You try to smile, but it's like pulling teeth. "I-I don't see how-"

"It just doesn't make sense. You and him, I mean. You two are so different."

You couldn't argue with that. Toji and you were on opposite ends. He was from a world that you would never be able to reach, let alone touch. You were a regular woman. He was a man who fought curses on a regular basis. A man who died from it.

Satoru's laughing; it takes you a moment to realize you might have said some of that out loud.

"Right. Fuck I keep forgetting that's what I told you." Satoru leans against the counter. "A special grade killed Zenin."

"I mean, technically, I didn't lie, right? A special grade did kill him. A special grade sorcerer."

Your brain stops. You can only stare. Satoru reaches up, taking off his glasses, folding them before neatly placing them on the counter. His eyes were always so breathtaking; now they look empty. Soulness.

You laugh. It sounds delirious. "But-but you said you were one of the only special grade sorcerers around."

"Yeah." Satoru nods along.

"Satoru...you're not making any sense..."

"Really?" Satoru tilts his head. "What part of 'I killed your husband' is confusing for you?"

He continues at your silence. "I mean, it wasn't like it wasn't for a good reason. The guy shot a junior high girl for cash. Knowing him, he's probably done worse. If you're asking me, I did a good thing by killing him--oh." Satoru pauses at your expression: horrified, broken.

He's smiling. You think that's the worst part. It's the same smile he's always worn. Playful and mischievous.

"C'mon, you seriously didn't know what he was up to. I can't tell whether you're that stupid or if he was that good at hiding it."

You should have denied it. You should have said Toji would never do the heinous act Satoru just accused him off, but can you? Could you honestly say that? You knew Toji was in bad shit. You'd always known that. He told you about the gambling, the drugs, the money. After he married you, he promised he walked away from that life, he was walking away with you. One last job, he'd said. Just one last job and he was done forever.

Something that goes beyond money, Toji had said, something you would never understand.

You can hardly breathe, sinking against the wall behind you as you collapse onto the floor. Your hands are pressed against your mouth, muffling your sobs as your eyes are filled with tears. Every interaction you've ever had with Toji is flitting through your mind. You can feel the bile in your stomach, threatening to leave your lips, splatter across the floor.

Your husband was a murderer.

Your husband was a monster.

His fingers are cold as he firmly pushes your hands away from your face. You glance up. Satoru stares right back. His smile is gone, replaced by a frown. He squats before you, idly tracing his pointer figure around your cheeks, catching your falling tears.

"He took everything from me, y'know," he says, quiet, low enough that the rain almost drowns his voice, "in just a day, my entire life changed. Someone died. A person I thought would be by my side my entire life disappeared."

"But, I gotta' thank him. Without his help, I wouldn't have become stronger, and I wouldn't have you."

You suck in a breath at that, but Satoru isn't paying attention. His hand traces down to your neck, feeling the skin.

"I like to think that he gave me you as an apology of sorts. It's nice to think of it that way, right?"

You look at him, absolutely horrified at how casual he was being.

Your husband was a monster.

And he’d left you with another one.

Immediately, you slap his hands away.

"Stop." You say, a weak hiss, "don't-don't touch me. Never ever touch me-"

"Yeah," he interrupts, ignoring your wavering voice, "I didn't think you would jump into my arms after what I said, either. But, hey, a guy can dream, right?"

What? And before you can think, he's pressing his lips against yours.

It's not like his first kiss. Before, when it was soft and sweet and he barely pushed, like he was savoring you. This kiss was harsh. Filled with teeth and lust and endless greed. You can taste the inexperience, and the thought that this might be the second time Satoru’s ever kissed someone fills your head. The fight is almost pathetic as you sink into his hold, helpless to do anything but wilt until he's had enough of his fill. You push against his chest, but he only leaves on his terms.

You're both panting, but you're more frazzled. His lips are blushing pink, and there's a string of saliva that stretches before snapping apart. You can feel the way his hands are positioned on your hips. Disgust and self-hatred wells up within you.

"I meant what I said that day: I love you." You squeeze your eyes at his confession. "I mean, what's there not to love? You're sweet; you're hot."

His hands play with the hem of your shirt. You stiffen as you try to claw them off of you, but it doesn't help. You don't want to look, but you just can't help yourself. It's morbid curiosity. Looking at a car crash. Your eyes open and you stare at Satoru.

"But I think the thing I love about you the most is that you'll never hate me."

Two glowing blue eyes stare back at you. He looks ethereal like this. Even when he's kneeling, he's still taller than you. He's always been above you. Not just in height, you're slowly starting to realize.

You always thought Satoru hated his last name. You always thought he blamed his lineage for his loneliness, his isolation. He grew up too fast, forced to become something for the sake of others. It's why you tried so hard to treat him like an equal, as though he were another human.

When he leans in to kiss you again, you finally understand that Gojo never wanted to part from his last name. Why would he? It was always a part of him. It was your fault for trying to humanize and connect with him. You fought for years to see him as an equal that you neglected to ask if he even wanted to be on the same plane as you.

Perhaps, once he did. Back when candlelight illuminated his face. When chocolate was the only thing you could taste.

"You can't hate me." He smiles against your lips. "You feel too sorry for me."

"No matter what I do to you, you'll never hate me."

You start crying again. Satoru hushes you, wiping away your tears in a way that suggests he's not used to being soft and delicate. Yet, he's trying to be. Soon, his gentleness fades, and his impatience seeps in again. It's all too easy for Satoru to haul you to your feet. He was the strongest, after all. You struggle anyway because you're human and your heart is filled with foolish hope. He laughs at your meager attempts to push him away, and you feel that this is all a game for him. Maybe it always was.

"Satoru-Satoru," you're begging as he pulls you through his empty house, "you don't have to do this. Please just-"

"See? You still aren't getting it." Satoru sighs, like he's disappointed before he's tossing you in a room. You flail against the bed, your chest pressed against the cushions before he's flipping you onto your back. It's worse when he's hovering over you, both hands on either side of your head, caging you in.

"I'm not doing anything I don't want to do. I never have."

You expect Satoru to kiss you again, that disgusting display where he rips you apart with his teeth, consuming you whole. Instead his pretty blue eyes flit to your clenched hand. He snatches up your wrist, easily unfurling your hand.

You react too late, only reaching up to stop him when he’s done pulling the ring off your finger. Satoru barely gives it an unimpressed look before he’s tossing it aside. You can only stare in the direction of it, watching as the last thing you had of him drops into the darkness. There’s two metallic clinks before it’s rolling to a stop. And then, you hear nothing.

He lets out a breath, like he’s relieved, dipping his head into the crook of your neck.

“I was so sick of looking at that.” He mumbles into your skin, giving it a playful nip. “Parading that thing around in front of another man like that. It’s kinda’ rude, y'know?”

You give another sob when his hands dig underneath your shirt. He presses on the softness of your belly, burying his face deeper into your neck, inhaling your scent.

“Fuck, you smell so good.” He groans into your neck. You can feel something press against your thigh.

You know what he was planning on doing, he made it clear ever since he dug himself into your skin with fangs. But the evidence. The hands twitching up your shirt, groping and feeling. The bulge grinding against your thigh

You can’t fight him, you stopped trying. Instead, you clench your fists again, letting the last of your tears drip down your face, praying and praying that what Satoru said wasn’t true.

Satoru isn’t nice to your clothes. You don’t know why you thought he ever would be. When he’s done with feeling and not looking, he pushes your shirt up, letting it catch just over the swell of your chest. He’s pushing your bra down, leaning down to trace your skin with his hot, wet tongue.

You jolt at the contact. It’d been so long since you’ve last been touched. He’s barely done anything and yet you’re already so sensitive. Something between a gasp and a moan is pulled out of your lips when Satoru swirls his tongue around your nipple, before he takes it fully in his mouth.

He’s tasting you, savoring you in a way you’d only seen him do for his cherished candy. He’s messy with it too, drool and spit spilling onto your skin, making you feel even colder than you already were.

Satoru has never stopped with just one candy, has he? He’s greedy, popping another and another in his mouth until the bag is all empty. It’s his natural essence to take until there’s nothing left. That’s why his hand trails down to your skirt, pushing it down before you can even decipher what he wants next from you.

You gasp when his hand presses against your panties, pushing them between your folds. The fabric lightly brushes against your clit, not enough for you to have any kind of relief. Still, a tingle jolts up your back.

“You’re soaked!” Satoru’s exclaiming. His voice comes out in the form of a laugh, light and innocent. It hurts to hear him sound like that. You have no more tears to cry again.

You want to tell him that it wasn’t you, that you don’t want him, that it’s just your body, but you doubt he cares about any of that. He pushes your panties down, letting them sit against your thighs before he’s pushing a finger deep into your wet pussy.

You can’t stop the noises this time. It’s more of a yelp than a moan, but Satoru takes it in stride as he continues to finger fuck you. When he digs a second finger into your hole, there’s a wet squelch of a sound. You have to turn away, but you can feel his smile against your skin. Victorious.

His other hands comes, pushing in between your breasts to keep you on the bed as he plants butterfly kisses down your ribs, your stomach, your hips, all the way down until he’s practically on his knees.

You were right to assume his inexperience. He’s sloppy, spreading his saliva and your wetness all over your pussy. There’s no rhythm, no clear pattern as he’s trying everything at once--swirling his tongue around your sensitive clit before licking his way into your hole.

And yet, it’s working. Your battered cunt responds to his enthusiasm, and your walls squeeze his fingers.

You can’t stop your noises. You don’t think he’s trying to stop his. His voice is muffled by your pussy, but he’s moaning and groaning so loudly. You think he’s saying something, but you can hear anything over the wet sounds of your cunt, the throbbing between your ears.

Your orgasm was inevitable, but you’re still surprised when it hits. Ramming into you like a train. Your back arches, and your thighs are involuntarily squeezing Satoru’s head. Keeping him there.

There’s a hum of satisfaction coming from him, but he doesn’t pull away. He folds your thighs, pushing them up into your chest so he can get more access to your pussy, sucking even harder on your clit. You were so far out of it that you can barely remember that this isn’t for you. It’s all for him. Satoru is greedy. It’s his natural essence to take and take until you’re nothing more than an empty bag, once filled with something sweet.

He doesn’t stop until you’ve come around his fingers and tongue a second time, when your cries are on the brink of overstimulation. When Satoru finally pulls away, the bottom half of his face is shiny. He keeps his eyes on you, messily wiping the remnants of you off his face before his leaning forward to kiss you, letting you taste yourself.

Unlike you, he doesn’t bother undressing himself. He’s unraveling his belt from his waist, pushing his pants down enough that he’s able to untuck his cock from his briefs. He’s already hard, giving his dick two cursory pumps before he’s settling his on either side of your body, keeping you there.

He’s big. Big enough that you worry he might actually succeed in breaking you. A semblance of rebellion, motivated by fear than anything else, stirs inside you. You push yourself up, elbows pressing against the mattress before he’s ending it.

There’s a grin, a flash of teeth, before he’s roughly pushing you down again.

“Satoru-“You start, you beg.

“Shut it,” he says, his smile too dangerous to be friendly, “if it isn’t begging me to fuck you, then I don’t wanna hear it.”

As though he’s taking the sight in himself, he hovers over you. The light from the window gently caresses his face in an angel kiss. His white hair is almost like halo, swathing him in an innocent shade of beauty.

When Satoru sinks his cock deep inside of you, you wonder if he’s defiling you or himself.

Just like before, he doesn’t bother letting you acclimate. He doesn’t wait, he doesn’t hold off. You can’t expect him too. Your pussy is squeezing him, edging him on. How could you expect him to not take it as a challenge and fuck you the way he’s dying to?

It’s exactly what he does as he bullies his cock deep inside your walls again and again. He whimpers, high and pitchy before he’s leaning down to bite and lick at your neck, your chest, leaving your skin with marks and bruises that will last for days.

Satoru loses his sharpness the more he’s inside of you. You cry when he leans down, circling his thumb across your clit.

“So good,” he’s mumbling into your sweaty skin, like a mantra, “so good so good. You’re so good. I love you I love you I love you-“

It’s torture to hear him say that over and over again and a part of you tries to force yourself to think of someone else to give you comfort. Scarred lips. Thick black hair.

You can’t.

Satoru has taken away everything, even your dreams.

There’s another gasp before he’s harshly gripping on your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are blown open, wide and manic.

“Say my name,” he’s begging but his grip is too tight to be anything but an order, “I-I need you to-fuck-say my name.”

“Sa-Satoru.” He lurches at that, almost collapsing into your chest.

“Again.”

“Satoru,” and then you say it again and again and again because your brain’s too muddled to do anything but listen to him.

His thumb is moving faster and faster on you clit, his thrusts are getting sloppier.

“Gonna-gonna fill you up,” An alarm of panic ring as he’s blabbering, words stilted and strained, “I gotta’—I just gotta’, can’t think of ‘nothing else—fuck fuck.” He adjusts your legs, folding your body in half so he can push that much deeper inside of you.

He smiles again. Wild. Unhinged. The monsoon that is Gojo Satoru. If you won’t wash away with him, then he is more than happy to drown you in his rain.

“Fuck,” he curses again, his voice a mix of a laugh and a groan, “think the kid would like a younger sibling?”

You can barely process his words. You don’t think Satoru could process his either. His orgasm triggers your own, and you’re both tipping over the edge together. His cum fills your pulsing cunt, searing your insides with white heat.

Satoru collapses on top of you, pressing you into the mattress of expensive sheets. You two stay like that, just the sounds of your harsh breathing fills the room. Satoru gives a shaky kiss on your lips, just as sweet and chaste as the first time.

He stays there for another minute, before he’s pushing himself up again. You can’t understand what he’s doing until you realize he’s still hard inside of you.

“Satoru—” it’s a plea, your voice overwrought with exhaustion, “Don’t—"

“One more, ‘kay?” he slurs, pushing his cock as deep as it could get inside of you, “Just—Just one more.”

You wake up hours later. It's pitch-black, the lights are gone. Distantly, you can feel Satoru's hand curled around your waist. He'd fallen asleep with his head buried in your neck. You can feel his rhythmic breathing against your skin. Outside, the rain beats on the windows, and thunder rattles in the sky.

You wait for it—the anger, the hatred—for yourself to hate Gojo Satoru.

He was right. Nothing came.

#yandere jjk #yandere #yandere gojo satoru #dark content #dark jjk #dark gojo satoru #x reader #gojo satoru #afab reader #tw:noncon

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lovebugism · 11 months ago

Note

“i’m tireddd.”

*in a whiny voice* “i’m tired.” *mocking them*

this is sooo eddie coded

ty for feeding my grumpy eddie obsession anon — grump!eddie's boyfriend instincts take over when you're sleepy (ditzy!reader-ish, established relationship, fluff, 0.6k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

There’s something heavy in Eddie’s lap. Something heavy and warm and smelling like a fresh shower.

He fights open drooping eyelids, not knowing when he’d dozed off or how long he’d dozed off for — or exactly when you crawled haphazardly into his lap. He figures it couldn’t have been that long ago. ‘Cause his show is still on, and you’re still shifting to get comfortable over his legs.

“What are you doing?” he asks you, voice thick with sleep until he clears it away.

You’ve got yourself curled in a tight ball, trying to make yourself as tiny as possible so you can fit more of yourself in his lap. The effort is futile. Only half you thrown over half of him. It doesn’t look comfortable in the slightest, but you settle with a contented sigh like you are, anyway. Eddie smooths a warm hand over your back and lets you lie there, on top of him.

“Laying on you,” you answer, muffled against him.

“Okay… Why?”

“‘Cause I love you.”

“Boo,” he moans. “Too vague.”

You whine. “Today was just so long, and I’m sooo tireddd.”

“Aww, you’re tired?” Eddie coos in a mocking voice. “You poor baby.”

He uses his sarcasm to compensate for how sweet he is to you. He acts annoyed but grabs a blanket from the back of the couch to drape over you anyway. Even goes as far as to swaddle you in it when he resituates you in his lap, sitting you more wholly over his thighs.

Vulnerability has always been hard for him, only ever feasible when he pretends it’s insincere.

“Is this better?” he mumbles into your hair.

You hum, warm against his neck. “Mhmm.”

“Good. ‘Cause you’re blocking the TV.”

“Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this,” you tease and pull slightly back from him. The tip of your nose runs up his jaw to the apple of his cheek. “There’s a reason I call you Teddy, you know?”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re soft. And fuzzy. And you love to cuddle.”

Eddie squints at you. “…You just made all that up.”

“You can like me, you know? We’re not in high school anymore, Teddy.”

“I always liked you,” he scoffs and holds you tighter against him, one arm around your back and the other beneath your knees. “Even before you knew I existed.”

“I always knew you existed!”

“Yeah? Since when?”

“Mr. Hauser’s Sex Ed class. Freshmen year. He was like, ‘That’s how the homo sapien male holds an erection—’” You recite it like it’s something you think about often. A reminiscent smile pulls at the corners of your lips. “—And the boy with the grown-out buzz cut behind me said, ‘Actually, Mr. Hauser, I think an erection is better held in the hand of the homo sapien female.’”

Eddie laughs at the long-gone memory and starts to sparkle with it.

“And I’ve been smitten over that boy ever since,” you tell him with a sickly-sweet smile.

He scrunches his nose in disgust, still not used to the affection you show him so effortlessly. “You had a crush on me in ninth grade?” he teases like he hasn’t loved you since eighth.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Still do.”

“That’s so gross,” he grumbles like a storm cloud right before hugging you that much closer.

He holds you with firm hands, suffocating in the best of ways, with every intention to melt with you. The bridge of his nose smushes into your neck. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of your shampoo. His exhale fans warm against your skin.

“Too gross to kiss?” you wonder in a tiny voice.

“Yes,” he answers quickly as he pulls away. “But I like gross, so…”

You press a smacking kiss to his plush grin. Then another for good measure. You hug him closer and bury your face into his neck. “Mm. You taste like a TV dinner,” you mumble into his skin.

Eddie tries hard to hide his laughter. It bubbles from his throat like sunshine, anyway.

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble #event: bug turns one

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jjenthusee · 4 months ago

Text

Moonlight And Intentional Mistakes

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

A/N: This is inspired and dedicated to @heavysighing-dreamyeyes amazing post linked here (show it some love) and their numerous sweet words especially on my Broken Mug writing drabble (also linked), so after crying reading their messages, i had to do something about the intense rush to write and the best way i can think of thanking you is by doing what i know, art and writing. i had no idea that i was influencing anyone, i only hoped my love for Jason was communicated correctly. i hope every single one of you that comes across my account has beautiful things happen to u. i’ll give u all a million kisses. please continue to write, i would love to continue reading what u have for us next <3 there’s also a surprise at the end :D (as always comments are appreciated if you’re comfortable <3 let me know your brain rot thoughts) ENJOY

Tags: teeth rotting fluff, soft Jason, touch starved Jason lowkey, siri play Never Grow Up by Niall Horan 😔, might have inspired the direction of the fic

Word Count: 3.4k

The moon was high.

Moonlight had casted a faint glow on the window blinds, it peaked in through the tiny gaps.

Only a small lamp was on, cascading light from the living room into your room. It gave enough light to see the outlines of your room. Bathing everything it could touch in a faint warm glow.

It was still dark enough that the details were too fuzzy to point out, but most objects were wrapped in shadows, bringing a unique calm to your room.

In the chill of night, the bed was warm. Jason was the perfect heater. The blankets were cozy and the sound of a fan whirred at the corner of the room.

It didn’t make sense covering yourself head to toe in a fuzzy blanket with a fan blasting air at you, but the sound mellowed you into the night, calling slumber closer to you.

It would have been easy to sleep if you were given the chance, but your gentle giant boyfriend was adamant to prove to you that he needed to sleep as physically close as possible to you.

It would have been fine, but today you couldn’t find a relaxing sleeping position. You had to shift your body around before finding the state of mind and the right amount of comfort to drift off, but tonight was difficult. Not only were you constantly shifting in the bed sheets, you were keeping Jason awake.

As your body moved to a new spot on the bed, Jason followed. Turning his body to follow the heat you left behind on the sheets. He wasn’t fond of the fact that a blanket fully engulfed you while he didn’t, it wasn’t fair.

When he got close enough to throw his muscular arm over you, you beat him to your next journey across the mattress.

If the queen bed the both of you were laying on looked like a college dorm twin XL with Jason laid out over it, then you shouldn’t have cornered yourself onto the edge.

Now half of your body dangled off the mattress. The bed was definitely big enough for the both of you the last time you checked, but with Jason getting closer to you every time you moved, it looked like he teleported a smidge closer when you blinked.

It also wasn’t ideal when he rolled onto the corner of the blanket that had unraveled from your legs.

You teetered on the end of the bed when he purposefully made sure to take up ninety percent of what was left of the mattress. Locking you on the edge, wrapped in a blanket.

You had been laying on your side, but Jason kept nudging you, tickling your face with his messy hair when he got close enough to attempt to burrow his large self into you. You kept scooting back, but once you didn’t feel anymore mattress, your legs were feeling where the cold air invaded the bed.

Now you settled on the dangerous edge with one leg completely off. Despite your avoidance of Jason, your free leg locked around Jason’s leg for any support to keep you safely on the bed. Your entire upper half was swaddled like a baby as the blanket blocked out any of the chill, your arms completely smushed against your sides with no way to free yourself besides Jason moving his body off of the edges of your blanket.

You had no control whatsoever.

It was you and your straining leg on Jason that was the only thing keeping you from plopping on the cold floor. Now in a vulnerable position, did Jason have the bright idea of asking the question you’ve been avoiding all day.

Where were his pudding cups?

———

“I take it back!” You pleaded with Jason as he kept the blanket tightly wound around you, preventing you from moving your arms to retaliate.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Jason playfully faced at you, laying on his side. His voice melted with innocence, but had underlying amusement.

Your blanket was your savior and your enemy as it saved you from the hard floor, but it was also securely caught by Jason’s entire weight. He had you completely trapped inside with only your head and legs poking out, the fabric slung around you.

Moving his body an inch closer to the edge, Jason pushed your body further off, further with no support beside his mere weight and strength keeping you from falling.

“I swear there were two pudding cups before you left!” You screamed, your hair falling off your face, the ends gravitating toward the ground, your impending doom.

“Sweetheart, let’s play world’s greatest detective and I’ll ask you something. If I didn’t eat ‘em and we are the only two people who live in this apartment, then who do we have left? Hm?” Jason’s voice, honey sweet, as he emphasized the contradictions in your statement.

With the blanket bunched in his hands, Jason easily lowered you slightly, juggling your weight effortlessly while laying on his side. You cursed at his perfect athleticism.

The room may have been dark, but you didn’t need the moonlight to know he had a shit eating grin trying to get you to confess.

You felt like this was probably the closest you would feel to people walking the plank in those pirate movies you watched as a kid, a sick waiting game not knowing when your fate was inevitable. It was fun at the time and maybe the cold ocean was different from your bedroom floor, but otherwise it was still cold.

“I don’t even like sweets!” You playfully laughed as he teasingly let his hands slip, clearly seeing through your lie. You squealed as you felt your head dip and your leg fall from on top of Jason’s.

“And my hand slipped.” Jason equally lied through his teeth, his threat filled with no malice whatsoever as he securely held onto you.

“I’m starting to feel like this has nothing to do with pudding cups.” You raised your head back up to look at Jason, a full smile present on your face, testing your vulnerable state.

“Oh?” Jason raised his eyebrow as he looked down at you from the edge of the bed. The angle looked great on him.

“My world’s greatest detective intuition is telling me that you’re just mad that I kept rolling away from you.” You mischievously pointed out.

“My love, you need to use those skills to find out why all our pudding is gone.”

“Do you do this to all the criminals you interrogate?” You deflected, using your eyes to point to the current position both of you were in, dangling from the bed in a blanket while Jason kept you there.

“Only the pretty ones.” Jason sung, pulling you up slightly so you weren’t as close to the floor, not quite on the bed, but in a better spot than before.

“I didn’t realize the Red Hood had such malicious threatening techniques.” You shook your head feigning disappointment as you struggled to readjust your leg to latch onto his again. It probably looked awkward, but you were desperate. It wasn’t your fault that your boyfriend was built like a tank. “I promise to not rob anymore banks anytime soon. I’ll straighten myself out. Scouts honor.” You breathed out, exhausted from the movement.

“Just admit you ate the pudding and I’ll erase everything. Your speeding tickets and the bounty on you in 15 countries.”

“It’s 18 actually, don’t defile me—“

Jason effortlessly lowered you again. The blanket slipping slightly from jostling you around.

“Okay, okay!” You cried out. “If I fall you’re limited to two kisses a day!”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Three, take it or leave it.”

“Tell me where the pudding is.”

“Four kisses and you can cuddle suffocate me when we sleep.” The blanket around you felt noticeably loose.

Jason scoffed, offended by your choice of phrasing.

“If our lives are ever on the line, I gotta remember I can’t ever let you negotiate.” He tauntingly called above you. “And I don’t cuddle suffocate you.”

“So it was ‘cause I moved away from you earlier!” You cried out as you slipped further. The blanket loosening completely around you, your gasp blurring into Jason’s name. A plea to catch you.

Jason quickly bent down, rolling his body off the bed and slipping his arms around you as he followed you to the floor. He rolled his body forward enough to quickly shift your position so his body plopped on the ground first while you landed on top of him.

It was a soft landing as you laid on his chest. Quickly finding a comfortable position in his arms.

“You only get one kiss a day.” You flatly said. “Why is our bed frame weirdly tall?” You nuzzled your head into his chest.

“Our deal was two.” Jason tenderly caressed your head. Moving your hair in motions that made you want to fall asleep.

“Looks like we’re both liars.” You barely whispered, sleepiness taunting your body.

“I guess you’re still wanted in 18 countries.”

You lazily laughed into Jason, his body slightly shaking from your movement. His arms wrapping around you, engulfing the feel of your laughter and locking it between your bodies. He smiled into your shoulder. Smelling your comfort.

You lifted your head, freeing your face. You were still being held by Jason, but you had a clearer view of his loving gaze lost on you as he traced your features, entranced by your smile.

“Missed opportunity.” You drunkenly watched and felt Jason’s fingers caressing your face.

“If you let me ‘cuddle suffocate’ you, you might have another shot.” Jason’s thumb rubbed your cheek, pressing into the softness. His calloused finger pads feeling slightly itchy, but you would never pull away, too endeared by how gently he treats you.

“Worth it.” You say after snapping out of your trance that was locked on your boyfriend. He knew the right areas to get your mind lost on his touch, focused solely on him.

You pulled yourself up from laying on top of Jason, grabbing for his hands as you stood. Straining to help pull him up, but almost all the effort came from his own strength, not yours.

Playfully, Jason never let go of your hands and let his body be dragged completely onto you, dramatically coming forward to rewrap himself around you.

You giggled as you threw your arms around him. Enjoying the warmth that radiated from him, reheating the once empty space. Your own personal heater. You were glad tonight was one of the nights he stayed home with you, cuddled in bed all evening. You tried your best to soothe his mind, away from the thoughts of patrol as much as you could.

Giving his mind a small mental break, to hold you close and whatever else he needed. Both of you continue to work hard to develop and maintain the kind of trust that Jason needed to work through the hard days, silent but never alone.

With reassuring hugs while he counted your breaths, holding onto your hand just to thoughtlessly memorize them, standing in your presence just to observe you.

His difficulty with readjusting to the mundane and useless tasks of every day life was the biggest challenge. Too many conversations about why we need to treat ourselves because we want to. Jason’s mind was filled with too many needs.

He needed a reason to buy himself something, he needed to push his body to the limits because there was no other option, he needed to work alone.

So you showed him that he didn’t need you to hold his arm while you walked around the city, but he wanted you to do it.

He didn’t need you to take care of him, but you wanted to because you cared.

As you lost yourself in the shared closeness, you swayed your body. Jason unconsciously following your movements, swaying with you and letting his hands intertwine behind you, letting it gently rest against your lower back. Once you held on, Jason had silently vowed to never be the first to let go.

As you moved your bodies, clueless about Jason’s promise to himself, you didn’t let go either. So the two of you clung to one another.

It was one of the millions of things you cherished about Jason, he showed his devotion through his mannerisms. He helped put away your bags after a tired day of work, when he brought you a blanket if you fell asleep on the couch then carried you to bed. He bought your favorite snacks if he was at the store. He effortlessly followed you, content to be next to you.

Of course, he still put up limitations. He wouldn’t put your safety at risk. He sat closer and became more aware of restaurant doors, he kept you walking on his side or always in front of him, when he slept he made sure to determine the layout that suited you best, away from the window. His eagerness to make sure your wellbeing is priority.

It led to him not sleeping once you switched your position too many times tonight. He wasn’t satisfied with you being closer to the window, but he also was determined to get you to cuddle.

Numerous times you wanted to tease him, but after a Red Hood reveal that had you debating if he collaborated with his brothers to pull a twisted prank on you and an emotional talk, you couldn’t blame him for any of it. The fitted suit was just an added bonus you could outrightly ogle at.

You two were standing, holding each other in the dark. His head nuzzled on the base of your neck, his hands gripping your shirt, crinkling at the desperation. Sometimes Jason felt overstimulated when his feelings were ready to burst. His unfamiliarity with so much tender affection makes his mind unable to process all of it.

All you can do is to tell him that your there. Reminding him that you were unwilling to go anywhere.

“I’m here, Jay.” You softly reassured. “I’m right here, in your arms.”

Jason was unaware of the same silent promise you prayed to yourself, to never let him go.

When Jason’s grip loosened, your lips softly kissed the side of his head, soothing the thing that gives him a hard time. Repeating the motion, feeling his breaths even.

You never said that you were limited to how many kisses you can give him.

As you methodically swayed and with one final kiss against his hot skin, Jason shifted himself to standing taller, resting his forehead on yours. His hair laid flat against your skin.

You closed your eyes, enjoying how docile he became once you initiated physical touch. A craving he wanted and you unconditionally gave him.

When you opened your eyes, adjusting to the darkness, you grabbed one of his hands to intertwine them, your other hand gently falling onto his shoulder. He noticed the familiar stance, mimicking that of a dance. He silently rested his free hand on your waist, once again feeling the fabric of his shirt that you wore.

There was no music, but you leaned into Jason once again, swaying to the rhythm of his heartbeat, slow and in tune with his breaths. The further closeness let you settle your head underneath his chin, his hand following around the width of your waist pulling you in more.

Everything felt perfect. It was the middle of the night in the dark, you wore pajamas, no music played, both of your hair messy, but you held Jason. A sweet grasp of his shirt bunched in your hand, your feet bumping into his, the smell of your soap radiating from his skin from his shower.

If this was your last day on Earth, you would think you were blessed to be in front of the most loving, tender man. Watching his eyes softened and sparkle as he feels a breath of peace.

That was all you needed.

In an act of surprise, you moved your arm to wrap around Jason’s waist and attempted to dramatically swoop him back. It was haphazardly done, but he gladly played along despite the difference in height making it a little awkward. He dipped back then came forward, reuniting your embrace, both of you laughing at your clumsy attempt at a slow dance.

“Why does this feel like an awkward school dance?” You breathed out, breathless from the laughing, talking into his clean shirt. Most likely you were taking it to wear tomorrow night.

“We’re just swaying, we aren’t really moving how we’re supposed to.” Jason rubbed your back as you caught your breath, his voice softly surrounding you as you rested on his chest, feeling every word.

“And how would you know?” You looked up at him, a teasing tone. “It’s not like either of us know how to slow dance.”

Jason paused, looking down at your eyes, contemplating.

“Would you like to learn?” He hesitated, combing his hand through your hair.

You completely stopped swaying, Jason’s hand dropping from the top of your head to rest on your cheek. He carefully watched your reaction, your eyes widening, a stunned look in your eyes.

His grip tightened, barely noticeable if you didn’t feel his thumb press on your waist, helping to remind you to respond.

“I mean, I’ve always wanted to try it.” You looked down toward your feet, slightly feeling the embarrassment creep up at your confession, but Jason rubbed his thumb on your cheek. A silent comfort. “But, I don’t have a reason to learn. I’m way past school dance age, I rarely go to events where it might happen, and…no one has ever asked me.”

A silence settled between the both of you, Jason’s thumb pausing. He looked between your eyes, glancing back and forth.

“Can I get my phone?” He asked with no explanation, no other detail leading to your earlier confession.

You felt the mortification creeping at you. You nodded, letting go of Jason.

He stood there until you removed yourself first. His grip fleeting, walking in the dark to grab his phone, illuminating the room with its screen where he stood. You curiously watched him, not quite understanding his intentions.

“I might be a little rusty.” He voiced, a broad back facing you.

A gentle melody played from his phone. Quiet, but getting louder as he pressed the volume button on the side of his phone.

“What?” You stood there awkwardly.

Jason turned to face you, throwing his phone on the night stand as he walked back over, raising an open hand to you.

“May I have this dance?”

He stunned you again, your brain having too many delays at once.

Your hand trembled as you raised it to meet his. You couldn’t respond to his question because your throat ached, ached in a way that you wished the world ended right there, to consume the pounding heartbeat in your ears, the firm grip of Jason, and attempt to swallow up all the love swelling in your heart. It would put up one hell of a fight.

Once the both of you met, bodies close, Jason repositioned your hands as it was before. Gently guiding you through the steps as you nervously looked at your feet, your tense body adding to your struggle.

Once you felt a decent rhythm and Jason patiently assisted you, memorizing your expressions, movements and the smile you beamed when you finally felt comfortable.

He grabbed your chin. Guiding your head back up to look at him. Bringing his head closer to yours.

Your eyes closed halfway before he gripped your back, dipping you back, holding your weight as you inhaled in surprise.

“Jason!” You laughed his name as he swung you back up, extravagantly twirling you from him, clasping your hand to twirl you back into his embrace.

“Rusty, huh?” You quipped, eyeing him, trying to stabilize your steps.

“What can I say, Alfred beat the movements into me. He would feel a shift in the air if I got it wrong.” Jason smiled, picking up the swaying again, enthusiastically moving both your bodies.

You continued dancing through laughter, not watching your feet as much as you were, letting the feeling of the music guide you.

Not knowing where your body and his separated, a beautiful blur.

How could you have missed out on something so sweet?

A dance shared between two individuals who adore one another.

Jason stamped another mark onto your life.

First dances laced with intertwined hands, lips brushing against one another, tuning out everything but each other’s voices.

Maybe the world did end, but you wouldn’t have known, too immersed in the moonlight on Jason’s skin, the warmth of love and home enveloping you.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #writing #what i would give to learn to slow dance with jason #imagine growing old with jason and continuing the slow dance tradition #screaming #art

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meo-eiru · 3 months ago

Note

Omg 😩

I just keep imagining Silas, after doing house chores going out to do errands , taking poor y/n in the baby swaddle to the marketplace to buy some food/materials. Poor girl is pressed against his big chest, absolutely horrified how embarrassing this is to be out in public like this, unable to do anything about it.

Of course Silas would bring the topic of his baby to strangers trying to mind their own business, totally gushing on how adorable they are, how well behaved and sweet they are and “you’ll have to excuse them, ’s a lil shy!! ☺️” as they are absolutely dying with humiliation.

Of course, after a while Silas will manually move y/n’s head against him, pinching their cheeks to pop a nip in their mouth and ensuring that their head is snug and in position with the baby swab totally covering them. “Time for baby’s milkies~~ Drink up so you will grow big and strong! 😊” Even if y/n has tried desperately to explain to Silas that he does not, in fact, produce any milk, poor y/n is expected to suck for the remainder of what’s left of his errand time. If they don’t Silas will not let up and y/n will be forced to be swaddled up for longer till he sees he is satisfied.

Silas using a baby swaddle

Yes👏yes👏yes👏

Good thing is that you can at least hide your face with the fabric to not directly face the humiliation and his tits are softer than your own pillow😩

I wanna squeeze them like giant stress balls and try to ignore the absolute humiliation of my position.

I imagine you being tied to his upper body wouldn’t stop him from putting his hands all over you. Imagine even though the fabric is already preventing you from pulling your mouth away from his nipple, he also places his hand over your head (with fabric in between) to even further press you into him.

It would probably feel so hot in there both for you and Silas and your warm tongue licking his nipple would make him feel even more sensitive. His face would be very red as he lets out small moans, thinking he’s doing such a good job keeping his adorable baby fed.

My body yearns for drawing that man moaning as his tits get sucked

#asks #silas #yandere elf #yandere elf x reader

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 4 months ago

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Platonic Yandere Sea Monster

The ocean is a dangerous entity

Known for her high waves, immeasurable depths, and eternal mysteries

She entices millions into her cold embrace every day

Many of whom are devoured by said mysteries leaving no trace

One of its greatest mysteries is a creature who’s been roaming beneath the surface of the earth for eons

So it truly is a special occasion that Maelstrom breaks this streak for a feast on a private yacht

It’s far too easy how this new (to him) bipedal species gawks and helplessly flails while he sucks the bones out of their soft skin

He doesn’t care for the soft innards that the skin holds

He does like how their screams gurgle and warble as he delights in their crunchy bones

So he makes it his mission to devour or turn into water

And he’s sure that he’s done so with all of the little crunchy snack bags on the ship

Until he’s led into a cramped little closet with a tiny version of the springy boxes he’d found before

On it was a wailing babe—you

Now that he’s recognized

Because for all the different species evolution has brought it a crying infant was a common denominator

And you were crying hard

Whether you were the sibling or offspring of some ill-thinking teen or an overworked employee of the crew the one who was going to care for you was gone

And Maelstorm knew that

On the account that he’s certain he’d still be hearing your incessant crying on the entirely silent yacht, he molds his water-like body into something more like the ‘human skin bags’

Letting his face bulge and bubble with the vague memory of his meal’s screaming faces until you stop crying

“There…there…my pearl.”

It’s been so long since he’s been awake to have a pet

Surely it won’t be too hard

…right?

“Aaaaghh!”

“You’re not hungry, you’re not sleepy, you’ve already gone to the bathroom! WHAT IS IT!?”

He’s never been so stressed out

Stressed out trying to stop your little face from contorting anymore as you empty your little lungs and exhaust your little vocal cords

He eventually decides he does need help and uses one of the less rotted bodies to go on land and learn among these skin bags so that he knows what to do

“Oh poor sir looks like they’re just hungry for some warm hugs.”

“Is that…really all?”

“Why of course! Babies really hinge on your emotions and attention.”

After he takes in the ‘nurse’s’ wisdom he begins to feel something new

Something full of jealousy that has him snatching your swaddled form before giving a light pat that turns her into a puddle on the floor

Maelstorm easily finds another skin-bag with a nice face to take the body of

Leaving with a skip in his step while the ‘skin-bags’ authorities baffled over the only remnant of a missing ‘nurse’

“I see now to avoid this awful feeling I must make sure all my affection is being given to my pearl.”

From there you can be sure that you’re entire life will be filled with Maelstorm learning about the negative emotions he can get as you grow

True there will be many positive feelings

But he learns that to protect those precious new feelings

Barricading you on abandoned ships and attacking all the skin-bags that come to keep it that way

And even when you grow into the adults he’d previously snacked on

He won’t completely leave humans alone

He pulls back on this snacking habit only because he sees more of you in them

But he’s not going to stop eating them

Especially when he finds your attention drifting from him as you crave more socialization

“As far as I’m concerned all we need is each other. Now do I have to eat this entire village or will you go back to our boat?”

#yandere x you #yandere x reader #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere monster #platonic yanderes #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #yandere platonic #yandere sea monster #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #yandere platonic oc Maelstorm #yandere original character #yandere original characters #yandere original character x reader

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pedropascallme · 1 month ago

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☆Kinktober 2024☆

Day 17: Face sitting

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) mentions of survivor's guilt/PTSD, little bit of dirty talk, oral (f receiving), allusions to handjobs, kinda fluffy? If I missed anything please let me know!

AN: listen for a kinktober fic, I’m actually pretty proud of this. I will find any excuse to write fluff with a version of Joel who is absolutely out of his mind in love with you <3

Sunlight streamed into the bedroom, waking you, and swaddling you in a hazy glow in the otherwise dim room.

The rays that poked through the curtains illuminated tiny specks of dust in the air. It served as a reminder to you that the house needed a deep clean.

But that could be a problem for later.

Now, you turned on your side, admiring how dawn crept into the bedroom to turn Joel’s graying hair gold-flecked. The light warmed his tan skin, and you pressed your face into his chest where a sunbeam had made a home for itself.

“Mmph,” Joel grunted when you threw your leg over his thighs. “Early for you, ain’t it?”

“Not awake yet.” You lied, dragging the pads of your fingers over his shoulder, touching just to touch.

Truthfully, after the first week at Jackson, you hadn’t been able to keep a consistent sleep schedule.

Those first few days had been bliss; going to bed whenever you wanted to, simply because you could; waking up late in the afternoon, lazing about without a care in the world, unhurried and unbothered.

But the what ifs still found their way to you, and you heard whispers in the creaks of the mattress, footsteps in the settling of the house’s foundation—your mind’s will to survive was persistent, no matter how badly your body craved the rest it had so earned.

“Seem pretty awake, crawlin’ on me.” Joel sighed, finally blinking his eyes open. He wrapped his arms around you, humming softly.

His pattern of keeping vigil until he fell over himself had stayed the same. Most nights, you were asleep before him; most mornings, you were awake long after him.

The rifle stayed propped up in the corner closest to him, and he made you sleep as far away from the door as the room would allow.

If your will to survive was persistent, his was organic, ingrained into his DNA and built to last. And he wasn’t going to let old habits cease because of the sudden appearance of creature comforts.

He couldn’t trust like that.

“You make a more comfortable pillow than this one,” you gestured to the fraying pillowcase stuffed with a sad combination of hay and feathers, pushing yourself up to meet his gaze. “Hard to stay asleep when my neck goes stiff at the thought of lying down on that.”

“You still tired?” Joel ignored your complaints.

He was used to the way you rambled, finding details to pick at and fuss over—you and Ellie both, a chorus of discontent and laughter.

He had grown accustomed to it, even finding himself appreciating it. You lamented even the most tedious things, as if the world hadn’t ended, as if the worst catastrophe you’d ever faced was a lumpy pillow.

It humanized you. He liked that.

But he wasn’t going to let you lose sleep over something as superfluous as uncomfortable bedding.

“I’m…” You hesitated, weighing whether or not you could get away with lying. But you stifled a yawn, and you knew he’d see right through you either way. “A little, yeah.” You moved to straddle him completely.

“Go back to sleep.” He said it as if the solution was obvious, as if you hadn’t already tried and failed to close your eyes and fall back into the comfort of unconsciousness.

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, I was waiting for permission.”

Joel scoffed at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Y’get mean when you’re tired.” He pressed his hand against your back, still bare from the night before.

“So do you.” You huffed, trying to hide the smile that appeared when his palm began to sweep up your spine.

“Ain’t I always?” He craned his neck to look down at you, and you let your smile widen.

“I just feel bad…” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “I wanna sleep the day away, but there’s—everybody always has something to do. I want to be able to carry my weight, and…you know. I mean, you don’t get any sleep at all, and I would rather be sleepy and grumpy with you than asleep in a bed without you.”

Joel nodded. “I can stay in bed, sweetheart,” he curled a strand of your hair around his finger. “Won’t leave you alone, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He let the hair fall from his hand and then rewound it around his finger again.

“No, no, it’s more than that,” you tried to explain, “I just—I think I feel a little guilty…”

Joel nodded again, letting the heavier part remain unsaid.

Of course you felt guilty. That heavy pressure of survivor’s guilt contorted your emotions and made you feel as though you were underserving of a bed to sleep in, a space to call home.

Because how many people had seen a house like this before they were infected? Been in their own comfort zone when they had the life torn from them? And how many people would never be able to have something like this?

How many people had you cut down in their prime, ensuring they’d never see a place akin to home again?

There was little comfort in finding comfort. And it was a melancholic, pathetic feeling.

“C’mere.” Joel didn’t like it when you worried. He could bear that burden himself.

He wanted you to feel full and satiated. Safe and taken care of—because you deserved it.

After everything, he didn’t know anybody more deserving of it than you.

His hands trailed over to the curve of your ass, pushing his palms against you gently in an effort to get you to move up his body.

“What?” You tried to play dumb, but you knew what he was asking for.

“C’mon and let me tire you out, sweetheart,” he raised his eyebrows, acting as though he was stating the obvious. “Y’wanna be my wakeup call, let’s make it worth our time.”

You smiled into the crook of his neck. “Gotta tell me how.”

“Breakfast in bed, is how,” he growled into your ear, squeezing the meat of your thigh. “Sit on my face.”

You swallowed a moan, pushing yourself up from his chest and inching up his body.

It always felt awkward—not uncomfortable, per se, but you felt like you must look so unnatural walking on your knees to straddle his face.

You steadied yourself, knees finding purchase on either side of his head. Your core hovered over his face, and you tilted your head down to look at him.

“Now…when you say sit…?” You shifted reluctantly.

“I mean,” Joel wrapped his arms around your thighs, tugging you into him so that you were forced to rest your weight on his face. “Sit.” His final word was deadened, muffled by your cunt against his mouth, and you shrilled out a moan as he dragged his tongue through your folds.

“Joel—” You breathed, his stubble scraping gently against your sensitive skin. You felt your shoulders relax, leaning your head against the wall behind the headboard. “Oh, fuck, just like that…”

He moaned against you, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking. You arched your back, and Joel moved one hand from your ass to rub softly up and down between your shoulder blades. He flicked his tongue over your swollen bud, eyes darting up to see your face as you chanted his name.

He loved you like this—desperate and whimpering.

All for him.

Joel released your clit, circling his tongue over your entrance before plunging it into you.

“Yes,” your head fell back from the wall, and you brought your hands up to grope at your own chest. “You—god, your mouth feels so fucking good.”

His nose bumped against your clit as he strained to press his tongue into you deeper, extending the muscle to lick at your walls.

The hand that had remained on your ass squeezed into you. His fingers dug shallow bruises into your flesh as he began to push and pull, encouraging you to grind down against his movements.

You obliged happily, rolling your hips over his mouth and whimpering for him. He let out a guttural moan, fulfilling his own needs by making you feel good, and it made you grind against him more desperately.

He wrapped his lips around your clit again, sucking urgently. The bursts of pleasure became overwhelming, and when he kept pushing his tongue against your clit in frantic shapes, you let the electric feeling wash over you completely.

Your legs squeezed his head, and if you’d been less distracted by your orgasm, you might’ve worried about suffocating him.

Instead, you reached down to pull at his hair, resting your forearm against the wall and catching your breath to give yourself more strength to cry his name.

When he didn’t let up, lapping at your cunt through the aftershocks of your high, you tugged his hair harder, squirming out of his grasp. He got in one last, slow lick up your slit before acquiescing and letting you wobble off of his face.

You fell back against the mattress, trembling and sleepy. You curled into Joel’s side, looking up at him through your lashes.

His face was coated in your slick, and he looked as fucked out as you probably did.

“Best bed and breakfast I ever been to.” He sighed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and tugging you further into him.

He caught you in a kiss, licking into you leisurely so that you could taste your spend on his tongue. You sighed against his mouth, delighted by how your taste mingled with his to create something so euphoric.

“I’m always worried I’ll smother you, or something.” You yawned, unable to hide the way he’d managed to tire you out.

“That’s exactly how I wanna go, sweetheart.” He chuckled, and you swatted at his chest playfully.

You ran your hand down his abdomen, stopping at the base of his cock. He was hard, and it would be so easy for you to wrap your hand around his length, dip down and offer him the release he’d just given you.

“Can I—” You looked up at him, eager to give him the same treatment in return for his generosity.

But he was asleep, his lips parted, his skin still damp with your cum.

You smiled to yourself, bringing your hand back up to rest on his chest and settling against him. You leaned on his shoulder, letting the same sunlight that had roused you lull you back to sleep.

And with Joel beneath you, sleep came easy.

#kinktober 2024 #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou smut #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us smut

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perlelune · 1 year ago

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Oxytocin | Coriolanus Snow | i.

One act of kindness from a peacekeeper may be your salvation or your doom. Possibly both.

Warnings: NON-CON, Blackmail, District 8 Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Bitterness burns in your gut as you watch the yellowed pages of one of your favorite books curl and blacken amidst the weak flames of the hearth.

You want to cry. You really do. But it wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last. The winters of District 8 are infamously harsh and long.

You wouldn’t have survived it. So you stare with dry eyes and an empty chest as your childhood memorabilia turns to ash.

A wheezy cough tears through your melancholy. Panic rips through you as you get up and whirl. You dash to a small bed across the room and hunker down near your cousin.

You hold her hand, despising how tiny and feeble it feels in yours.

It wasn’t always like this. She used to drag you around the cabin, eager to play, her high-pitched laugh bouncing off its molded walls.

Tears you managed to quell before now rush to your eyes.

You cup her face. Sickness has drained the color from it.

“You’re gonna get better, I swear.”

She gives a weary smile, but it’s interrupted by another fit of wet coughs that makes her entire frail frame shake. Your stomach plummets at the sight. Even you struggle to believe the words that crossed your own lips.

Everyday your younger cousin seems worse off than the one before it. Her medicine has long since run out. So has the food. Your modest wages from working in the factory won’t come for another fortnight. And there are little to no wares left to trade in the rickety wooden cabin.

Nothing except you.

The mere thought sends a shudder through you.

Though the virtue of some lowly district 8’s guttersnipe isn’t worth much, you bet you could easily find a buyer. A warm body is as good as any after all. Besides, you haven’t missed the lascivious glares wandering your way sometimes when you hasten through the streets of the city at night.

You shake your head.

No.

While your virtue isn’t worth much in this awful world, you will hold on to it for as long as you can. Some modicum of dignity. Maybe it’s too much to ask for someone like you, too…greedy. But it’s the one thing you get in this life. Your one gift. You belong to yourself and no one else.

“Hungry…” your cousin whispers between pained exhales. The orange glow from the chimney outlines the sickly grayness of her skin and the sweat dotting her forehead.

You squeeze her hand, rubbing her fingers against yours. Maybe some of your warmth will seep into her. You can only hope.

“I know, Tilly… but there isn’t any food left anymore.”

At the mention of food, your shriveled up stomach reminds you of its unfortunate existence. Hunger twists your insides, vicious and relentless. As always.

Determination sparks inside you, tiny embers shifting into a furnace of iron hot will.

You rise to your feet.

Tilly will not die. You will not die.

You plant a soft kiss on her forehead. Her eyes flutter closed as she drifts away, her glassy gaze finding the cracks and webs scattered across the ceiling.

She seems to look at nothing at all. It worries you. Tilly’s all you have left, the rest of your family having succumbed to disease, failed uprisings or some accident at the factory.

“I promise to bring food, and something to cure your cold.”

A cold.

Another lie. For her or for you… who knows this time. Deep inside, you’re aware no common cold lasts this long or is this nasty.

But you cling to the lie. Because you need it. Because without it you have nothing.

Nothing to wake up for, nothing to go work another unending, grueling day at the textile factory, nothing to suffer another day in the hell that District 8 is.

A few minutes later, you’re at the door.

Outside, the winter winds swaddle you in their cool embrace. White clouds surround you as you unleash a deep breath. Through the thin soles of your shoes, you can feel the icy stones with each step. You slither through the narrow alleys, hood low on your brow as you ponder the plan you hatched less than an hour ago.

It’s beyond stupid. You could get thrown in jail if caught. Or worse.

But what else is there to do?

You’re past the age to sign up for tesserae, and you’d never subject your cousin to the disturbing possibility of being chosen in the next reaping just to fill your stomach.

You finally reach the grand marketplace. It’s crowded with folks, like every morning. You remain hidden by a brick wall, a strategic spot where shadows engulf you, where you can survey the place as you wish. The perfect way to begin enacting your stupid plan.

Anticipation has your fingertips twitching against the stones.

You note how easy it’d be to mingle with the crowd, how some of the merchants don’t keep a perpetual eye on their wares.

And most importantly, you note the lack of peacekeepers. You squint, seeking a glimpse of the terrifying blue uniforms. Disbelief flutters through you at the realization none of them is here.

Such a chance never presents itself…yet it’s prancing right before you today.

As your eyes land on a luscious spread of colorful fruits sitting on a stand a few feet away, your mouth waters.

How easy it would be.

When’s the last time you ate anything solid? You can hardly recall.

Slow, ginger steps drag you right before the stand. Busy chatting with a customer, the merchant doesn’t see you.

Hope blooms inside you. This is your shot. You just need to be quick, so quick he won’t even notice before you’re long gone.

Your tremulous hand creeps out of your coat. The uproarious drumming of your heart fills your ears, louder as your fingers get closer to the tantalizing skin of the fruit.

Just a few inches.

“What are you doing, little bird?”

Startled, you release a sharp breath. Long, pale fingers cinch around your wrist, causing you to drop the fruit. It hits the wet cobblestones with a soft thud, sending your hopes crashing down alongside it.

You whirl to the stranger beside you.

“You little thieving whore…”

Numb with fear and shock, the merchant’s irate curses dwindle to a faint echo.

The stranger’s towering frame forces you to lift your gaze to the sky, and you are met with eyes bluer than its expanse.

Lost in his unsettling stare, you take entirely too long to notice his uniform. The gear is unmistakable. You have threaded your fair share of the fabric over the years, sewn hundreds of uniforms just like the one before you.

A peacekeeper.

A wave of snow ripples through your back.

Your entire body turns to stone in his grip, your eyes as wide as plates.

This is exactly what you feared would happen. And now it has.

As stormy irises take you in, you see your miserable life melt in a smoldering sea of blue.

Run.

It’s the only thought in your head as you jerk your hand away from his fingers.

Your body leaps into action, adrenaline pumping through your veins. White puffs of your short breaths flow around you as you dive into the nearest dark alley, hoping to disappear through a drain hole and lose your pursuer.

But you don’t get far.

Only a few minutes into your panicked race, the hard sole of a boot connects with the back of your knee. A shriek of pain tears from your throat as you tumble to the floor.

Wincing, you lift your head.

The tall, lanky figure of the peacekeeper looms over you. Your chest seizes. He holds up the bright red fruit you tried to steal in his right hand. Sunlight limns his frame, threading silver in his white hair, making him appear almost angelic.

How deceptive when he is your doom.

If it weren't for him, you’re convinced you’d have gotten away with it.

“Hey, I think you forgot this,” he deadpans.

Your brows knit at his casual tone. You wonder if he’s toying with you.

“Please, I… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Mirth illuminates his cerulean gaze as he scoffs, “So you meant to pay?”

Unsure what to respond, you choke on your words.

“I…”

Silence expands, its oppressive weight clogging your airways.

You could lie, or try to. But he saw you, stopped you. He knows exactly what you attempted to do.

So instead of stating your case, you bolt to your feet. Ignoring the needles pricking at your knee where he kicked you, you attempt to flee again.

This time it’s barely seconds before he catches you.

He picks you up and slams you against the wall with frightening ease. Fighting him would be for naught. There is no strength left in you. Still, you try.

The pitiful attempts to claw at his bicep leave the peacekeeper unfazed.

His deathly grip on your neck doesn’t relent.

“Where do you think you’re going, birdie?”

“Please, my cousin needs me.”

He studies you and your stomach sinks at how empty his eyes are. An errant tear makes a slow descent down your cheek.

He plucks it, the soft pad of his finger tracing the salty trail.

“Stop crying. I’m not like them. You can trust me.”

“You’re a peacekeeper,” you retaliate, forehead creased in confusion. Peacekeepers exist to enact the Capitol’s will by any means necessary. Their name couldn’t be more misleading, as peace is rarely how they go about solving an issue.

The blond’s cheek flares ever-so-slightly.

To your utter shock, his hold on your neck slackens.

You gulp a wide lungful of air, rubbing your throat where he held so tight. It’s sore. You wouldn’t be surprised if it were to bruise the next day.

“My name’s Coriolanus. What’s yours?”

While he backs away, he’s still crowding your space in a way you don’t like.

Stubborn lips remaining sealed, you glare at him. He steps away from you.

“You don’t want to say?” The corner of his plump lips twists upwards. “I’ll keep calling you bird then, since you keep trying to fly away from me.”

You gasp when he suddenly tosses the crimson fruit in your hands.

“Eat.”

His steely inflection is more order than suggestion. You scowl down at the fruit. Every cell in your body longs to take a bite of it…but you don’t.

“What?” you reply dumbly.

It has to be some kind of trap. Is the apple even safe to eat? Maybe this peacekeeper is the sadistic type and he wants to watch you wither in agony for his sick pleasure.

Still, the longer you peer at the luscious, colorful flesh of the fruit, the more your stomach growls, begging you to just take a bite even if it means running headlong towards your possible death.

Coriolanus heaves out a deep sigh.

“I can tell from the way you were eying that apple earlier that it’s been a long time, right?” he guesses, all too accurately for your liking.

His gaze holds yours.

“I know what it’s like to be hungry, sweet bird…” You go statue-still as he bends over to whisper in your ear, “So hungry, you’d do anything for it to stop.”

The faint scent of roses tickles your nose. You smelt it once before, on a lavish dress you spent hours sewing meant for one of the fancy ladies at the Capitol. You recall shoving the tiniest piece of the silk in your pocket and smelling it every chance you got. But the nice scent quickly faded.

Yet that same scent, that crisp, delicate, slightly dizzying aroma…It clings to the boy in front of you.

You glower at him.

��How would you even know? You’re one of them.”

His jaw ticks as his eyes flicker.

“Eat,” he insists, this time more firmly.

Your insides wrench. You could fight him on it, again. But you have an inkling that this boy, this Coriolanus, usually gets his way.

So you bite into the apple.

The sweet juice that coats your tongue and chin afterwards is heaven. The savors explode in your mouth. You could weep. It’s been an eternity since you ate something this fresh and delicious.

But once you realize his curious stare is on you, you stop eating and hastily wipe your mouth and chin.

“See? Isn’t it better?” he inquires smugly.

You don’t tell him how good it felt, especially after so long. Days, maybe weeks. You don’t know anymore. Every day tends to blend into the other here.

Instead, heated words pour out of you.

“Why are you helping me?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

You don’t like his cryptic demeanor. Nor his nice smell. Nor his striking eyes. Nor his sharp, handsome features.

Everything about Coriolanus seems so out of place in District 8.

After a few minutes of silence, he nods and walks away.

“See you around, sweet bird.”

A shiver travels along your spine.

You wish for the opposite, to never ever see him again. And though the words never escape the confine of your lips, it’s as if he could hear the unspoken venom sizzling the tip of your tongue.

Coriolanus smiles at you as he leaves.

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #tbosbas fanfiction #ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games #dark!coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosbas

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ddarker-dreams · 9 months ago

Text

Better The Devil You Know.

Yandere Chrollo x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, discussions of past minor character death, and descriptions of anxiety. Word count: 2.6k.

You awake to cold sheets and damp cheeks.

It isn’t a peaceful transition into consciousness. You fight for each breath, a losing battle that swaddles your mind in thick fog. The vapors thin out as time drags along. It doesn’t dissipate in its entirety, preferring to linger and prolong your disorientation.

You wipe at your face with your wrists, ignoring the sting accompanying the action. Hesitatingly, you appraise it in a ray of moonlight that snuck past the blinds. It’s clear, not crimson and thick. A normal product of a healthy body. You should feel relieved, you think. Every organ is as it should be. Your brain remains in your cranium, your lungs expand and contract, and your heart pumps, albeit at an alarming speed.

It’s better than the chill of encroaching death.

…

You are alive, aren’t you?

This question prompts an investigation.

Nothing hurts. Your throat, maybe, but that’s a minor ache spurred from thirst. Your skin is warm and clammy. Peeling the comforter off, you squint, assessing your body’s condition. Weary eyes take in everything. Your socks, the lace trimming of your nightgown, its diaphanous midriff, then your chest. Everything appears in order.

Would your incorporeal form accurately reflect your physical body?

You shake your head.

This can’t be heaven — no pantheon would be cruel enough to set the stage of your paradise with props from your captivity.

It can’t be hell either. If it were, you wouldn’t be alone right now.

You blink.

You’re alone?

Chrollo’s side of the bed is notably empty. He must’ve got up in a hurry, the sheets are in disarray. The adjoining restroom is dark and unoccupied, confirming he must be elsewhere. Your stomach churns. Determined to do away with this creeping anxiety, you get up, padding across the hardwood floor.

The night gifts shivers and goosebumps. Wishing to ward off its unwanted advances, you wrap your arms around yourself. You pass through the door that connects to the common area. Although it’s dimly lit, you can tell he isn’t here. The attached balcony is similarly uninhabited. A quick foray into the study confirms your status; you’re truly by yourself.

What should be a triumph or a relief delivers nothing but dread.

You return to the common room to assess the situation.

You’ve never been left alone before. Not without him telling you in advance, normally with a rough estimate of when he’ll return. There’s no way an important detail like that would slip your mind. At a loss, you dredge through your memories for some sign you may have missed. His voice pierces through your head like an arrow. You wince but ignore your body’s displeasure at anything associated with him. The unintelligible noises sharpen, forming consonants and vowels.

The thrum of the air conditioner eases away.

You’re left in absolute silence, until Chrollo’s voice fades away, replaced by another.

“... She was five or six, I think. Right around the age where you start losing baby teeth. There’d been this game she wanted and, y’know, kids aren’t rolling in cash. So she figured, what better way to pay for it than through the tooth fairy? I caught ‘er with my wrench, determined as anything, ready to speed up the process. It ended up being a little inside joke between us.”

Your lower lip trembles.

“... That’s how she ended up getting identified. Her teeth, I mean. Wasn’t anything else left to go off of. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. A whole life she lived, sometimes getting into trouble, but mostly helping others outta theirs. And to have that— all that— reduced to just… just a couple, couple fuckin’— teeth? What kinda joke is that?”

You fill a glass with water until it overflows.

“Hey, tell me. Has that fucker ever mentioned ‘er? … Probably not, right? Probably never knew she existed in the first place.”

Head thrown back, you gulp down the liquid, fighting the lump that longs to form in your throat.

“Who knows? Maybe I’m the one in the wrong ‘ere. Hell, you don’t look much older than her yourself. I don’t— don’t wanna hurt ya. But…”

Tears prick the corner of your eyes.

“There’s no other way to hurt him.”

Someone’s beside you.

You can hear their voice, though it sounds like it’s coming from miles away, carried over by the wind. Warmth sears your bare shoulders. You smell the faint aroma of sandalwood and amber. It’s distinct, this cologne that serves as an ill-omen better than any blackbird or cracked mirror. You couldn’t scrub it from your memory if you tried. That, or the scent of old books, leather, coffee, and red wine.

You dig your nails into something — fabric, perhaps — but nothing grounds you. It’s like you’ve been transported outside of space and time. Existing, yet far from alive. Your stomach falls while your head floats away. Up, up, up, lifting you higher and higher. From this impossible vantage point, you sway, your limbs gleefully ignoring every attempt to regain control.

And there it is again. Your name echoes throughout the atmosphere, beckoning you to acknowledge the sound’s source.

Maybe you should.

Even if you’ll come to regret it.

When you first met Chrollo, his eyes stood out the most, like the universe itself deemed them worthy of veneration. You found the gray depths captivating. The undertone varied, you never could ascertain if they were a cool or warm shade. All you knew was that once they found you, they boasted a vitality siphoned at the expense of your own.

Presently, they can’t. Their unwitting host has been exsanguinated.

“Where were—” You silence yourself, aghast by the implication.

You’d sought him out. So desperate for an anchor, you would’ve latched onto the culprit behind your drowning. There’s no doubt he’d find some twisted satisfaction in the accidental admission. You shrink away, but the solid counter presses against your spine, halting your retreat. He doesn’t advance, you’d barely created any distance.

“There’d been something that required my immediate attention,” Chrollo answers your unfinished question. There’s no thinly veiled derision or curiosity in his voice. You miss the familiarity. “Does anything hurt?”

It’s then that you recall your predicament.

You’re on the kitchen floor, surrounded by scintillating shards of glass. A pool of water gathers to your right. Chrollo’s bent down before you, wearing a heavy coat and a tint of pink on his nose. He must’ve come from outside. He stares unblinkingly, awaiting your verdict, which you deliver by shaking your head. There’s a dull ache in your tailbone but you keep that to yourself. It’s awkward enough that he found you in this state.

You’re sitting on the floor with one leg extended and the other bent at the knee, allowing your short nightgown to ride up. The compromising position stokes your embarrassment. You shuffle around to maintain some dignity. In doing so, you forget the pointed glass strewn about. Before you make contact, you’re hoisted up. Chrollo foresees your struggle and holds you tight enough to thwart its success.

“You’re alright,” he reassures, his sincere gentleness unbecoming. "Everything's alright."

He places you down on the closest couch and sits beside you. While you regain your bearings, he shrugs off his jacket, then drapes it around your trembling form. His scent and warmth flood your senses. You consider throwing it off out of spite, only to decide against it. You’d be the one to suffer the most. Chrollo remains unusually silent as you cocoon yourself in the thick wool jacket. It’s big on you, but not big enough to swallow you whole like you’d prefer.

“Should I grab your propranolol?”

Another head shake.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Foreseeing your tepid response, he adds, “Verbally?”

You clear your throat as quietly as you can. “I got thirsty.”

“Hm.”

You both know he isn’t convinced. It’d be easy for him to poke and prod until you revealed everything — intentionally or not — but his lips remain in a thin line. You shuffle in your seat. The fabric brushes against your wrists, eliciting a sharp inhale. The burn is short-lived yet the memories associated with it rage on.

“... Chrollo?”

He blinks, likely unused to the sound of his name on your lips. “Yes, love?”

“If that man killed me, would it have hurt you?”

A shadow falls over his visage, like a waxing crescent transitioning to a new moon. When you shiver, it isn’t from the cold. Dark hair frames a far darker expression. His eyes narrow as if he’s trying to see you better, beyond your flesh, at the crux of your soul. You await whatever comes next, returning his stare with equal intensity.

Finally, he slowly replies, “Yes, it would’ve.”

“Then why was it so easy for you to kill his daughter?” You ask, the words weighing heavily upon you. “You might’ve liked her, if you’d gotten to know her.”

The man revealed enough for you to feel like you knew her. Lana Ellis — a woman with an iron will, sharp tongue, and golden heart. She’d recently been hired to work as a waitress at a business that catered high-end events. Galas, celebrity birthdays and weddings, those sorts of things. It wasn’t going to be a permanent arrangement. Lana planned to ditch the gig after saving up tuition money, where she’d then aim for a doctorate in veterinary medicine. According to him, he’d squandered her college fund after the unexpected death of her mother; his childhood sweetheart. He said he’d never forgive himself or the Troupe.

“She wasn’t s’posed to have been there,” he wheezed. “She never should’ve been there…!”

Chrollo shuts his eyes. “What are you getting at, dear?”

His words come out light, though they’re anything but.

“She could’ve been me.”

“Yet she wasn’t.”

“But—!” Your voice cracks, so you take a deep breath and try again. “You… you deprive the world of people you could’ve come to like, be friends with, whatever! All for stuff you eventually do away with. How is that… how can you…”

Righteous anger suits you. It's a sword and shield that requires no skill to wield, reaching for the instruments have become second nature. Their effectiveness doesn't matter so long as you can hold onto something.

“You don’t need to understand.”

This isn't a parry or pivot, he's disarmed you.

“Huh?”

“Yes… if anything, it’s best if you don’t,” he mutters, more to himself than you. His eyes find yours again. “I can’t make sense of your empathy any more than you can grasp my lack of it. If I could, you’d no longer be yourself. Your self-limiting, bleeding heart should remain as is. It’s the one part of you I’ll leave untouched.”

You don’t know what you were expecting.

You slump back into your seat. “... Don’t you think you’re overestimating yourself?”

“Hardly,” he replies. Then, in a softer voice, “You torment yourself, love. This—”

He rests his hand over your heart.

“—Hurts you more than anything I’ve ever done. Yet you believe it unthinkable I’d do away with such an inconvenience.”

“So you’re a coward,” you mumble. The insult is uninspired but it suits your purposes. “You can’t handle it, so you took the easy way out.”

“Rationalize it anyway you'd like.”

Chrollo reaches for your forearm and coaxes it into view. His fingers brush along your wrists, where the man’s restraints left rope burn behind. The irritated skin is slowly recovering. The deeper wounds, those without a cure, will linger after the surface heals. They’re etched into your bones.

“Isn’t going against your morals worse than having none?" Chrollo queries. “That girl’s father knew you had no involvement in his daughter’s death. You’re an unwilling third party, same as she was. And he was ready to hurt you regardless."

Your mouth feels dry. “He didn't hurt me—”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow, causing head to flood your cheeks.

“—All... that... much. I don’t think he was going to...?”

“No, not until he was intoxicated enough to stomach it,” Chrollo retorts. “We’ll never know for certain, darling. Thankfully, I interrupted before it could get to that point."

That point, that point, that point...

What could that man have done to you?

Chrollo appraises you like he's yet to decide on something.

After a moment passes, he leans in, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your muscles stiffen as he pulls you close. He exerts none of the force you know him to be capable of. The gesture's languid nature gives the impression you could wriggle free if you tried. You don't test this theory. Chrollo's mood seems pensive, not amorous, hence your hesitant compliance.

He speaks your name. Then, he asks, "What's really bothering you?"

Biting your lip, you turn your head away from him.

He doesn't relent. "You can tell me anything, you know."

If you weren't so utterly exhausted, you might've laughed.

"You wouldn't be my first choice for a heart-to-heart."

"How about your second?"

You look at him like he's just suggested the world is flat. He smiles softly, allowing you time to think.

It's weird.

This is weird.

The lack of verbal finesse, designed to extract any emotion or confession he desires. You're used to his cunning, his depravity, his unfiltered self. You've come to expect it, as one would the sunrise and sunset. Briefly, you search for it. The expedition is futile. His normal tells are gone.

Truly, you could almost forget the imbalanced nature of this dynamic and pretend it's normal.

It isn't, however.

So you'll need to keep your wits about you.

"Could... er..." you trail off, uncertain of the best parlance, "Will something like that... happen... again...?"

The claustrophobia of being shut in a trunk. Blindfolded, hands and feet bound, gagged by a rag. Terrified and sobbing. Unable to breathe, unable to scream.

You feel as small now as you did then.

The man told you his reasoning. It tugged on your heart. Wringed the organ for everything it was worth. He deserved justice. He deserved revenge. At that lone instance, the playing field was even. The immeasurable gap in strength between him and the Phantom Troupe's boss meant nothing if Chrollo wasn't physically present. There was a chance for this bereaved father to return the pain unfairly inflicted on him.

But why on you?

Why do you have to be cast into hell for the sins of another?

And why was it so tempting to forgive the devil's transgressions against you, if he provided salvation just this once?

You don't know when you began shaking, but you do know it won't be easy to stop.

"You must've been scared," he murmurs.

This observation makes your throat feel impossibly tight, as if a serpent coiled around your neck. His eyelashes flutter shut and he rests his forehead against yours. He contents himself on breathing in your air while you wrestle with the odd intimacy of it all; this simplicity untainted by needling or provocations.

"I never make the same mistake twice," Chrollo eventually says. "In light of recent events, I've made it clear that you are off limits. Those who still wish to try their luck, well..."

The air itself writhes like a malicious entity. The sensation is brief, but the impression lingers, chilling you on a primordial level. You're reminded that his control, while impressive, isn't flawless. Every surface can fissure, allowing the noxious contents contained within to break free. This concentration of ill-intent isn't even focused at you. To be on the receiving end must be to face the inevitably of death.

"... They can be made examples of too."

Curiosity nips at your heels, demanding satiation.

Your part your lips.

Then his eyes reopen. They're dull, lacking any illumination, like light itself felt the urge to flee.

It's an understandable sentiment.

For that reason, you decide some questions are better left unanswered.

#chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #chrollo lucilfer x reader #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #hunter x hunter x reader #reader insert #yandere reader insert #my stuff

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tetsuskei-archive · 8 months ago

Text

dew mornings and the bond of eternity – tartaglia [nsfw]

synopsis: your angel of a boyfriend makes sure that you know just how well loved you are

notes: for my favorite harbinger, idk what this is but breaking my fic virginity for him with this :]

warnings: fem!reader, reader is insecure, russian pet names, mating press, childe has a foul mouth, biting and marking, slight possession, praise, childe is called by his real name, slight oral fixation, implied oral (female receiving), he is extremely lovesick

you never learned to what extent someone could go when being attentive and observant until you met your boyfriend.

you hate how ajax is able to notice the slightest changes in your mood. you would say he knows you like the back of his hand, but it’s something more than that. almost like the two of you are fused at the souls. bonded for eternity.

so in the dew morning hours when you’re just a little bit quieter, a little more somber as he makes you both breakfast on one of his rare days off, he’s able to notice right away.

he notices your eyes don’t quite catch his own as he jokes about some silly thing one of his siblings did weeks ago, how your smile falters instead of shining bright the way that he loves to see, how you pick at your fingers and gnaw on your lip in thought.

“ptichka?” he hovers over you, taking your face in his hands and pulling you from your thoughts. his cerulean eyes scan you thoroughly. “did you not sleep well?”

“it’s nothing, it was just a silly little dream.” you wave off, smiling weakly. not a lie, technically.

ajax clicks his tongue. stubbornly, he leans into you, the smell of pine and mint following him. “it can’t be silly if it has you upset like this and you’re losing sleep.”

there is no way of lying to ajax. you know this well. he’s a big brother to three siblings, and he’s too good of a detective to be deceived. but that’s to be expected of a harbinger.

after a long, apprehensive pause, you sigh.

“…i had a dream that you cheated on me.” you confess, lowering your gaze to the floor. “and that you left me for someone better.”

it’s stupid. absolutely and utterly ridiculous. ajax has shown you enough love to spill over into your next life. and the next one after that. you could die and come back a thousand times, and there’d still be traces of him left on you. so to tell him this brings you great shame.

the question is, what caused the dream? guilt? shame? maybe you feel he does so much for you, that you’re lacking as a partner. that you could do better.

you wait silently for him to yell, for some sort of outburst to come. but you’re only met with surprise when you feel his hand on your chin.

“can you please look at me?” his voice is soft, and eyes softer as he finally is able to make eye contact with you. he’s so gentle. warm. he only looks at you with love and patience. “thank you, lisichka.”

“i may not have done anything wrong, and i would never cheat—“ he continues with a stern expression, “but i still need you to understand where my feelings lie with you.”

you start to shake your head, “i already know, ‘jax, you have never made me feel like i need to doubt you. i know how much you love me. i promise. i have no idea why i had the dream…but it just made me sad when i woke up.”

you don’t mean to lie about your hidden insecurities, but it’s not a conversation you want to have at the moment. you’d rather just enjoy the time you have currently with your boyfriend peacefully.

luckily, ajax overlooks your fib. he hums, kissing your temple, “how about after we eat, i run us a bath? and we do one of those face masks that you like? something to decompress.”

and for the first time today you smile and agree.

unfortunately it appears ajax is taking your earlier sentiments much more seriously than you thought.

as all dreams and nightmares are short term memory, you long forgot about what it was that made you upset, back to your usual self after the bath.

ajax swaddled you up in a clean towel, and just like he said, did face masks with you. it always makes you giggle seeing your boyfriend using one of your spa headbands to push his hair back. soon both your faces were shiny and clean. refreshed and replenished, you felt brand new.

but little did you know you were now in the jaws of a shark.

you didn’t make it to the bedroom. well, you did, but you didn’t pick up on the ginger’s ulterior motive the minute he kissed your cheek as you sat on the bathroom counter. he carried you to the bedroom, and that’s where it all fell apart.

“‘j-jax—“ you hiccup, gripping tightly onto his bicep. your figure is trembling against his, skin damp with sweat and glued impossibly closer to his.

so much for the bath.

“s-slow down…”

your boyfriend has been at it for awhile now, pummeling your poor insides with his fat cock over and over. the room reeks with the smell of sex, wet sounds imprinted into your mind. you can never forget just how great he makes you feel.

“no,” he huffs, fingers digging into your hips, “you’re not leaving this bed until i’m sure of it.”

confusion resides in you. what exactly is ‘it’?

he’s already worshipped you plenty with just his fingers and tongue. but you don’t dare challenge the primal look in his eyes. he’s absolutely greedy, not even letting you move to take care of him in return in anyway.

you yelp once feeling your lover’s teeth nip into your skin. his tongue laves over the offended area before he kisses the skin.

“how could i find someone better, when there’s not a single person more beautiful or amazing than you?” he pants, pulling away to look at you. his thumb traces your cheek tenderly and his cobalt eyes are trained on your fucked out expression.

“especially when your pussy feels this good? that’s just a bonus.” he rambles, groaning. his hips knock into yours more harshly and you wail.

“you’d have to kill me to separate us.” he admits darkly, but something tells you that even death wouldn’t stop him.

“‘dun want that, want you forever.” you say, clinging impossibly tighter to him.

ajax coos, kissing your nose, “and you have me. because you’re enough. you always will be. you’re perfect.”

his answer satisfies you and you’re kissing him again, nearly having tears permeate at the ducts of your eyes.

he laughs, grinning against you mouth, “milaya, you’re about to cum, aren’t you?”

“i-i” your words still fail to completely return to you but you nod rapidly.

understanding, he taps your bottom lip.

“open,” he commands.

falling in line, ajax pushes his fingers in your mouth. you feel your face heat up from how you taste yourself on him.

“good girl,” he praises, “always so sweet for me, hmm?”

you’re drooling on him, nodding and humming around his fingers with a hazy look in your eyes.

there’s a certain light in his own eyes that only appears when he’s with you, and with the way he is looking at you with complete adoration, you feel absolutely special.

“oh, look how much you’re quivering, you’re almost there. come on.” your boyfriend studies your movements, fucking you with slower, deeper thrusts.

the breath from your lungs nearly escapes you, and you feel a burning feeling in your chest. you’re creaming so much on him that it’s impossible not to hear the lewd noises coming from between your legs.

every sound seems to drive the ginger crazier. “one more, just one more for me, angel and i’ll let you be.” he coaxes, fingers moving again.

“i’m…i’m tired.” you sniff.

“i know, but you look so pretty when you cum. just one more? pretty please? can’t get over how you look. so beautiful…”

his constant praise is enough to make you cum once more, so hard that it blinds you. your mouth falls open in silent awe.

ajax groans, watching you come undone and hissing at the way you’re clamping up on his cock. it should be a crime how good you feel, because he could ever get enough of it.

there’s only a moment before he remembers he still needs to cum, and then he’s pawing and begging.

“fuck, let me cum in you…please…” his face is buried in your neck and a small whimper escapes him once he grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together.

he’s shivering and hot, and his cock is extremely sensitive. every drag of himself against your walls drives him insane. he’s dizzy, nearly delirious with how much he’s holding back.

“wanna fill you up so badly, please lisichka.” he continues, pressing searing kisses to your shoulder. “want you leaking with all of my cum…want all of it in you.”

you don’t think he’s looking at you while he babbles and pleads to breed you, and you shiver at how predatory he looks at your lower abdomen. you lock your legs tighter around him, ignoring the overstimulation creeping up in you.

“yes, ajax. please. w-want all your cum. want you to fill me up!” you whine, a sound that makes his heart and cock swell all at the same time.

your next words startle him even further.

“i love you.”

and he snaps.

“hah—ah, fuck!” ajax curses, hips stuttering in their pace. he groans loudly, feeling himself spill into you. there’s spots in his vision from how hard he’s cumming and he wonders if this is what celestia is.

you gasp, jerking when warmth spreads throughout all of you. you can feel the throbbing of your boyfriends cock and his heavy load.

coming down from both of your highs, the two of you laugh.

“you surprise me every time.” you tease quietly, eyeing a bite mark on your thigh.

the ginger looks bashful, hiding his face in your shoulder. “sorry…didn’t mean to be so rough…”

“if i wanted you to stop at anytime, i would’ve told you.” you reassure, petting his head.

he plants a kiss on your skin. “good. and for the record, i love you too.” he murmurs. “feel better?”

“i felt better after the delicious breakfast you made, but you took it a couple of steps further like you always do.” you giggle, leaning into his chest.

ajax grins, kissing the crown of your head, “well, i could tell something else was on your mind, but you weren’t telling me.”

“you know me way too well. it’s terrifying.”

he puffs his chest out, “what can i say? i can and will only provide the absolute best for you.”

“i don’t like leaving you alone for as long as i do…i will try to get them to let me take work closer to home.” he adds, playing with your fingers.

and the beam on your face is all worth it. “really?”

“really. i’m not around a lot for you to do things for me, and i get why you may feel that you need to be better. but i adore you just how you are. i’m sorry for not being more present.”

“it’s okay, i understand.” you hum, kissing his chin.

ajax hums with appreciation before leaning down and chasing your lips, hungrily wanting to taste you all over again.

his demanding presence has you melting into him as you mesh together, tongues locking to consume the taste of yourselves.

suddenly he’s dragging you by the hips to the edge of the bed.

“w-what are you—“

“m’not done with you. far from it.” you barely can form another question before ajax is sliding back into you. a crude squelch follows.

the harbinger kisses your bare ring finger. “say, i think we should elope. what do you think about starting a family?”

key: ptichka = ‘little bird’, lisichka = ‘little fox’, milaya = ‘my dear’

#tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x you #childe x reader #childe x you #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia #tartaglia smut #childe smut #genshin impact #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin oneshot #genshin impact oneshot

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