#classification of hotels

[classificationhell]

How do you think Alastor, Vox, Fizz+Ozzie, and Mourningstar would react to reader bottling up their feelings? They don't focus on their negative feeling and try to maintain a positive attitude about everything to not be a burden on the people around them.

(I hope you and your sister are both doing well, btw. I hope she's recovering well.)

Yeah.... Alastor is going to try and wait for them to be ready. He'll try and show his trustworthiness and such, and yeah, he has his own secrets, but his patience won't last forever. Eventually, he'll swaddle them so tightly they are unable to escape and just wait by their bed until they tell him everything. They will tell him everything with a bit more prompting, no doubt.

Of course he'll commend them for keeping their smile and optimistic attitude, but he doesn't want them to have any secrets from him.

Vox understands a fake smile. He's another one who will try and wait for you to open up. Maybe probe a bit while you're playing with Vark. However, he's less patient than Alastor and his secondary gender does him no favors with being seen as a protector. Sooo he may use his hypnosis to get them to tell him, if that's an option.

Mourningstar wouldn't notice at first to be honest, but once he does he is absolutely distraught.

He tells them everything, even things he probably shouldn't >.>, so why won't they do the same? Clearly, they don't love or trust him! He's doing anything and everything to show them how much he loves them and trusts them. He'll hold and cuddle and kiss them, and if all else fails, he's on his hands crying and begging that they tell him. "Do you not love Daddy? Do you not trust him princess? What can Daddy do to get you to? More cuddles, more outside time, do you need more love and attention?" For the love of everything unholy just tell him or you will never know a moment's peace.

Fizzarolli and Ozzie will try and ask you upfront and let you know that there's no need to try and be strong and that you wouldn't be a burden if you confided in someone. They'll even offer you the chance to talk to a therapist instead of them. However, they won't force you to do things since that's kind of counterintuitive to providing an environment of safety and trust.

[fanficsfreeideas]

I was asked if I could change some of the prompts. For classification Alastor Week that's in August.

first week - Cakeverse

Day1-Whump

Day2-Body Horror | Forbidden Desires

Day3-star-crossed lovers/forbidden romance

Day4-Unlikely Protector

Day5-Self-Control

Day6-Misunderstood Villain | Tragic Backstory

Day7-Trapped Together

second week - omega verse

Day1-Mating Competition

Day2-Nest Building/Territorialism

Day3-bitching

Day4-Omega in Hiding | Suppressant Failure

Day5-Hybrid Dynamics

Day6-Enemies to Lovers

Day7-Unwanted Bond

third week - Little/Care Giver

Day1-Hiding Their Little Side/The Unlikely Caregiver

Day2-Abandoned Little/Learning to Trust Again

Day3-The Comfort Object/The Perfect Stuffie

Day4-Little in Danger/The Caregiver rescues the Little

Day5-Time-Traveling Little

Day6-Separation Anxiety | Tantrum

Day7-Rainy Day Fun | Bedtime Rituals

I will set up a Google thing where people can write what prompts they want for each of those weeks, and then I will hold a poll here where two prompts for each week will be added and can be switched out. I'm not changing the prompts I already picked, but I will let others change out two of them. I put a lot of thought into those prompts. But if no one likes them, then I'll be more than pleased to make it where 2 can be swiped out. for each week.

[jacksdinonuggets]

Vaggie's Classification Chapter 10: couldn't think of a chapter title

Summary: Vaggie's first time regressing in front of the others!

Notes: In this au, Pentious wasn't killed and still is a resident at the hotel.

When they made it down to the mess hall, Nifty had already set up their hotel buffet style breakfast. Lucifer was in the kitchen, making the pancakes and some of the other food. Some of the residents were already seated, eating their breakfast and talking to each other. Vaggie felt really nervous about passing them to get to the food, and tried to curl up in Charlie’s arms.

“It’s okay, Vaggie, they won’t care,” Charlie tried to calm her down. She still was very anxious but calmed down a little when they walked passed, and no one gave her a weird look or anything. Sure, two people shot a confused look but that only lasted a couple seconds.

Charlie hummed as she poured some porridge into a bowl for Vaggie and put in some chocolate chips and blueberries in the shape of a smiley face. Vaggie wasn’t too much of a fan of pancakes since they made her feel sluggish and bad. Once Charlie finished making her bowl, she set Vaggie down for a second to make her a small bottle of milk. She set Vaggie down in a little booster seat and buckled her in. She blushed a little but saw someone else also in one, and felt a little better about it. It was also very comfy. 

“Here we go~” Charlie cooed as she fed Vaggie a spoonful of porridge. Vaggie smiled and giggled, forgetting that she was once a brave exorcist soldier.

After her meal was finished, it was time for her to take her meds. In the book that Charlie got ‘Caregiving for littles with mental health issues’, helping a little take their meds was very important. So Charlie went over to the med station and got out Vaggie’s little container. She brought it over and set it down on the table. She could see Vaggie whine and pout. 

“Vaggie, it helps you. Come sit on Mama's lap,” Charlie unbuckled her from her little booster seat and pulled her into her lap. Vaggie squirmed a little, but Charlie placed her bottle in her mouth. It got her calm enough for Charlie to slip her pills into her mouth during a little break for air. It worked and Vaggie now had her meds. 

Charlie ate her breakfast while talking with Vaggie about the day they had planned ahead. First thing they would do that morning is start off with group play time. Then Charlie would lead a couple of fun classes like the arts and crafts class, and then the classes that were a bit more important after lunchtime. Like how to accept your role, setting boundaries, basic caring for a little one, and how to communicate your feelings and needs when small. Then they would all get an hour break before dinner time. Angel’s schedule would be a little different than the main one, but that was okay because he had to work.

Once she was sure that everyone had finished eating, she got up to rally everyone into the main lobby/seating area, so they could begin the group play time. 

“Alright, everyone, we’re going to be moving into the play area. There should already be fun things and toys for you guys to play with, but just in case you want to grab something, alert your caregiver or a babysitter and they will take you to your room to grab it,” Charlie announced. She carried Vaggie as she led everyone into the lobby. 

Immediately, everyone started playing and having fun. The new residents were playing dinosaurs with Pentious, Angel was building a tower out of blocks with Cherri (who was more of a middle, big sister regressor), and Lucifer was by himself, drawing and playing with some rubber ducks (He regressed after making breakfast, just so you know). Vaggie was very nervous to start playing. She didn’t really know how and didn’t like any of the stuff everyone else was doing other than the quiet table with Luci. But she was very anxious about drawing with him since that was basically going to be her dad one day. Charlie tried to set her down but she immediately start to try and hide behind her.

“Hey, it’s okay, Vaggie. No one is going to judge you. Do you wanna go play dinosaurs with pentious?” She asked her, kneeling down in front of her. Vaggie shook her head. He was too loud sometimes and the loudness reminded her of Adam… she whimpered as she started to remember things that Adam would do. 

“Shh, You’re safe, sweetie. You don’t have to go play with dinosaurs.” Charlie gave her a hug, the pressure being enough to calm her down and stop any oncoming panic attacks or triggers, “You are an amazing little baby, okay? How about you go hang out with Luci at the floor table and have some quiet time? I’ll be right next to you, okay?” Charlie reassured her. Vaggie nodded and held her hand as they walked over to Lucifer's table.

“Hey, Luci, Is it okay if Vaggie hangs out with you?” Charlie asked the mentally 4 year old.

“Mhm, she can hang out,” Lucifer said, giving her a small smile. Vaggie sat down criss-cross applesauce on one of the pillows. She had her koala stuffie in her arms as she picked up a coloring sheet and began to color. The two fallen angels talked a little bit, even though Vaggie was having a bit of trouble with her words. She mainly would point or nod or shake her head, or Charlie would speak for her. Overall, this was a good start to the day.

[wolf-with-moxie]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Charlie Magne | Morningstar/Vaggie, Angel Dust/Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor & Lucifer Magne | Morningstar Characters: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Lucifer Magne | Morningstar, Charlie Magne | Morningstar, Vaggie (Hazbin Hotel), Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel) Additional Tags: Age Regression/De-Aging, Non-Sexual Age Play, Classification AU, Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Soft Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Hurt Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Little Alastor, Caregiver Lucifer, Littles Are Known, Protective Charlie Magne | Morningstar, Alastor Needs a Hug (Hazbin Hotel), Mental Breakdown, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abuse, Physical Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Protective Lucifer Magne | Morningstar, Alastor Has a Tail (Hazbin Hotel), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, animal triats, Alastor is a deer, Not Beta Read, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Sleepy Cuddles, Alastor Is Not Okay (Hazbin Hotel) Summary:

All of Hell tuned in to the Vee's live stream of the Hazbin Hotel taking on an army of angels, but no one would have guessed that the Radio Demon's biggest secret would be revealed for all to see. Powerful Overlords are unhappy, Charlie is protective of her friends, and Lucifer? Well you don't mess around with what the King of Hell considers his. Mind the Tags, don't like what you see then don't read.

[classificationhell]

It was only meant to be the one I swear XD

The author, which is I, would also like to point out the True Daughter AU wasn't even my fault it stemmed from an ask lol

[manicpixiedreamkira]

kigatsukeba

part one | chapter index

megumi x reader, aged up!megumi (and others), early twenties, working as sorcerers, post shinjuku showdown arc but megumi doesn't have his face scars, megumi trying and failing to be in control of his feelings, gojo's gone, bonded through trauma, friends to fwb to lovers, drinking/getting drunk, jealousy, confusing feelings, megumi sucks at feelings, miscommunication, misinterpretation, megumi being stubborn, reader being clueless, slowish burn, idiots in love, jerking off, a bit of size kink ngl, megumi is older here so he’s taller (like 6'2?), he's also buffer (he's toji's son guys, c'mon), reader is described as smaller/shorter than him, takuma ino mentioned, smut, unprotected piv, nasty sex (multiple times), but also love making, confessions, aftercare, a bit of angst, but there's fluff here too, megumi's down bad, not beta'd

a.n: let me know if i missed anything, hope y'all like this one <3

w.c: 11,221

Megumi Fushiguro didn’t jerk off.

Not because he was a prude, or shy, or hadn’t thought about it—he had. He was a twenty-something man with a healthy sex drive and more than a few opportunities to take the edge off.

But he didn’t need to.

He was disciplined. In control. Raised with restraint wired into his spine like steel. If the need got bad enough, there were hookups—casual, clean, quiet. No mess, no entanglements. No reason to wrap his own fingers around his cock like some desperate teenager.

Until tonight.

Until your scent sank into the sterile hotel air, soft and lingering. Until it clung to the couch cushions beside him, where you’d been tucked up against a throw pillow with your damp hair dripping onto your shoulders, skin still flushed from the shower. Until he could still see the shape of your thighs in the shorts you'd worn to bed, still hear your laughter under the glow of the movie you'd picked—some dumb action thing you swore was "a cult classic."

Until all of that stayed behind when you left.

The door to your room had clicked shut almost an hour ago. The suite had gone quiet. And still, the ghost of you lingered.

So now, Megumi had his cock in his hand.

Fingers curled tight, dragging up the flushed length of it, slow and frustrated. The head was red, slick with precum, veins straining against the weight of his restraint. His teeth dug into his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.

He hated this.

Hated the way his brain conjured the image of you, lazy and smiling, your bare legs stretched across the ottoman while you licked popcorn salt from your thumb. Hated the way your scent was everywhere. Hated that your name was on the tip of his tongue, curling like a curse.

His hips jerked against his fist, and he choked down a sound—something dark, desperate, pathetic. The walls were thin. You were right there.

And this—this was humiliating.

He squeezed harder.

God, he hated himself.

—

It was supposed to be a special-grade curse—dangerous enough that two full-fledged sorcerers were dispatched without question—but someone had definitely screwed up the classification. By the time you and Megumi arrived, it was clear the threat was barely even worth a second-year’s time. A third-grade curse, at best. One of you could’ve handled it solo, easy.

Still, neither of you complained. It was Shizuoka—quiet, a little more suburban than Tokyo, with the ocean close enough that the air smelled fresher. The hotel they’d booked for you was nicer than expected too, tucked a little away from the touristy parts, the restaurant downstairs good enough that you decided to make a night of it.

After the clean-up and the paperwork, you and Megumi shared dinner at the hotel restaurant, lingering over fresh sushi and grilled fish, sipping tea and half-heartedly talking about work. Mostly, though, you caught up. Missions had kept you both busy in different parts of the country lately—you hadn’t seen him in nearly two months.

It was easy, like it always was. He didn’t have to force conversation with you. Didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but himself. You laughed about old missions, filled him in on some dumb drama with other sorcerers at Jujutsu High, told him about the new cat you adopted. He listened, really listened, watching you from under the messy fringe of his hair with something almost soft in his eyes.

If he noticed how the curve of your mouth distracted him, he didn’t say anything.

If you noticed how he looked at you a little too long, you didn’t either.

Later, after dinner, you both showered and changed into comfortable clothes—loose shorts and a tank top for you, sweatpants and a t-shirt for him—and sprawled across the couch in his room to pick a movie.

Now you were lounging sideways with your hair still damp, loosely swept to one side. A blanket was thrown haphazardly over your legs, one foot sticking out. The TV glowed across your skin, casting faint blue shadows that made you look ethereal. Megumi tried not to stare.

“This is the dumbest movie I’ve ever seen,” he said flatly.

You beamed. “Isn’t it amazing?”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. He’d let you pick the movie, like he always did, and like always, you chose something objectively terrible. Over-the-top stunts, cheesy one-liners, paper-thin plot. And yet—he was smiling a little. You made it entertaining. You always did.

“Admit it,” you said, nudging his shin with your toe, “you’re having fun.”

He didn’t answer, which only made you grin wider.

Outside the wide windows, Shizuoka’s lights twinkled against the dark, the city slowing down for the night but never fully asleep. Your mission was done. You had nowhere to be until tomorrow. The world, for once, felt slow.

You yawned and stretched, arms above your head, tank top riding up just slightly before you let them drop again. “Alright. Bedtime. Early train and all that.”

Megumi nodded once, eyes carefully on the TV.

“Night, Fushiguro.”

“Night.”

You stood, gathered your things, and padded off toward the left-side bedroom, the one you’d claimed when you arrived. The door closed softly behind you.

He didn’t move.

Just sat there, rigid, jaw tense, listening to the distant hum of the hallway and the quiet creak of the walls. Thin enough that he could hear you shuffling around, zipping up your overnight bag, plugging in your phone.

Thin enough that if he weren’t so tightly wound, so furious with himself, he might imagine hearing the faint rustle of your sheets as you crawled into bed.

Instead, he pressed his palms to his face, exhaled sharply through his nose, and cursed under his breath.

He needed a shower. A cold one.

—

But he doesn't take a shower.

Instead, thirty minutes later, he’s flat on his back in the dark, one hand buried under the waistband of his sweats, jerking himself off to the thought of you—after making sure to lock his door. It’s not even a coherent fantasy. Just flashes. Snapshots. The sound of your voice. The way your hair stuck to your neck. The shape of your thighs when you shifted positions on the couch. That one time you stretched in front of him in your sports bra before a mission and didn’t even notice he’d stopped talking mid-sentence.

Your smell. That lotion. Sweet and warm and unmistakably you.

He bites back another noise, this one closer to a whimper.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s noticed you. He’s not that blind. He’s seen the way other people look at you—sorcerers, civilians, even cursed spirits in the middle of battle. You’re beautiful. Sharp. Capable. Terrifying when you want to be.

But this is the first time it’s hit him like a goddamn truck.

The first time he’s had to acknowledge how deep it goes. How the fondness has turned into tension, how the teasing has gotten sharper, closer. How your hands linger longer when you pass him a drink. How your voice softens when it’s just the two of you.

His eyes squeeze shut as he strokes faster, chasing the high he doesn't want to admit he needs. His name on your lips. Your lips on his skin. The idea of you slipping into his bed and—

Fuck.

He comes with a stifled grunt, biting down hard on his own wrist to keep the sound from leaking out. His whole body tenses, the aftershocks wracking through him as he lies there, spent and furious and still half-hard because it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

He wipes himself off with shaking hands, then lies back against the mattress, chest heaving.

He’s so fucked.

—

The next morning, Megumi was already awake when your alarm buzzed faintly through the wall.

He hadn’t slept.

He’d laid there in the dark for hours, shame prickling under his skin like a fever, staring at the ceiling and replaying every humiliating second over and over in his mind.

The worst part wasn’t that he jerked off.

 It was that he couldn’t stop thinking about you even after he came.

 It was that it didn’t make it better. It made it worse.

Now, sunlight was creeping pale and soft over the city outside. The train back to Tokyo left in a few hours. And Megumi knew he had to face you.

When you finally emerged from your room—stretching and yawning in an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair still mussed from sleep—Megumi’s stomach twisted painfully. You smiled at him, easy and warm, completely unaware of the disgusting mess he’d made of everything inside his head.

You could have climbed inside his mind right then—he felt that vulnerable, that raw. Like you could peel him open and see every shameful, ugly thought he'd ever had.

He dropped his eyes to the floor immediately.

“Morning,” you said, voice a little scratchy.

He grunted something back that barely qualified as a greeting.

You cocked your head slightly. "We’ve got time before the train—wanna grab breakfast downstairs?"

Your tone was so casual. So normal. Like nothing had changed. And maybe for you, nothing had.

But Megumi couldn’t even look at you.

He shook his head stiffly. "Not hungry," he muttered.

You blinked. "You sure? Their buffet looked—"

"I’m fine."

It came out harsher than he meant. Too harsh. He saw it—the flicker of confusion in your face, the way your mouth pressed into a softer, uncertain line.

Guilt bloomed hot under his ribs.

He felt like throwing up. For touching himself thinking about you. For thinking he could pretend nothing had happened. For hurting you now, too, on top of everything else.

You nodded once, careful, and disappeared back into your room to grab your things.

He hated himself more with every second that passed.

—

The train ride back to Tokyo was miserable.

You tried—god, you tried.

Little things. Commenting on the weather. Pointing out a funny ad in the station. Mentioning how badly you wanted a real breakfast once you got home.

Each time, Megumi answered in one or two clipped words, eyes glued to the window or his phone, refusing to meet your gaze.

He felt your energy falter gradually—like a dimming lightbulb. Confusion first. Then hurt. Then that heavy silence he knew was you giving up.

It made him feel even sicker. But he couldn't fix it. Couldn't find it in himself to risk looking at you again and you seeing everything written on his face.

So he stayed turned away, watching the landscape blur past, counting the minutes until he could get away from you.

Coward.

—

When the train finally pulled into Tokyo Station, Megumi was up and moving before it even fully stopped.

He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder with a speed that was almost rude. You barely had time to get up before he was halfway down the platform.

"Fushiguro—?" you called, voice cutting through the sea of people.

He half-turned—just enough to throw a glance over his shoulder. Not enough to meet your eyes.

"I’ll see you later," he said quickly. "Thanks for the mission."

And then he was gone—shoulders stiff, disappearing into the morning crowd before you could say anything else. 

You stood there for a long second, your bag dangling from your hand, the city roaring around you.

Had you done something wrong?

You replayed the past twenty-four hours in your head, frowning. Dinner had been fine. The movie had been fine. You hadn't fought. Hadn’t said anything weird. Hadn’t—

You sighed, pushing those thoughts down and started moving, blending into the busy city folk.

—

Two weeks went by. 

You didn’t see him.

Not at Jujutsu High. Not in the training halls. Not even with Yuuji and Nobara, having lunch at that chinese place they always seemed to be at.

The absence sat heavy in your chest, even though you told yourself it was stupid to care. It wasn’t like you were anything important to him. Just friends. Just mission partners.

And maybe not even that, anymore.

It wasn’t until Yuji’s birthday—March 20th, a Saturday this year—that you finally crossed paths again.

Nobara was throwing a party for him at a loud ramen place near Shibuya. She’d booked a private room, packed with more people than should have fit, all of them loud and happy and shoulder-to-shoulder at the long tables. The air thick with laughter and clattering bowls of noodles.

You were already there, wedged between Aoi and Maki, when Megumi arrived, a few minutes late.

You felt his presence before you even saw him—like your body knew.

He ducked inside the room, hair damp from a shower, wearing a black hoodie half-zipped over a plain t-shirt. 

He looked exhausted. 

He looked beautiful.

He looked like he wanted to turn right back around and leave the second his eyes landed on you.

You caught the stiff jerk of his shoulders, the way his mouth flattened into a hard line. You turned quickly back to your drink before you could make it worse.

But your chest ached.

—

You weren’t planning on getting drunk.

But a few shots in, it stopped feeling like a decision.

The private room Nobara booked was packed, heavy with the scent of broth and beer, the buzz of a dozen overlapping conversations. Ramen bowls clattered against the wooden tables, servers squeezed between chairs with trays of drinks, and someone had cranked the music up too loud on the old stereo in the corner.

You lost track of how many shots Yuuji poured into your cup. You lost track of how many toasts you cheered to. You stopped caring. Mostly, you drank to drown the sharp, ugly knot in your chest.

Across the table, Megumi sat stiffly, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead. He’d shrugged off his jacket, and the plain black t-shirt he wore clung to the lines of his shoulders, his arms. Even sitting down, he was long and lean, legs sprawled slightly under the table in a way that made him look like he didn’t quite fit in the too-small space.

He wasn't drunk.

He never got drunk.

He'd had a beer, maybe two, the lazy flush of alcohol just barely pinking his cheeks, but that was it. Always controlled. Always careful. Always responsible.

You hated him for it tonight.

You hated the way he sat there, silent and brooding, without so much as looking at you.

So you drank more.

You wore a slip dress tonight—short, backless, the silky fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, dipping low across your spine. It shimmered slightly when you moved, catching the dim restaurant light like liquid metal. Your makeup was heavier than usual too, smoky and dark around your eyes, your mouth glossed and soft.

You knew you looked good.

You wanted Megumi to look.

But if he did, he hid it too well.

Somewhere between your third and fourth drink, Yuuji slung an arm around Megumi's stiff shoulders, laughing too loud.

"What's with the funeral face, Fushiguro?" he teased, breath warm with sake. "It's my birthday, not yours, asshole!"

Megumi shrugged him off without much force, shooting him a withering look.

"Just tired," he muttered.

"Tired of what?" Nobara crowed from across the table, half-sprawled over Maki. "You've been sitting there looking like someone kicked your puppy all night!"

"I don't have a puppy," Megumi said, deadpan.

Yuta leaned in, smiling, voice gentle. "Maybe he just needs another drink."

"I think he needs to get laid," Todo declared, raising his glass with a booming laugh.

The table erupted into laughter. Even Toge, nestled between Panda and a slouching Noritoshi, muttered a muffled "Salmon" into his drink.

You laughed too, a little too loud, the alcohol making everything slosh and sway a little inside you.

When you looked over at Megumi, his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might break a tooth.

Good, you thought viciously.

Let him suffer a little.

That's when Ino slid into the empty seat beside you.

Takuma Ino—messy, charming, handsome in that way that didn’t feel serious. He’d hit on you before, more than once, always easy, always harmless. You never thought much about it.

But tonight... you were angry. You were drunk. And Ino was smiling at you like he thought you were the most interesting thing in the room.

"You look incredible," he said, tipping his drink toward you with a lazy wink. The dim restaurant light caught his sharp cheekbones, his strong jaw, the slope of his nose. The shadows made him look sharper, older. Handsomer.

Still—he looked like nothing next to Megumi.

That only made you angrier.

You smiled back at Ino, slow and syrupy, letting your hand trail lightly down his arm.

"Do I?" you said, leaning in, letting the neckline of your dress slip a little lower.

Across the room, Megumi’s hand tightened around his beer bottle so hard his knuckles went white.

He told himself to ignore it. He told himself you were drunk, you didn't mean anything by it. He told himself he didn’t care.

And for a few minutes, he almost managed.

Until he saw Ino’s hand slide lower on your back—fingers brushing the bare skin where your dress dipped scandalously low.

Until he saw you tilt your head back and laugh at something Ino whispered against your ear.

Something sharp and ancient tore through Megumi’s chest. He was moving before he realized it.

One second you were laughing into Ino's shoulder—the next, a large, strong hand clamped around your wrist, pulling you to your feet.

"Hey—!" Ino protested, half-rising from his seat.

Megumi didn’t even glance at him. His grip was firm but not painful, his body radiating a heat and fury you could feel down to your bones.

"She's done for tonight," he said curtly.

No one argued. Not even Ino.

Too much of something simmered under Megumi’s voice. Too much promise of violence.

You stumbled a little as he pulled you toward the door, your head spinning. Your heels clicked clumsily against the wood floor.

"Fushiguro," you slurred, trying to pull your hand free, "what the fuck are you—"

"Be quiet," he muttered under his breath.

Your heart stumbled.

Not because of the words. But because of the way he said them—low, rough, desperate.

You shut up.

Megumi didn’t let go of your wrist until you reached the sidewalk, the noise of the restaurant fading behind you. Only then did he stop, his chest heaving slightly, his hand dropping away like he was afraid of burning himself.

The second the restaurant door closed behind you, your skin prickled with cold, the flimsy silk of your backless dress no match for the crisp breeze rolling in from the river. You hugged your arms tightly to yourself, wobbling slightly on your heels as the alcohol buzz settled deeper into your bones.

You swayed slightly, like you were going to fall. He caught you instinctively, hands steadying you at your waist—but the second you were upright again, he snatched them back like he couldn't stand to touch you.

You stared up at him—blinking, confused, still dizzy with alcohol.

He was tall.

Much taller than you, the way he loomed over you without even trying—broad-shouldered, all lean, restrained strength wrapped in soft cotton and dark denim.

You had to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

And he was looking at you like you were a problem he didn’t know how to fix. Something dark flickered across his face—something he quickly, ruthlessly shoved down. 

The night air bit sharper against your skin now, sobering you just enough to register the awful silence stretching between you.

Megumi still hadn’t said a word, still as stone and gaze trained on the pavement. Just a shadow in the orange wash of the streetlight, broad-shouldered and silent, his expression unreadable.

You turned your head slowly to face him, your voice sharp and slurred with anger.

"You dragged me out of there," you bit out, voice louder than you intended, "and you can’t even look at me?"

Megumi flinched almost imperceptibly—like your words physically hurt—jaw clenched. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, and even now, in his rigid silence, he couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes.

"You’re drunk," he said shortly. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Fuck you, Megumi," you snapped, chest heaving. "I know exactly what I'm saying."

He raked a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated. For a moment, you thought he might actually say something—something real—but still, nothing. No answer. Not even a flicker of emotion.

You gave a bitter, breathy laugh and turned away from him, hugging yourself tighter. A shiver rattled your shoulders.

And then, quietly, there was the rustle of fabric behind you.

He stripped off his jacket in one swift movement, draping it over your shoulders without looking at you. His hands brushed your upper arms only briefly, barely even touching, but it was enough to send a warm pulse through your chest.

The heavy fabric smelled like him—cedar, clean soap, something faintly citrusy underneath.

You looked up at him in surprise.

Even now—especially now—he couldn’t stand to see you shivering on the street because of him.

You tugged it closer instinctively.

It covered most of your slip dress, the silky hem barely peeking out from underneath, hiding the vulnerable expanse of your bare back and thighs.

You blinked. 

“Thanks,” you muttered, mostly to the sidewalk.

Megumi’s face was a mask. But inside, he was screaming. He didn’t even trust himself to touch you again. Didn’t even want to risk it.

You crossed your arms against the cold, his jacket still warm from his body. It was only then you realized—in his rush to pull you out—you’d left everything behind. Your jacket, your purse, your phone... even your damn house keys.

Panic flickered up your spine, quick and mean.

"You made me leave all my stuff behind," you said accusingly, your words wobbling. "What am I supposed to do now, genius?"

Megumi's shoulders stiffened.

"I’ll figure it out," he muttered.

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to scream.

—

She was cold because of you, Megumi thought. She was standing here without a jacket because you pulled her out without giving her the chance to grab her things. Because you couldn’t stomach watching Ino touch her. 

Because you couldn’t do a single fucking thing without messing it up.

You shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of his coat, and Megumi glanced back toward the restaurant—jaw tight, throat working.

You’d left everything. Your phone. Your purse. Your house keys. Even your damn jacket.

He could take you back, let you go in, get what you needed. You deserved that, at the very least.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The thought of Ino still sitting at that table—smirking, buzzed, smug, maybe even brave enough to pull you back down beside him—sent a hard, nauseous twist through Megumi’s stomach.

He didn’t trust himself not to lose it.

So he pulled out his phone instead, typing out a quick message to Nobara:

[ hey. she left her shit at the restaurant. grab it before you go? i’ll pick it up in the morning. ]

A moment later, the read receipt popped up.

[ sure. you owe me. ]

He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked at you. 

You stared at him, confused and blinking through the drunken haze.

He didn’t answer.

A minute later, he ordered a cab.

—

The car rolled up to the curb a few minutes later.

Megumi opened the door, gesturing stiffly for you to get in first. You stumbled, nearly missing the step up into the backseat. The ravenette was there instantly, steadying you with a hand on your lower back—but he jerked away again like he'd been burned the second you were inside.

He gave the driver his address without hesitation.

You blinked at him, still confused.

"My place," he said shortly. "You’re not getting into your apartment without keys."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the seat was warm and you were so tired, and it was so much easier to just slump against the window and close your eyes.

—

The ride was short but suffocating.

You could feel Megumi beside you, rigid as a statue, tension rolling off him in waves. His hands stayed firmly planted on his thighs the entire time, clenched into white-knuckled fists.

When the cab pulled up to his building, Megumi got out first, circling quickly around to your door.

You hesitated before climbing out, legs wobbly in your heels, the cold sinking deeper through your skin despite his jacket wrapped around you.

"Goddammit," Megumi muttered under his breath.

The stairs to his apartment loomed ahead.

You squared your shoulders, stubborn, trying to prove some kind of point. But your heel caught on the very first step and the world lurched sideways beneath you, your ankle buckling. 

Strong hands caught you before you could hit the ground.

Megumi exhaled through his nose, long and slow.

"You're impossible," he muttered under his breath.

You blinked up at him, dizzy. “You’re the one who—”

“I know,” he bit out, frustrated. “I know.”

Before you could say anything else, he bent low, one arm behind your knees, the other at your back—and lifted you.

“Megumi—”

“Just—don’t.” His tone was tight. Controlled. But there was heat simmering underneath, wild and cracked and guilty as hell.

You wanted to fight him. You wanted to cry. You hated how safe you felt, pressed against him—despite your rage, despite your confusion—curling unconsciously closer, cheek resting against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

He smelled like cedar and clean soap. Like safety. Like someone you’d once known well and now couldn’t reach.

He didn’t look down at you once—carring you all the way to the third floor, barely breathing heavily, his jaw locked tight.

At his door, he shifted you higher against his chest with a grunt and somehow managed to fish out his keys. The door swung open, spilling the familiar, clean scent of his apartment into the hallway.

He set you down carefully just inside the entryway.

The moment your feet hit the ground, you swayed dangerously again.

With a frustrated sigh, Megumi guided you toward the couch, his hand at your waist, keeping you upright.

You collapsed into the cushions with a groan, burying your face in his jacket still draped around your shoulders.

He hovered for a second, clearly unsure what to do.

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, mascara smudged slightly beneath your eyes.

"Why do you even care?" you muttered, voice raw. "You don't even like me anymore."

Megumi tensed.

"You don't even look at me," you mumbled. "You don't talk to me. You don’t want me around."

The words hung between you—heavy, accusing, bitter.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

A beat passed. Then two.

You laughed, short and sharp, and turned your face away from him.

“Thought so,” you whispered, curling into the couch.

You didn’t see the way he looked at you after. Didn’t see the way his fingers curled tight at his sides like he wanted to reach for you—but wouldn’t let himself.

You were already asleep.

—

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the smell.

Crisp, clean, familiar—cedar and soap and something warm underneath.

The second thing was that you weren’t on the couch anymore.

You blinked against the low citylight leaking through the curtains, heart thudding heavily in your ears as you sat up slowly. Megumi’s bed was bigger than yours—neat, sparse, a simple navy comforter tucked tight around you. His jacket had slipped halfway off your shoulders in your sleep, cool silk brushing against your skin.

You were still in your dress. Barefoot.

The room was silent. Heavy.

You pushed the jacket back up around your shoulders and slipped out of the bed, the cool floor making you shiver.

Somewhere past the half-open door, you heard it—the faint, broken rhythm of someone's breathing.

Careful, quiet, you padded down the short hallway until you reached the living room.

And there he was.

Megumi sat hunched on the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head cradled in his hands. The thin cotton of his t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the tense line of his back rigid with something you couldn't quite name. His legs were spread wide, his long frame taking up most of the space—a tall, powerful body crammed uncomfortably into a small seat he clearly hadn’t been able to sleep in.

For a second, you just watched him.

He was so much bigger now than when you’d first met years ago—taller, broader in every sense. Even folded over like this, he still took up too much space. It hit you all at once: how much he'd grown, how different he was, how painfully far away he seemed now.

"Megumi?" you called softly.

He jerked upright, hands flying off his head, his whole body tensing like he'd been caught doing something wrong.

His face—God, his face.

There was a flush blooming under his cheekbones, hot and sharp against his pale skin. His mouth pressed into a hard, thin line, and he couldn't meet your eyes.

"You should be resting," he murmured, voice low.

You took a tentative step closer. "I woke up and... I was confused. Why did you move me to your bed?"

He hesitated, fingers clenching into fists. "You were uncomfortable," he muttered, voice rough, not looking at you. "On the couch. Figured... the bed would be better."

You shifted awkwardly, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself. "And you?"

Megumi grimaced. "I'm fine."

You glanced down at the cramped, sagging couch, trying to imagine someone as tall and built as him trying to fold himself into it for the night. Your throat tightened painfully.

"You gave me your bed... and you took this?" you said, voice cracking slightly.

He still wouldn't look at you.

"I—" he started, then broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. "Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" you repeated, a bitter little laugh escaping before you could stop it. "Then why won’t you even look at me?"

Finally, he did.

And what you saw there—wild guilt, raw frustration, something worse lurking underneath—nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You took a step closer, heart hammering.

"What did I do?" you asked, voice wobbling. "Tell me, Megumi. What did I do that's so awful you can't even stand to be around me anymore?"

He flinched, like you’d slapped him.

"Nothing," he said hoarsely. "You didn’t do anything. It’s me."

You shook your head, fighting tears. "Then what? What’s so bad?"

He opened his mouth—and for a long, awful second, no sound came out.

Then, low and broken:

"You're in my bed," he said, almost to himself, like he couldn't believe it. "Wearing that—" his hands clenched tightly, knuckles white. "Smelling like you do. And I can't fucking stop—"

You froze.

Your heart thudded, confused. "Stop what?"

His whole body radiated tension, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"I can't stop wanting you," Megumi ground out. "Even when I don't have the right to. Even when I know it would ruin everything."

You stared at him, mouth dry, vision swimming.

And that’s when you noticed.

The heavy bulge tenting the front of his jeans, straining against the fabric, painfully obvious now that he was sitting back against the couch cushions. His thighs were spread wide, like even now he couldn’t hide how wrecked he was.

Your stomach twisted sharply. Heat bloomed between your legs—and then just as quickly, cold fear.

Because if he wanted you, why was he acting like this? Why was he avoiding you, treating you like you were some burden he couldn't wait to unload?

The tears you'd been holding back finally slipped free.

Megumi stiffened instantly at the broken sound you made.

"No," he said, alarmed, standing up so fast the couch squeaked. "No, don't—shit, don't cry—"

You stumbled back a step, brushing your cheeks angrily. "You hate me," you said, the words tumbling out half-sob, half-accusation. "You’re disgusted with me and I don’t even know why—"

"I'm not," he said fiercely, crowding closer without even thinking. "I'm not disgusted with you. I could never—"

You hiccuped through a shaky breath, clutching his jacket tighter around your shoulders.

"Then why?"

Megumi raked a hand through his hair again, looking wild, desperate.

"Because I want you," he said, voice ragged. "Because I'm not supposed to. Because you're drunk, and you're hurting, and if I touch you it’s just—it's wrong."

You blinked up at him, tears shining in your wide eyes.

"But you’re hurting me anyway," you whispered.

And that—that—split him wide open.

He cursed under his breath, stepping back like he was physically restraining himself. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His chest heaved with every breath.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I’m so fucking sorry."

You stared at him, breathing hard, jacket slipping off one bare shoulder.

Megumi’s eyes flicked down—then snapped away, jaw locking tight.

He looked like he was about to break.

"I'm sorry," he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

You stood there, wavering, hugging his jacket around your shoulders like an armor. Your lip trembled, your eyes shining, and Megumi thought he might throw up from the way it made his chest tighten painfully.

He took a slow breath, forcing his voice steady.

"Please," he said, the word scraping raw in his throat, "go back to bed. We can... talk in the morning."

You stared at him like you didn’t believe him, like you were trying to read something from his face that he didn’t know how to hide. And maybe you could—maybe you always could, that was the problem—but still, you stayed frozen there, shivering slightly, the silk hem of your dress brushing against your thighs in the draft.

Megumi felt like his body was locked in place. His hands fisted uselessly at his sides, nails biting into the heels of his palms. His cock was still hard—achingly, miserably hard—straining against the waistband of his pants, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

He deserved it. He deserved to sit there with this shame crawling under his skin, with his body betraying him at the worst possible moment, with the sight of you crying burned into his fucking memory.

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to stay still, to stay silent, to stay contained.

Because if he let himself speak, he knew it wouldn’t come out right. If he let himself move, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

You blinked at him, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, and Megumi squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to pull himself back together.

"Please," he said again, softer now, pleading. "Just... just go back to bed."

Maybe—maybe if you slept, maybe if you forgot enough of tonight, he could fix it in the morning. Pretend none of this happened. Pretend he was still the responsible one, the one who could be trusted not to ruin everything just because he couldn’t get a fucking grip on himself.

He opened his eyes and found you still standing there.

For a terrible second, he thought you were going to stay, going to push, going to ask him for something he couldn't, shouldn't give you.

But then you blinked slowly, wiped at your cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, and without a word, turned and padded back down the hallway toward his bedroom.

Megumi stayed frozen in the living room until he heard the soft creak of the mattress as you climbed back into bed.

Then, and only then, did he let himself move.

He sagged onto the couch like the strings holding him up had been cut, head falling into his hands. His cock was still painfully hard, a pulse of need that throbbed through him with every breath, but he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t even consider it.

No.

He deserved this.

He deserved to sit here, miserable and aching, with the weight of his own self-disgust settling heavier and heavier across his shoulders.

Every heartbeat was punishment. Every shallow breath, every twitch of his muscles.

This was what he deserved for letting you get close enough to hurt. For being weak enough to want you. For making you cry.

He stayed like that, head bowed between his hands, until the first pale threads of morning light began to creep through the cracks in the blinds.

—

You woke up slowly.

The first thing you noticed was the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton and wrapped it too tight. The second was the heavy warmth of the comforter over you, the faint scent of soap and cedar sinking into your skin.

Megumi’s scent.

You shifted, muscles stiff and aching, and only then realized you were still wearing last night's dress—rumpled now, the hem twisted high around your thighs. Megumi’s jacket was still draped over your shoulders, half-off, half-on, swallowing you up in worn fabric and the echo of him.

You pushed yourself upright with a groan, blinking blearily at the morning light bleeding in through the curtains. Everything hurt—your head, your throat, your pride.

And the memories—

They floated up slowly, sickly, filling your chest with something thick and sour.

The fight. The crying. The way Megumi had looked at you—gutted, guilty, refusing to touch you even when you had all but begged for answers.

You pulled his jacket closer around yourself, cold despite the sunlight, your heart thudding unevenly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment was silent.

For a second you just sat there, gathering yourself, dread pooling low and heavy in your stomach.

Then, cautiously, you stood.

Your bare feet made no sound against the floor as you padded toward the door, jacket trailing behind you like a shield. The hallway seemed longer than it had last night, every step loud in your ears.

You found him in the kitchen.

Megumi stood by the counter, his back to you, hunched slightly like he hadn’t slept at all. His hair was a mess, tangled at the roots like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. His hands were braced on the edge of the sink, knuckles pale with the pressure.

He must have heard you—but he didn’t turn around.

You hovered by the counter, nerves scraping raw inside your skin, your voice catching in your throat.

"Morning," you said, voice hoarse.

He flinched.

It was subtle—just the barest tension running up his shoulders—but you caught it, and it made something twist painfully inside you.

Slowly, Megumi straightened. His fingers drummed once, twice, against the counter before he finally turned to face you.

You almost wished he hadn’t.

There were dark shadows under his eyes, tension carved deep into the lines of his face. He looked—wrecked. Like he’d fought a battle with himself all night and lost.

He opened his mouth—then closed it again, jaw tightening.

You swallowed hard, clutching his jacket tighter around yourself.

"I remember," you said, voice small. "Not everything, but... enough."

A beat of silence stretched between you—long and sharp and unbearable.

Megumi shifted his weight, his broad frame seeming even bigger in the tight space of the kitchen, dwarfing everything. His arms crossed over his chest—defensive, protective, like he was trying to physically hold himself back.

"You were drunk," he said finally, voice rough. "It doesn't matter."

You let out a shaky breath. "It matters to me."

He looked at you then—really looked—and you hated how much it hurt. Hated how much guilt and self-loathing you could see bleeding out of him, barely restrained.

"You’re mad at me," you said quietly, not a question.

"No," he said immediately, too fast, too sharp. "I'm mad at myself."

You blinked, confused.

"I made you cry," Megumi said, the words like gravel dragging out of his chest. "I hurt you. That’s on me."

You took a step closer, careful, feeling the heat radiating off his body even from a foot away.

"You didn’t hurt me," you said. "You just... confused me."

His mouth twisted, bitter and miserable.

"I can’t—I can’t want you like that," he said, voice low and cracked. "It’s not right."

Your breath caught.

"Why?" you whispered.

He turned away again, bracing his hands on the counter, bowing his head.

"Because you’re drunk," he muttered. "Because you’re my friend. Because you deserve better than—"

"Stop," you said, sharper than you meant.

He froze.

You stepped closer until you were right behind him, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the tension vibrating through him like a wire pulled taut.

"I’m sober now," you said. "And I know what I want."

He let out a rough, broken laugh—one that sounded more like a sob.

"It’s not that simple."

"Why not?"

He turned then, so suddenly you flinched. His hands caught your arms—careful, barely touching, like he was afraid he might hurt you just by holding on too tight.

"Because if I let myself have you," he said, voice raw and shaking, "I'll get too greedy."

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You stared up at him—at the storm raging in his dark eyes, at the way his fingers trembled against your skin—and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw the truth clearly.

This wasn’t indifference. It wasn’t disgust. It was need.

Fierce and desperate and so long denied that it had festered into something wild inside him.

Your hands lifted without thinking, tangling in the front of his t-shirt.

"I can be greedy too," you whispered.

Megumi made a strangled sound—something halfway between a groan and a curse—and dropped his forehead against yours.

He was trembling.

"You don’t know what you’re asking," he breathed.

"I do."

"You’ll hate me."

"I could never."

Megumi’s breath stuttered against your skin, the heat of him leaking through every careful inch where he wasn't quite touching you. His fingers curled tight in the fabric of your borrowed jacket, and you could feel how badly he was shaking—like he was fighting himself at every breath.

"You'll hate me," he whispered again, voice cracked and low, like the confession cost him something he couldn't get back.

You stared up at him, heart thudding too fast, your mind scrambling to make sense of the words—to shove them into a box you could understand.

Hate him? For what? Was it really that simple?

You swallowed, heart lurching painfully—but you still didn’t quite get it. Didn't see the war he was losing inside his own chest.

Instead, you gave a shaky little laugh, trying to lighten the crackling tension choking the air between you.

"I mean…" you started, teasing, trying for levity, "if you’re just talking about sex, Megumi... we can make that work."

Megumi froze—went so still you thought maybe he'd stopped breathing.

You blinked at him, confused, startled by the sudden intensity in his eyes. Dark, wild, burning like a fuse had finally hit the powder.

"I’m serious," you said quickly, heart hammering harder. 

You smiled, a little awkward, a little too bright. "It's not like I never thought about it," you joked, nudging at the tension with a clumsy, hangover drenched bravery. "You're hot, Megumi. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t... Back in high school. Still do, sometimes. And if this is just... you know, a physical thing, that’s fine. We’re adults. We can be smart about it."

You winced internally the second the words left your mouth—but it was too late. They hung there, stupid and weightless, in the heavy, aching air between you.

Megumi's jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, like he didn't know what to do with them. His whole body was wound tight, every inch of him vibrating with something you didn’t know how to name.

You thought you did, though.

You thought it was guilt. Fear. Worry about crossing a line you couldn't uncross.

You mistook the devastated look in his eyes for hesitation—for regret—instead of what it really was: need, thick and choking and helpless.

You pressed on before he could retreat fully, heart thudding painfully.

"I'm not gonna freak out," you said quickly, voice softening. "If it's just sex, it's just sex. I don’t want to lose you over something stupid. We’re friends first, right? We can... figure it out."

You meant it. You meant every word. You would rather give him this, would rather let your heart ache quietly in your own chest, than lose him altogether. You could handle it. You could be smart. You could keep it simple if that’s what he needed.

So you smiled—small and earnest and maybe a little shaky—thinking you were offering him something safe.

Megumi made a rough, broken sound in the back of his throat and turned away, raking both hands through his hair like he wanted to tear it out at the roots.

Your stomach twisted, misreading it entirely.

You thought he was trying to resist. You thought he was scared of ruining what you had—the ease, the history, the friendship built over years.

You didn’t realize he was breaking apart because he knew he couldn’t pretend it would ever be casual. Not with you.

Still, you didn't want him to spiral alone in whatever guilt or shame he was carrying.

"Just... think about it," you said, softer now, stepping closer, your fingers brushing lightly over his sleeve. "You don't have to decide right now. I just... I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m not gonna hate you."

He turned his head slightly—just enough that you caught the shadowed edge of his profile. His lips were pressed into a hard, miserable line, like he was swallowing back something sharp and dangerous.

Megumi stared at you like you’d just offered him a loaded gun and told him to aim it at his own heart. Like you didn’t even know what you were asking him to survive.

But he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t correct you.

Maybe he couldn't.

His fingers just flexed uselessly at his sides. His throat bobbed in a rough swallow. His jaw was so tight you could see the muscle ticking in the hollow beneath his ear.

He couldn't breathe around you. Couldn't think. Couldn't even stand there another second without feeling like he was going to tear himself apart.

Finally, he muttered, hoarse and rough, "I need to go get your stuff. Nobara has it."

You blinked at him, a little thrown by the sudden change of subject, but you nodded anyway, giving him a small, shaky smile he didn’t see because he was already reaching for his keys.

"I’ll be quick," he added, already moving toward the door like the apartment was on fire and he needed to escape before he got caught in the blaze. "Stay here. Take a shower. Eat something. Wear whatever you want."

You stared at his back, your heart thudding unevenly, confused and stinging all over.

"After that... I’ll drive you home."

You nodded slowly, even though he wasn’t looking at you.

At the door, Megumi hesitated, one hand braced against the frame, the other clenching around the keys, the metal denting the flesh of his palm.

His shoulders stiffened, and he said, almost too quietly:

"I’m taking the bike. It’ll be faster."

You opened your mouth—not sure what you were going to say—but he cut you off before you could even breathe.

"Your dress," he said, voice tight, still refusing to turn around. "It’s not... it’s not bike-appropriate."

There was something almost broken in the way he said it. Like it wasn’t just about the logistics. Like if you climbed on behind him wearing that little slip of silk and nothing else, he wasn’t sure he'd make it back in one piece.

You stood there frozen, jacket swallowing your frame, lips parted and unsure, while Megumi finally forced himself out the door — pulling it closed behind him with a soft, definitive click.

You stared at the wood a long moment after he was gone, heart hammering hard and helpless in your chest.

The apartment buzzed with silence. Heavy, humming, full of words you hadn't been brave enough to say.

You hugged his jacket closer around yourself—the scent of him sinking into your skin—and let yourself skin to the floor, your knees pulling to your chest, the cold of the hardwood bleeding through your bare legs.

For the first time all morning, you realized:

Maybe you hadn’t understood anything at all.

—

The door clicked shut behind Megumi as he stepped back into his apartment, your bag and jacket slung over one shoulder, a plastic to-go container from the ramen place clutched in his other hand—some mercy from Nobara he hadn’t asked for.

He moved on autopilot at first—slipping the keys back into his pocket, toeing off his shoes—until his gaze caught, snagging helplessly on the figure moving across the kitchen.

Soft morning light spilled through the large window to his balcony, pooling across the counters, catching the slight sway of your body as you shifted from one foot to the other. You moved carefully around the stove, stirring the contents of a pan with a spatula, the buttery smell of cooking eggs soft in the air—smothered under the domesticity you’d stitched into his kitchen like a thread he hadn't noticed pulling tight.

And you were wearing his clothes.

An oversized black t-shirt hung loose on your frame, the neckline dipping slightly but clinging just enough to stay in place, soft cotton brushing the delicate line of your collarbones. His gray sweatpants sat low on your hips, cinched tight with the drawstring, the extra fabric pooling at your ankles in lazy folds, right down to where your socked feet met the floor.

You looked small like that. Warm. Not just because the clothes dwarfed you, but because you made them look soft, lived-in—like you belonged to them. To him.

You glanced up when you heard the door, offering him a cautious, wobbly smile—so soft, so unsure—like you were ready for him to push you away again.

Like you were still trying to give him a safe out.

Megumi’s fingers tightened unconsciously around the strap of your bag.

"Hey," you said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear, voice pitched soft. "I made you something."

You gestured toward the pan, where a half-folded omelette was browning gently at the edges. He could smell it from where he stood—eggs, cheese, something savory and sharp tucked inside.

You remembered. You always remembered the small, stupid things he never said out loud—like how he preferred salty over sweet in the mornings, how heavy breakfasts made him nauseous, how he took his coffee black without ever complaining about it.

The lump that formed in his throat was sudden and vicious.

He forced himself forward, dropping your bag by the door, setting the container carefully on the table without really registering the motion. His body moved on instinct, trying to pretend normalcy, trying to suffocate the riot building under his ribs—one heavy step, then another—until he was close enough to reach you if he dared.

You watched him—guarded but hopeful—twisting your fingers absently in the hem of the too-long t-shirt. Then it hit him. 

The scent.

Subtle at first, creeping under the buttery heat of the kitchen, but impossible to miss once it reached him. You smelled like him.

His soap, his shampoo—cedar and musk, brightened faintly by the citrus edge he'd stopped noticing years ago—soaked into your skin, into the damp ends of your hair, familiar in a way that left no oxygen in his lungs. 

You had washed yourself in him. You weren't just wearing his clothes. You weren’t just standing in his kitchen. You were wearing him. You were wound into his life now—sewn into places he hadn't even realized were empty until you filled them. 

That knowledge sank its claws deep.

It was unbearable.

It was beautiful.

It was going to kill him.

He clenched his fists once at his sides, willing the heat roaring under his skin to die down, to give him some semblance of control—but it was useless. His hands itched to touch you. His mouth ached to say things he shouldn’t even think.

It was worse than before. So much worse.

Because now he knew you wanted him—even if it was just a flicker, a clumsy admission, a casual offer you’d made thinking it would be simple.

You smiled at him again, smaller this time—cautious, uncertain.

The soft curve of your mouth, the way his t-shirt swallowed your frame, the fact that you smelled like his fucking soul—it twisted something brutal deep inside him.

And Megumi knew, in some awful, bone-deep way, that he would take it. He would take whatever you offered him—even if it ripped him apart from the inside out.

Still, he forced himself to move.

"I’m gonna take a shower," he muttered, voice rough and low, already backing toward the hallway. "Then I’ll drive you home."

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to ask him something else—but he didn’t give you the chance. He turned away before he could see the look on your face, the soft, confused crumpling of your expression—disappearing down the hallway like a man fleeing a fire he couldn't outrun.

Megumi hated himself for putting that look on your face.

It was cowardice. But if he stayed—if he let himself sit across from you, smelling like him, wearing his clothes, smiling at him like he hadn’t already broken something essential between you—he would crack open entirely.

And there wouldn’t be any putting himself back together after that.

—

The bathroom door clicked closed behind him.

Megumi leaned heavily against it for a second, head bowed, breathing ragged.

He shed his clothes like they were burning him, stepping under the scalding spray without looking at himself in the mirror. The water pounded against his skin, steam curling up around him in thick, smothering clouds—but it did nothing to drown the ache rooted low in his gut.

He scrubbed at his hair, at his skin, trying to wash away the ghost of you—the sweet, clinging imprint of your body in his clothes, your voice still echoing inside his chest.

He couldn’t. He never would.

He twisted the tap off when the water ran cold and grabbed a towel, roughing it over his hair with more force than necessary. His body was tight with frustration—blood still hot and heavy in his veins, his cock stirring half-hard again at the memory of you in his kitchen, socked feet and sweet and his in ways you didn’t even understand.

He wrapped another towel low around his hips and shoved the door open—still toweling his hair dry, eyes half-closed—when he froze.

You were sitting on his bed. Waiting for him.

The comforter was twisted around you, your legs tucked under your body, a stubborn pout blooming on your mouth as you glared at the doorway like it had personally offended you. Your damp hair clung to your temples, messy and soft.

You looked... furious. Frustrated. And so heartbreakingly beautiful he thought he might actually fall to his knees.

Megumi’s brain short-circuited.

He stopped breathing.

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, your gaze catching—and sticking—low on his body, on the way the towel around his hips barely hung there, still damp from the shower, clinging to the hard lines of his waist, the ridges of muscle cut low across his abdomen. Water still beaded at his throat, trailing down the tense lines of his chest.

You swallowed—visibly—your breath hitching.

And then—

The barest flicker of want flashed across your face—raw and unguarded and so blindingly obvious it punched the air from his lungs.

And when your eyes lifted again, locking onto his—

It was over.

His cock hardened instantly—painfully—straining against the towel, throbbing with brutal, humiliating urgency, blood flooding south so fast it left him dizzy.

You caught the movement—the twitch, the thickening at the front of the fabric—and your lips parted, your breath hitching almost silently, thighs pressing together instinctively where you sat on his bed.

Megumi’s whole body locked up.

For a second, neither of you moved. The air was thick, humming, heavy enough to drown in.

And in that frozen heartbeat— 

Megumi realized he was done.

There was no guarding himself anymore. No holding back. Not when you looked at him like you wanted him. Not when every trembling, uncertain beat of your heart was written across your face.

He was already drowning. He may as well let you pull him under.

—

He moved before he could think—before caution, before guilt, before anything but you existed in his blood. One step, then another, until he stood at the edge of the bed, the space between you crackling like a live wire.

You blinked up at him, your pout slipping into something softer—questioning, uncertain—but you didn’t move away. You didn’t run.

You just looked at him—chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths, damp hair framing your face—waiting.

Megumi dropped the towel from his hips with a dull thud against the floor. There was no ceremony in it—no attempt to hide the way his cock strained heavy and flushed between his thighs, already leaking at the tip, already so hard it hurt. But he didn’t reach for you with it. He didn’t even touch it himself.

You stared—your breath catching sharply in your throat.

The scars were impossible to miss.

But they were there.

They would always be there.

And still—he was beautiful.

More beautiful than anything you’d ever seen.

You leaned back into the bed, your hands curling loosely into the sheets beside you—an unconscious invitation.

He, instead, reached for the hem of the t-shirt you wore—his shirt—curling his fingers carefully into the soft fabric, pausing just long enough for you to nod once, almost imperceptibly.

He peeled it up over your body, baring you inch by inch.

No bra, just smooth, warm skin—the soft swell of your breasts, the gentle slope of your waist. His hands trembled slightly where they brushed your sides, fighting the instinct to grab, to worship, to fall apart.

He tossed the shirt aside without looking, gaze locked on you like you were something sacred.

Then his hands slid lower—slow, reverent—tugging at the waistband of the sweats you’d borrowed.

You lifted your hips automatically, helping him, and the pants slid down easily, crumpling at your ankles. He knelt briefly, steadying himself with one hand on your calf, the other working to peel the fabric free.

That’s when he saw the socks still clinging to your feet.

A muscle ticked sharply in his jaw—something raw and restless flashing across his face.

He hated it—hated leaving anything between you. Hated the barrier of it, the wrongness of something so small when the rest of you was already laid bare before him.

He hooked his fingers into the cuffs, tugging them down carefully one at a time, leaving you completely naked in front of him. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows, watching him with wide eyes, your breath coming a little faster now.

Megumi sat back on his heels, dragging his gaze up the beautiful lines of your body—the soft curves, the warm flush blooming across your chest, the way your thighs pressed together instinctively under his stare.

That's when he noticed. You weren’t wearing panties.

You must have folded them away with your dress from last night—leaving yourself dressed only in him, in his scent, in his space.

It undid him.

He crawled up onto the bed, straddling your hips lightly, his hands bracing on either side of your head. His hair dripped faintly onto your skin, dark and wild across his forehead, casting shadows across his desperate, wrecked face.

He cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing your skin, his expression cracking wide open—reverent, starving.

"Need you," he rasped, voice raw, before crushing his mouth to yours.

The kiss was messy—desperate—all teeth and tongue and broken sounds.

You whimpered into him, arching helplessly, your hands flying up to fist into his still-damp hair, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything.

Megumi groaned low in his chest—a hungry, guttural sound—as he kissed you harder, tilting your head back, his mouth sliding hot and open against yours. He kissed you like he was drowning. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Fuck, baby," he gasped against your mouth, panting, "feel so good... so fucking good."

He kissed down your jawline, your throat, mapping every inch of skin with his lips, his teeth—hungry, possessive. His hands roamed greedily, skimming over your waist, your hips, your ribs—leaving nothing untouched.

"Mine," he whispered against your collarbone—low and rough and barely audible.

You shivered, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the hard lines of muscle beneath your palms.

He worshipped your breasts next—kissing over the soft curves, mouthing at your nipples until they peaked under his tongue, drawing gasps and helpless moans from your lips.

"Fuck," Megumi groaned, scraping his teeth lightly against sensitive skin, "could spend forever on you, pretty girl."

Your legs fell open without thinking, hips canting up against him, desperate for more friction, for more of him—anything he would give.

He kissed down your stomach—lingering over the dip of your navel, the soft curve of your hip bones—leaving open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs until you were shaking under him.

"So perfect," he muttered, voice hoarse, hot against your skin. "Gonna make you scream for me, baby. Gonna ruin you."

You whimpered—a broken, wrecked sound—and Megumi’s hands slid under your thighs, spreading you wider, lifting you toward his mouth.

You gasped softly as he bent down, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh, inhaling the clean, dizzying scent of your skin. He pressed another kiss higher, then another, slow and deliberate, until his nose brushed the tender crease where your thigh met your hip.

You were already wet—glistening faintly in the low light, the smell of you thick and sweet in the air between you.

And then he buried his mouth against you—tongue flattening against your soaked pussy, licking a slow, filthy stripe up your dripping folds. He groaned against you—the sound vibrating straight into your bones—and licked again, deeper, hungrier.

"You taste..." he muttered into your cunt, voice wrecked, "...fuck, baby, taste so fucking good... like you’re made for me."

You cried out, thighs trembling, head tossing back against the mattress as his mouth worked you open—his tongue fucking into you, circling your clit in devastating patterns that made your whole body shudder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, clutching, desperate for something to anchor you.

"Please," you gasped, voice wrecked, "Megumi—!”

You jerked, a soft, but he only held you steady—hands braced under your thighs, locking you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

"That's it," he rasped against your cunt. "Give it to me. Let me hear you."

His tongue was relentless—flicking, swirling, tracing maddening circles around your clit, dipping down to fuck into your dripping heat and back again. Every sound you made—every breathless little whimper, every shuddering gasp—sank into his blood, pulling him deeper, deeper.

He could have lived with his mouth between your thighs forever.

Could have drowned there, if you let him.

You moaned—high, broken—your hips grinding helplessly into his mouth as he licked you harder, faster, losing himself completely in you.

He rutted against the mattress without even thinking—humping slow, desperate circles against the sheets—chasing the friction he needed like a man starved.

Your fingers twisted into the sheets—into his hair—tugging, clutching, as your thighs trembled around his head.

And Megumi—God, Megumi—he was dizzy with it, overwhelmed by the taste of you, the heat of you, the desperate slick noises filling the air as he licked you messily, sloppily, building you higher and higher until—

You broke—with a soft, shattered cry. 

And when you came—when you sobbed his name and clutched his head between your thighs, trembling and wrecked—he followed.

Spilling hot against the mattress, undone by nothing but your taste, your sounds, your smell.

It was messy—his body locking up with the force of it—and it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough.

But he was wrung out. Hollowed. Broken open in a way he didn’t know how to survive.

He slumped forward with a low, exhausted groan, nuzzling his face against your bare hip, arms wrapping loosely around your waist like a lifeline.

You lay there stunned, your body still twitching with aftershocks, your hand falling instinctively to card through his messy, damp hair.

You could feel him trembling still—feel how hard he’d fought to hold himself together and how completely he’d lost, feel the weight of his exhaustion, his surrender.

Still, he didn’t try to fuck you. He didn’t even move to touch himself again—to maybe see if could go another round.

He just pressed closer—snuggling into your skin like he could crawl inside you and stay there forever.

You stared down at him, confusion flickering through the soft haze of afterglow.

Is this... how friends with benefits are supposed to work? you thought vaguely.

Just him... going down on me and falling asleep?

You didn’t understand it.

Didn’t understand how he could be so... so selfless. So unguarded. So Megumi.

But you didn’t push it. Didn’t question it.

You just let your hand drift lower, tracing the broad span of his back—feeling the thick ridges of the scars that marred his ribs, sitting low under his pecs. Another one—brutal, ragged—slashed across his stomach, cutting from one hip to the other, just above his belly button.

You shivered—not from fear, but from memory.

The scars were old now—years healed—but they told stories you couldn’t forget. Stories of possession, of battles he almost didn’t survive.

Your hand hesitated briefly over his stomach, over the brutal scar left where Sukuna’s mouth had once gaped open.

Softly—almost reverently—you smoothed your fingers across it, feeling the uneven texture under your touch.

And when you lifted your gaze, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest.

You knew, if you squinted, you could probably still catch the faint ghost of the ones that had cradled his face—two pale shadows along his right temple, over his eye and along his cheekbone, another one just below his left eye—almost invisible now, healed under Shoko's careful hands.

But they were there. 

A ghost of the pain he carried.

A ghost of the boy he had been—and the man he had become.

You tucked the comforter up around his broad shoulders, cocooning both of you in warmth. He stirred slightly—a low, content hum rumbling against your skin—but didn’t wake.

And so you stayed there, tangled together, your fingers gently stroking along the scars and across his soft, dark hair.

Letting him rest. Letting yourself hold onto him, just a little longer.

Wrapped in him. Wrapped in something dangerously close to love.

© MANICPIXIEDREAMKIRA - do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own.

[teapartyprincess4two]

Parenthood- C. Sturniolo

pairing: Mom!reader x Dad!Chris

classification: SFW & NSFW head cannons

inspiration: request

warnings: some 18+ content, use of y/n, established relationship, I didn’t name the children but Chris has 2 sons in this 👍🏻

summary: head cannons of Dad!Chris.

Parenthood- M. Sturniolo (Matt’s Version)

—

☆SFW

Fatherhood is something that scared Chris beyond belief, but when you broke the news to him he couldn’t contain his excitement. When your son was born, he fell in love immediately, and you both learned to navigate being parents. Then, when you were blessed with a second son, he was even happier.

☆ Chris cherishes every single memory, he’s really sappy about it all. He has a box full of pictures, baby socks, the wristbands from the hospital, everything.

☆ “Chris, some of this is trash,” you chuckle, filtering through the endless trinkets that all seemed to hold significance to him.

☆ “Our son’s first pair of socks isn’t trash, Y/n!” he snatches the box away from you, carefully placing everything back in.

☆ “Okay, but this dirty napkin?”

☆ “I wiped my tears with that. THANK YOU,” he snatches it from you, his sassy demeanor making you laugh.

☆ Chris loves spoiling his son, whether it be with toys and games, or with summer trips.

☆ He goes all out too, splurging on trips to Disney or to elaborate water parks, making sure to book the hotel and everything.

☆ “Babe, he’s 3. He won’t even remember this,” you chuckle, dragging luggage’s behind you.

☆ “Yes you will. Right, son?” Chris coos, bouncing the baby in his arms and blowing a raspberry into his neck. The baby giggles, the sound being music to Chris’s ears.

☆ The whole week it’s just you and Chris going on all the kiddy rides, snapping pictures of your son, and passing out back at the hotel.

☆ When you find out you’re pregnant with your second son, Chris does everything in his power to make your firstborn’s last months as an only child special.

☆ He takes him to the park, cuddles him to sleep every night, and showers that boy in so much love.

☆ Even though Chris is extremely high energy, being a working dad of two is very tiring.

☆ So, when the kids get older, he starts feeling comfortable taking ‘dad naps’ in random spots around the house.

☆ “Chris, babe, can you help me in here really quick?” you’re balancing a fussy baby on your hip, the other hand stirring whatever’s on the stove.

☆ You peer your head outside to see Chris knocked out on the hanging lounge chair. His chin rests on his chest, mouth open and arms crossed as small snores fall past his lips.

☆ Your oldest son holds a long piece of grass, tickling Chris’s nose with it. Your son whispers eerily,“Wake up daaaad. Wake uppppp.” You can’t help but giggle at the sight.

☆ Chris has successfully managed to cement his legacy as the ‘cool dad,’ or at least he thinks he has.

☆ He loves wearing funky graphic t-shirts when he’s chaperoning the kids, “I was young once too. I was the shit back then, kid.”

☆ Your oldest son just rolls his eyes playfully, but in reality he really looks up to Chris.

☆ Your youngest son loves dressing up like his dad, wearing his oversized t-shirts and beanies so big they fall past his eyes.

☆ “Look mom, I look like daddy!” he exclaims, accidentally tripping on the shirt as he runs towards you.

☆ Other times, Chris will throw on some sunglasses and try acting mysterious.

☆ The mysterious act doesn’t last long though, especially not when your youngest son cuddles up next to him for his afternoon nap or when your oldest starts asking for snack money.

☆ At family parties, Chris goes all out. He’s buying a bouncy house, cooking the burgers, renting an ice cream truck, and inviting all of his family.

☆ He loves playing games with his kids, usually forming teams and challenging them, “Alright me and Matt verses you two. Losers have to jump into the pool with their clothes on.”

☆ “Okay, but uncle Nick has to be on our team,” your oldest replies, fully confident in his ability to win his dad.

☆ Nick is then recruited, and surprisingly isn’t needed because your sons are completely obliterating Chris’s team.

☆ Chris isn’t a sore loser, it’s a trait he never wants to subconsciously pass down to his kids, so he’s jumping into the pool fully clothed as his kids watch in a fit of giggles.

☆ Laundry day is easily Chris’s most hated day, especially with two messy children.

☆ He’ll ‘help’ you fold clothes, which really means that he’s toying with the same shirt and flicking through Netflix.

☆ When the kids are asleep, you and Chris will treat yourself to some takeout because that’s the only time you can order food that the kids don’t usually like.

☆ You two are like little rats, hiding in the pantry munching before the kids hear you and wake up.

☆ One small creak and you’re both frantically hiding the food. “THEY’RE COMING!” he whisper shouts, but when no one opens the door you both fall into a fit of laughter at the dramatics.

☆ As your firstborn son gets older, he starts becoming snappy and somewhat rude, as teenagers often do.

☆ And although Chris doesn’t like reprimanding his kids for the smallest things, he can be stern when it’s necessary.

☆ “Watch your fucking mouth, kid. I don’t want to hear shit like that from you again. Go to bed.” Your son is hanging his head down and trudging to his room.

☆ “Don’t you think you were a little harsh on him?” you whisper, holding onto Chris’s arm gently.

☆ “My kids aren’t gonna be disrespectful, especially not to their momma,” he replies, but when he hears your son sniffling in his room the guilt begins chipping away at him.

☆ It doesn’t take Chris long after that to enter your sons room and engulf him in a hug, scolding him in a much softer manner that informs your son that what he did was still wrong, but also that Chris still loves him.

☆ Baseball, basketball, soccer, lacrosse, hockey, football; your sons are doing it all.

☆ Chris is in the stands, cheering so loud that his voice is hoarse by the end of the game. Even when his kid’s team doesn’t win, he’s still so incredibly proud of their performance.

☆ Chris reps the jerseys, attends the practices, and coaches his sons even when they’re at home, “Widen up your stance then throw!”

☆ Whenever there’s an opportunity to make his boys laugh, Chris is taking it.

☆ He picks them up from school wearing big, fake teeth while playing silly songs on the stereo.

��� Your sons are never embarrassed, they just hold their sides and laugh uncontrollably, “Dad I’m gonna pee, stop!”

☆ He doesn’t spoil his kids, but he definitely buys them an unnecessary amount of things. It’s mostly harmless stuff like toys, games, and sugary snacks.

☆ “They don’t need any more toys, Chris,” you scold, struggling to make space for all of it.

☆ “We don’t need anything, Y/n,” he replies, his inner child going crazy.

☆NSFW

As parents, it can be hard for you and Chris to make time for each other. Your schedules are packed with school, practices, work, and the few free moments in between are used for household chores. But Chris always makes time for you no matter what.

☆ For the most part, you have to be sneaky. During birthday parties or family events, you take advantage of how distracted your kids are and sneak away into an empty room like teenagers.

☆ Your adrenaline is pumping, clumsy fingers undoing his belt as he kisses you feverishly.

☆ “We have to be quick,” you whisper, watching hungrily as he lines himself up with your entrance.

☆ He doesn’t respond, knees wobbling and his animalistic grunts filling the room as he pumps into you quickly.

☆ Chris doesn’t last long, which is slightly embarrassing, but the times you guys have sex are so few and far between that you can’t blame him.

☆ “Sorry,” he whimpers, pulling out and collapsing next to you. “Don’t be sorry,” you smirk, straddling his hips and getting yourself off as he becomes an overstimulated mess.

☆ On date night Chris books a night at a nearby hotel, dropping the kids off with his parents and telling you to get all dolled up.

☆ He dresses up too, meeting you at the hotel bar and flirting with you like it’s his first time meeting you.

☆ “Hey beautiful, come around here often?”

☆ You play along, the butterflies swarming in your stomach despite sharing an entire life with this man, “I do. Never seen a man as handsome as you here before, though.”

☆ A few champagne glasses later, you’re both giddily walking back to the hotel room and making love under the soft lamp light.

☆ Some random mornings, he wakes up fully bricked and no matter how hard he tries to will the erection away it just won’t subside.

☆ “Y/n, baby, are you awake?” he murmurs, pressing soft, sloppy kisses on your exposed shoulders.

☆ You stir awake, a soft yawn escaping your lips as you reply, “I’m awake.”

☆ He pulls you in closer, his erection pressing against the back of your thigh.

☆ “Need some help there?” you chuckle, immediately understanding his intentions. He hums in response, letting you take over as he watches in a lazy haze.

☆ “So beautiful,” he moans, hands caressing and massaging every inch of your body. You can’t help but blush, hiding yourself in the crook of his neck.

☆ “Look at me,” he instructs, he doesn’t want to miss out on a single thing.

☆ “I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” his lips are latched to yours, an overwhelming feeling of love overtaking him as he blows his load inside of you.

—

MASTERLIST

A/n: meow 😋 dad Chris anyone? ���

- L.A.M.B👼🏻💗

—

taglist: @nicksmainbitch @sturniololovers @mayhem-72 @worldlxvlys @gnxosblog @meg-sturniolo @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattnchrisworld @sanyi5 @lustfulslxt @whicked-hazlatwhore @tworosesblackthorn @mxqdii @fawned01 @junnniiieee07 @sturniolololover @missriddle03

note: if you want to be tagged in my fanfic related posts, you can access my TAGLIST and comment 💐

[joules-per-second]

oh my god the STRIFE between Vox getting to wear blue forever VS Alastor being stuck in a goofy orange Prince outfit

Team B for HotelStuck!!!

Husk and Vaggie hate everyone else on the team but it's all good

Team A

[wedgiesfromhell]

TOP-CLASSIFIED WEDGIE FILE

CASE #: WD-X993-ALPHA

TITLE: “Total Breakdown: The Ultimate Wedgie Denial Event”

Location: Hotel Room (Standard Double, Evidence of Post-Gym Conditions)

Filed by: Senior Humiliation Forensics Analyst – Hayden Jacob’s

⸻

INCIDENT CLASSIFICATION:

Code Red Atomic Wedgie w/ Multi-Sensory Denial Collapse, Sweat Saturation, and Fecal Transfer Contamination

Severity Rating: 10/10 – Catastrophic Dignity Destruction

⸻

SUBJECT DETAILS:

Victim: Unnamed male, presumed dork status based on posture, resistance level, and wardrobe (loose gym shorts, cotton briefs)

Assailant: Male with blond-tipped dreadlocks, visible smirk, grip strength estimated in upper athlete percentile

Time of Day: Midday (based on ambient light); coincides with peak body sweat production

⸻

CHRONOLOGICAL WEDGIE ANALYSIS:

[00:00–00:04]: Initial Contact

• The victim is seated defenseless on the carpeted floor, possibly post-shower or gym.

• Assailant seizes the rear waistband with both fists.

• Fabric type: Thin, moist cotton briefs – visibly discolored from wear.

[00:05–00:10]: Wedgie Lift Phase

• With a violent upward thrust, the assailant begins lifting the briefs.

• Fabric ascends rapidly into the gluteal canal with a moist slap, fully devouring the cheeks.

• Wedgie Bite Threshold surpassed: Deep wedgie burn sets in as briefs wedge into the taint, compressing the perineum and testicles against bone.

• Victim lets out the first gasp – described as a “high-pitched hiss through clenched teeth.”

⸻

PHYSICAL MARKERS OF EXTREME DENIAL ONSET:

1. Head Motion – “Side-to-Side Syndrome”

• Victim’s head starts shaking violently left and right in disbelief, a known denial reaction.

• Neck muscles spasm in rejection of the waistband nearing the upper spine.

2. Ocular Collapse

• Victim’s eyes cross and begin to water.

• This visual reaction is not only pain-induced, but triggered by the scent of:

• Sweat-soaked fabric (pungent and acidic from hours of butt crack fermentation)

• Visible brown skid streaks smearing across the stretched fabric now inches from his face

3. Facial Warping

• Lips curl up and tremble.

• Nose wrinkles, nostrils flare as the odor hits.

• Chin begins to quiver uncontrollably — classic symptom of the “Brief Breakdown.”

⸻

FABRIC TRAJECTORY REPORT:

• By [00:13], waistband clears shoulder blade level.

• By [00:16], elastic breaches the neckline.

• At [00:18], fabric snaps over the crown of the head, one leg hole now dangling near the temple.

• Underwear is now functioning as both torture device and sweat-drenched hood.

⸻

MULTI-SENSORY OVERLOAD:

Olfactory Impact:

• Smell: Steam-released butt sweat, concentrated in groin fibers and fused with dried fecal particles

• Victim chokes on his own odor—“It smells like my soul’s rotting,” he reportedly moaned

Auditory Response:

• Squealing, gurgled sobs echo in the hotel room

• Wedgie squeaks audible as damp cotton rubs against inflamed skin

Tactile Misery:

• Fabric now acts like sandpaper across the taint

• Leg holes dig into the hips, warping body posture

• Briefs become a suspension device as victim begins to lift slightly off the floor from tension alone

⸻

WEDGIE DENIAL – TOTAL PSYCHOLOGICAL COLLAPSE:

Stage 1: “This isn’t happening” — Internal rejection, whimpers, no eye contact

Stage 2: “I can still fix this” — Futile squirming, fingers gripping air

Stage 3: “This is who I am now” — Tears flow, snot drips, victim surrenders entirely to his new identity: “The guy whose own butt-crusted briefs now function as a headband”

⸻

FINAL HUMILIATION MARKER:

At [00:22], the assailant snaps the waistband under the chin, locking the fabric taut against the jawline. This converts the wedgie into a full compression hood, pressing the sweaty, stained gusset of the underwear against the victim’s mouth. The victim dry-heaves and mutters, “It’s in my teeth…”

⸻

FORENSIC CONCLUSION:

This incident is one of the most complete and devastating wedgie denial breakdowns ever documented. It combined:

• Full atomic lift

• Skid mark-to-nostril exposure

• Sweat marinade saturation

• Olfactory-induced nausea

• Identity fracture and ego annihilation

[classificationhell]

So it's most likely not going to happen in the fic I am writing for him, but imagine Mourningstar's delusions go so hard that he genuinely believes that you are his babygirl, and not in the adopted way. Like in order to help him heal more his brain decided to fabricate that everyone died that night except you. You were taken from him, but not by death. The angels must've taken you and then sent you back down once he proved he wouldn't lift a finger to help those filthy sinners ever again.

Even if you look completely different, even if you insist you don't remember this man he's so sure in his delusions. Of course you don't remember him you were just born when it happened that's why you look at him like he's a stranger, oh babygirl he's so sorry he missed so many important milestones for you. He wonders why the angels didn't tell you about your Daddy, but it's alright he'll tell you all about your family and about memories he has of you as a baby.

It all makes so much sense now! Angels wouldn't be so cruel as to murder his entire family. The reason he didn't make a grave for you was because he couldn't find your body, and a small part of him held hope that you were alive somewhere. The reason why Charlie's nursery only had the one crib was because him and Lillith had decided to co-sleep with you in their bed, yes, yes, it's all so clear! He must've been so deep in his grief he had momentarily forgotten, oh babygirl he's so sorry but he remembers everything now!

He will tell you all about the day you were born and how excited Charlie had been for a sibling. He'll tell you about how she used to play dress up with you and read you her favorite stories and how you'd giggle. He'd tell you about how he used to make you watch in wide eyed wonder whenever he'd use his magic around you.

What you aren't his second daughter and you came from another family? Oh honey, the angels must've kept you in a state of sleep and you dreamed the whole thing, shhh, don't get upset now, Daddy's here, and he'll help you remember the real truth about your past. Poor thing you must be so confused, don't cry Daddy's here now.

For those of you who have no idea who this unhinged man is allow me to introduce him to you. Essentially he is Lucifer if Lillith actually attempted to form a legitimate army to take down heaven due to the extermination and as a result was punished by the angel of death taking away his wife and child. He becomes more and more secluded and insane in his grief until he finds an Omega Little regressed, being chased by an exorcist (in my fic), crying out for their Daddy and he saves them and becomes immediately attached and regardless of pronouns or actual gender he calls them his babygirl or princess. He is unhinged and delusional but truly does love them.

[jacksdinonuggets]

Vaggie's Classification Chapter 18

After spending their morning cuddling and relaxing in each other’s arms, Charlie and Vaggie made their descent downstairs into the kitchen. Charlie was starting to get hungry as well as Vaggie, so it was about time they ate some nutritious food. They held hands but it felt more like a mother holding her child’s hand as they crossed the street. There wasn’t any romantic feeling to it. Just platonic. 

“Alright, sweetie, what do you want for breakfast?” Charlie asked, walking over to the buffet with a plate out for Vaggie. The angel saw that she was going to serve her food for her and blushed, looking down.

“I can serve myself, Charlie…” She mumbled.

“Oh, I know you can, sweetheart, but I just want to help,” Charlie kissed her forehead and patted her back. The angel blushed a little but let Charlie help her. She got a protein shake with some scrambled eggs, not wanting to lose her normally good diet of food.

Once they sat down, Vaggie began to eat. Charlie was eating her own plate of food but would occasionally pause to wipe Vaggie’s mouth with a napkin.

“Such a messy eater, huh?” She babied her. Vaggie blushed. When she was hungry, she often lost her composure when eating and got a little messy. 

“Sorry…” She apologized, feeling a bit embarrassed. It felt wrong to be eating like such a baby when she should be eating like a functional adult.

“Don’t be sorry, baby, you can’t help it,” Charlie assured her. It made Vaggie smile a little, due to feeling small, but was also full of embarrassment. She should’ve been more strong and hid her insecurities or anxiety more. Then this wouldn’t have happened. She needed to be brave and better. Now she and Charlie can’t be romantic with each other anymore and it’s all gonna go to shi-

“Hey, I know that look. Stop worrying, sweetie. It’s okay to feel little. I love you for who you are,” Charlie put a hand on her shoulder and offered her a reassuring smile. The small affirmation helped a little bit, but Vaggie still felt a bit upset.

“Okay…I’ll try,” She muttered, going back to her food. She would try her hardest today to not regress. She needed to be big for everyone and for…well not really Charlie anymore. But she still needed to be strong and big! She just needed to prove herself! It was like a requirement she had for herself.

“There we go, good girl,” Charlie patted her back and continued to eat her food as they waited for the day to start and everyone to wake up and come get their food.

Once everyone was downstairs and started to eat, Vaggie took up her plate and went to the kitchen to wash it. Charlie was going to take it from her to wash it herself, but she knew she shouldn’t be that clingy, as it might make Vaggie a little annoyed. So she let Vaggie wash her dishes and clean up a bit. But she knew she’d help Vaggie regress that day if it was the last thing she would do.

[bullet-prooflove]

Can Beau kiss Ally desperately, please?

Tagging: @kmc1989 @b-bradshaw @caffeinatedwoman @dizzybee03 @burningpeachpuppy

Companion piece to:

Nine Months - Beau comes home from his deployment to a surprise revelation.

Scar Tissue - Beau and you discuss your decision to resign your commision.

Christmas Alone - Your marriage is stretched to breaking point when Beau gets a new posting.

There’s a desperation in Beau tonight, you can feel it in every single one of his kisses as he pulls you down into his lap in a hotel room in Yuma. His hands roam over your body, stroking, kneading, caressing you through your clothes as his hips rock up into you.

“Beau, tell me.” You whisper, cradling his face between your hands. “Tell me the thing you’re trying to escape.”

He sighs then, his palms coming to rest on your waist, holding you tight.

“They’re enforcing the stop-loss policy.” He tells you, his fists bunching up the fabric of your shirt. “They’re trying to keep me for another year out in Arizona.”

The stop-loss policy allows any branch of the US military to involuntarily extend the end of service date for a service member. The conditions of use are that the US have to be at war when it’s enacted. For people like Beau with retirement on the horizon it means they extend his tenure for another twelve months from the retirement date.

“They can’t do that.” You tell him, your eyebrows furrowing into a frown. “We’re not at war…”

But then you think about it and you see that loophole clear as day. The US is still involved in conflicts in countries such as Yemen, Somalia, Iraq and Syria, it could be argued that each of them fall into that classification.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, his voice raw with emotion. “I am trying to fight it but you know how those cases go.”

Nowhere, they go absolutely nowhere because it’s not in the supreme courts interests to allow the policy to be challenged. The handful that have gotten anywhere were ruled against with prejudice.

By doing this to Beau, the Navy get exactly what they want. Two years of Beau managing the Arizona Top Gun Programme.

“There’s nothing we can do.” You tell him because those sons of bitches knew exactly what they were doing when they enforced that policy.  

“Is this something we can ride out?” He asks you, his thumb ghosting over the blush of your cheek as he looks into your eyes. You know he’s pleading for reassurance but the truth is you don’t have any to give.

You think about the missed birthdays, the lonely Christmas, the life you have in San Diego, the one he’s being forced into in Arizona. You’re not sure you can face two more years of being away from the man you love because this isn’t like a deployment. This is living two separate, lives, busy ones. It’s a completely different ball game, one you don’t have a road map for.

“Honestly?” You say, shaking your head. “I don’t fucking know.”

Love Beau? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[indierpgnewsletter]

New Itch Games Dec to March 2025

Missed an edition of this regular round-up of new games on itch. If this is the first time you’re seeing one of these: they are mostly games that came through this form. I haven’t played or read them but each of them has something that made me sit up and pay attention. This is a particularly bountiful episode because I would play all of these games.

Deluge at Drizzle Distillery: There’s a magical storm at the holy water distillery! Oh no! An adventure by Mun Kao for Kala Mandala, his fantasy SE Asia setting.

Land in the Mist Starter Set: This is a horror game where you play through specific scenarios set in the real world between 1750 and 1850. The starter set contains all the rules and has an adventure, Of Pagans and Reindeer, set in Northern Finland in 1811. (Rat in a Suit / PWYW)

unfamiliar: A game of magical familiars who have lost or been abandoned by their wizardly masters. It’s partially inspired by We3 which is one of those sad comics designed to hit you right in the feelings. (Feature Creep / PWYW)

What Happened To Margot Kwan: This is a mystery for Girls at the Genziana Hotel, a PbtA game of maids in a hotel investigating the disappearance of one of their own. This moves the game to an American university town. Genziana Hotel is a really interesting game and this adventure/setting moves it into more explicitly Life is Strange territory. (Mynar Lenahan)

Tactical Espionage Action: Dice Goblin Games wrote 16 adventures for FIST, the occult espionage game, in two months. They include: infiltrating casinos, volcanic lairs, frigid research stations, colonial horrors, and of course, Satan trapped in a beach ball. (PWYW outside the bundle)

Alone in the Loop: A solo journalling game of a time traveler experience hope and despair as they explore the same loop over and over again. Great premise. (Paul Doyle / PWYW)

Mum Chums: A slice of life game about motherhood and looking after children from Tanya Floaker. It’s a real world game exploring real world themes, simultaneously high stakes and low stakes in the best way. (Unlimited community copies)

Faire Season 2: A group of historical reenactors at a Ren Faire-type event get pulled into an actual quest of myth and magic by the power of The Dream. It uses the Belonging outside Belonging system to explore our relationship to our roleplay alter-egos. (Okami)

Ringmaster: A Descended from the Queen game about a dark, magical circus. Honestly, that was enough for me. Like For the Queen, it revolves around a powerful NPC, the Ringmaster, and ends with a pivotal question: is the circus your home or your prison or both? (Spotless Dice Games)

One Of Us Will Die: A social deduction RPG of tragedy and fate. One of the characters, the Mark, knows they will die at the end but can’t say so. One of the characters is trying to kill the Mark before they can fulfill their destiny. The rest of the group are trying to save the Mark and maybe sacrifice themselves instead. (Titus Villanueva)

The Archivium: A solo dark academia game. By day, you’re a student. By night, you’re a guardian of a secret, magical library. You build out the archive and its weird classification system and play towards one of 16 endings. (Lich Light)

In Love With The Moon: The year is 1968. You are a team of scientists, crowded in an old castle where the air flows thick with LSD and there is a maze of rooms below you stocked with every scientific oddity, all for one purpose: to get you to the moon by whatever means necessary. (James Kerr / PWYW)

Ring-lationship Disc-ord: A game where you play Crokinole (!?) to tell the story of two people who are locked in an argument that stems from their past and identity. Truly one of the worst names for anything ever (I say this with love) but I am a sucker for using folk games to explore a story that resonates with their existing mechanics. (Colin Mancini, Sociable Turtle Games)

Codename: Cinderella: A cute one page game about espionage agents working for the Fairy Godmother to execute nursery rhyme-inspired missions. (Fuzztech)

The Burning of the Free Port of Dohn Amuran: This is an adventure for Grimwild from Natalie Ash. It’s a powder keg situation featuring a violent dockmaster, a free union of boat captains, and the adventurers with a chance to prevent bloodshed and broker a fragile peace.

Deadline: A GM-less, map-making, news-chronicling game. Play journalists who are capturing the story of a changing city with their headlines. The city itself is in the grip of an industrial revolution and all that entails. (Wanderers Tome)

I really enjoyed making this list. It just reminded me that there’s so many interesting games out there and I wish I had time to play them all. These designers are all doing fascinating work and making weird art. It makes me happy and I hope making this stuff made them happy too.

[daytaker]

By the way, we have this Binsfeld doofus to thank for that. At least for part of it. WHB, OM, and Helltaker. And Helluva Boss.

Catch me binging Treatise on Confessions by Evildoers and Witches (1589) tonight for all the good lore.

sometimes i think about

how weird and inconvenient it is that i am in/have adjacent interests to multiple fandoms with characters who have the same names.

post: "lucifer NSFW below the cut"

me: >:)

me: "o h shit that's not the lucifer i was expecting ummmm sorry dad"

[purrassicjet]

Nevermoor theory(? AU? World building idea? This isn't backed up by any evidence, just kinda a thought but anyway):

The Wundrous Society was originally started to be Keepers for Wundrous Acts.

While there were Wundersmiths still around, there would have been a bunch of new Wundrous acts popping up (there were like 300 volumes of classification) all the time, but with the Wundersmiths moving onto new projects almost constantly, there was nobody to do the upkeep on previous Wundrous acts. Especially as Wundersmiths died, and their acts went without their creator.

So, every year, nine people (wasn't just kids yet!! Nine people of any age) were selected to help out. They would spend time with, and eventually develop a connection to, a Wundrous act to stop it from going into disrepair and like, becoming evil or something. Over time, the Wundersmiths realises that people with special gifts (Knacks) had an easier time building a connection with a Wundrous act, so it started to become only people with knacks.

Over the years, when Keepers would grow old, they'd pick somebody, often a child, to go into training to be their replacement. Only the Society only had the resources to train a certain amount of people per year, so the Trials began. They were originally all the same, testing for who was best for the job of looking after a Wundrous act. These Keepers were the original Patrons.

Eventually, it became more and more popular to enter a child into the Trials, because they would be able to serve for longer. After an accident where a young boy was killed by his Wundrous act, the minimum age for entrance was put at 11. After too many older people entering created a quick turnover in Keepers, the age for entrance was changed to be a firm 11, no older, no younger.

Keepers would learn from the original Wundersmith who created the act, or from their previous Keeper, on how to maintain the act, and keep it running smoothly. Keepers would often try to learn the Wundrous Art most connected to their act (eg, somebody Keeping Cascade Towers might learn Weaving) as a way to pass the time when their act was 'healthy'.

The society took on a life of its own as it's membership expanded. They were held on high as the helpers to Wundersmiths, almost as powerful as the Smiths themselves. The Council of Elders was started to keep Society members in check, to make sure they're doing their duties properly and such.

When Squall took over and permanently stained the reputation of Wundersmiths, the Society made a hard turn away from being "Keepers" of Wundrous Acts and instead worked to replace Wundersmiths, to be the wishgranters they didn't have anymore. Some Keepers were ordered to destroy their Wundrous acts as a way to show the public the Wundrous Society was no longer associated with Wundersmiths, others were just allowed to fall into disrepair.

Eventually, there were no Keepers anymore. Wundrous Society members were too busy cleaning up after Squall to care about the Wundrous Acts.

The history of Keepers was lost with the history of Wundersmiths, but some still exist, even by accident.

For example, Jupiter is the Hotel Deucalion's Keeper. His advanced connection with her allows him to help her rebuild herself, even without the help of a Wundersmith.

[teapartyprincess4two]

Intrusive Thoughts- M. Sturniolo

pairing: bestfriend!reader x bestfriend!Matt

classification: SMUT SMUT NO FLUFF (well a little fluff bc filler parts)

warnings: 18+, MDNI, literal sex, masturbation, use of y/n, cursing, suggestive content, forced proximity, Nick and Chris can drive bc if not this wouldn’t work & I don’t want to make up extra characters, short

inspiration: request^^

summary: You’re forced to sit on Matt’s lap during a long roadtrip and once you arrive at your destination he lets his intrusive thoughts win.

Intrusive Thoughts PT.1, PT.2

—

“Stop moving,” Matt grumbles, his legs going numb from the constant applied pressure. You’re currently sitting on his lap, every other spot in the car completely overtaken with bags, blankets, pillows, and warm bodies. “Sorry, I can’t help it. I have to pee,” you reply in a hushed tone, feeling embarrassed for all your constant squirming. You’ve had to pee for the past two hours and you won’t reach the next gas station until 30 minutes.

Matt hates himself for enjoying this, despite his legs being completely numb, he can feel everything on his lap. The view is nice too, your tight leggings hugging your round ass perfectly. You squirm again, accidentally grinding down onto Matt hard enough for his dick to twitch. All he can do is hope you can’t feel it and pray he can think of anything other than you for the remainder of the trip.

“Nick, pull over I actually can’t hold it,” you say, standing up slightly to point to the side of the road. Your ass is on full display for Matt now, he just wants to reach out and grab it. Nick sends you an annoyed glare as he pulls off the highway and onto the access road.

A relieved sigh leaves your lips, your body plopping back down onto Matt’s lap aggressively as you rush to get out of the car. Matt groans at the contact, the force at which you sat on him sending him into a frenzy.

“Don’t look!” you exclaim, running deep into the forest that ligned the road to hide behind a tree. Nick is annoyed and tired from all the driving and Chris is fast asleep. Matt was too busy trying to hide his erection to even care.

Why did he agree to come on this road trip? Why didn’t he just offer to drive? Now he’s stuck in the backseat with you on his lap and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Finally,” Nick groans in annoyance, watching as you run out from behind the trees and hop back into the car. You sit yourself on Matt’s lap again, this time much closer to his crotch and he swears he sees stars from this alone.

This was going to be a long, painful car ride.

—

You’re asleep, leaning into the bags and pillows that litter the middle seat, a blanket thrown over yours and Matt’s lap haphazardly. You stir slightly with each sharp turn or sudden bump, scooting back onto your make-shift pillow each time. The blanket serves as the perfect shield from wandering eyes and Matt uses it to his advantage, allowing his hands to hold you in place dangerously close to your inner thighs.

The car drives over a bumpy road causing you to bounce slightly on Matt’s lap, the pressure creating a sensation that he begins to welcome. Once the road smooths out again, you readjust yourself and wiggle your hips in an attempt to anchor yourself. Matt bites his lips and looks away, trying to fight the perverse thoughts that form in his mind.

All he can think about is you in your shared hotel room, clothes discarded and scattered on the floor. He imagines you laid out for him on the plush white comforter, ready to do any and everything he says. The bed would rock with each thrust causing the headboard to slam against the wall, informing all your neighbors that you belong to no one other than him.

His eyes are closed tightly, head leaned against the cold window as he tries coming back to reality. He exhales sharply, willing himself to stop thinking about you that way. You’re his best friend, and best friends weren’t supposed to imagine how the other would look naked. He wasn’t supposed to be fantasizing about your lips wrapped around him, or your legs pressed against your chest while his large hands held them in place.

“We’re here?” Chris croaks from the front seat, his voice still hoarse from his long nap. Nick hums in response, pulling up to the hotel parking lot.

Suddenly the car stops making Matt’s head bump against the glass slightly. You wake up from the sudden movement, stretching a little before turning towards Matt. You offer him an innocent smile, “Hi.”

He returns the smile, trying to pretend like he wasn’t just imagining you with his dick in your mouth. “Hi, sleep good?” he asks, still holding you securely in place by your thighs. He squeezes them briefly, before reluctantly dragging his hands away.

“Mhm,” you reply, your voice cracking a little from not talking for hours. He wants you making those noises from under him.

Chris opens the backseat car door before Matt can reply, causing you to jump off of his lap. You, Nick and Chris work towards getting all the bags out of the car while Matt tries to compose himself.

Finally, when he’s almost 100% his erection isn’t noticeable, he gets out of the car.

—

Matt knew he was sharing a room with you from the get-go, especially because he was the one who invited you on this trip in the first place, but the thought was still enough to excite him. It spiked his nerves, sending all his blood to his dick as he imagined all the possibilities.

“You can sleep, I’m gonna shower,” you say once you’re in the room, locking the door behind you. He fights the urge to follow after you, desperate for a little show. He’d have to save it for his dreams though, because despite being sexually frustrated, Matt was really tired and his legs were sore from the car ride.

“Okay.” He’s kicking his shoes off and undresses until he’s only in his boxers. Matt gets comfortable under the sheets, closing his eyes and trying to fall asleep before you get out of the shower. But it’s no use, his mind is racing with thoughts of you.

You in a bikini, you in a short skirt, you with a low cut top, you eating a popsicle, you kneeling down in front of him and letting him slap you in the face with his dick. So many dirty thoughts run through Matt’s head, all of them involving you in a compromising position.

His hand instinctively travels down under the waistband of his boxers, tugging until his cock is free. You were still in the shower, the steam coming out from under the door and the soft pitter patter of the water filled the room. Matt knew he had at least 15 minutes before you returned into the room ready for bed, plus the plush comforter served as an illusion, it was so big that you couldn’t even tell there was someone laying under it.

Slowly, he strokes himself, biting his lip to stop himself from making any noise. All of his fantasies play through his head, and like credits at the end of a movie, they're never ending. He picks up the pace, trying to finish before you’re done in the shower.

He hears the water turn off, mentally cursing himself for somehow not being able to finish. Just moments ago he was ready to bust at the idea of you and now the performance anxiety is inhibiting his climax. “Come on, come on,” he mutters, thrusting into his hand relentlessly, imagining that it was your hand instead of his. Finally he feels it, his climax builds and with one last pump he’s cumming into his hand. A quiet whimper comes from Matt, finally feeling satisfied.

The bathroom door opens, the light illuminating the rest of the room as you walk out in nothing but a cropped tank top and tight shorts. Your head is tilted to the side, your hands working a brush through your wet, tangled hair.

“Can you help?” you ask Matt, hoping he’ll help you get the knots out faster. He closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep to avoid the awkward situation under the sheets. His boxers are midway down his thighs, his soft dick laying on his stomach as remnants of his session linger on his hand.

You realize he’s asleep, or that he’s pretending, and huff in annoyance before returning back into the restroom to finish your night routine.

He didn’t know how he was going to survive the rest of the night.

—

Matt tosses and turns all night, unable to get comfortable no matter how hard he tries. You’re facing away from him because he’s sleeping on the side with the window and the sheer curtains do nothing to shield the obnoxious hallway light. Your soft snores fill the room, and even though Matt’s still physically tired, his mind is awake with thoughts of you.

After you got into bed, he hurried into the restroom and you wondered why. He stayed in there for a while, giving you enough time to think about a night with him and not an innocent one either. You fell asleep thinking about everything he’d do to you, all the positions he’d put you in.

“Y/n,” Matt whispers, nudging you gently. You’re out cold though, soft whimpers coming from you. At one point he swears he hears his name. “Y/n!” he whispers again, but much louder.

You finally stir, your head turning to face him as your eyes drowsily finding his face, adjusting to the dark. “What?” you croak, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You were having a good dream and the sooner you could return to it, the better. So, whatever Matt wanted better be good.

“I can’t sleep,” he whispers, pulling the comforter up higher against his neck. You groan in annoyance, turning away from him once again, “count sheep.” You close your eyes, preparing to enter another deep sleep full of dreams of Matt.

Matt snakes an arm over your waist, sneakily managing to go under your shirt. He’s only testing the waters though, not trying to take things too far too fast. “I did already,” he mumbles, tracing mindlessly shapes on your skin.

“Think of something boring,” you instruct.

How could he though when you’re right here, infecting his thoughts with perverse fantasies. “Can’t. Can only think of you,” he whispers, finally giving in to his intrusive thoughts as he presses a kiss onto your shoulder.

Whatever sleep you felt immediately leaves your body at the confession. Matt’s hand travels further up your shirt, holding one of your boobs. You groan at the sensation, instinctively scooting closer to him. Your ass presses against his crotch and immediately you feel his dick, it’s begging to be set free.

“I was dreaming of you,” you admit, one of your hands traveling behind you to massage Matt’s clothed penis. Your fingers manage to wrap around him despite the boxers being in the way, massaging him slowly. “Yeah? What was I doing?” he asks through strained moans, trying to see how far you two will go.

“Making me feel good.”

“Be specific, baby,” he grunts, bucking into your hand.

You proceed to describe your dream, all the dirty details only adding to Matt’s already active imagination. “First, you fucked me in the shower, lathering me up with soap and kissing all over my body. You fucked me against the glass and we left our handprints all over it,” you whisper, tightening your grip around his cock slightly. Matt’s breath hitches in his throat at the idea of you covered in sudsy bubbles.

“Then, you fucked me on the bathroom counter. You made me feel so good I screamed your name,” your voice is so seductive it has Matt whimpering. You move your hand from over his boxers and trail just above his waistband, allowing your fingers to linger there for a while before finally diving in.

“I sucked your dick on the balcony while you sat in the lounge chair. You came all over my face, all over my chest. All over, baby,” you pump his cock slowly, listening for his whimpers. His eyes are squeezed shut, he’s imagining every single scenario in full detail.

“Then I sat on it and bounced on it for hours. It felt so good,” you added. He squeezes your tit in his hand, pinching your nipple in the process and eliciting a small moan from you. “You sucked on my tits while I bounced on it, baby. You made me feel so good.”

Matt groans at the visual, he can’t take it anymore, if you keep going he’ll bust all over your hand without warning. “Stop,” he groans, pushing your hand off him before he can finish. If you two are going to do this, you’re going to do it right.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he says, eagerly tugging your shorts off. You kick the shorts off, clenching around nothing at the thought of him inside you.

He lines himself up with your entrance, groaning at how warm and ready you are for him. Slowly, he pushes in, allowing himself to adjust to the new sensation. You feel so good clenching around him as you try and take as much of him as possible.

“Tell me more, princess,” he moans, his hips slowly beginning to rock back and forth at a rhythmic pace.

You’re struggling to remember the dream now, but you’re afraid that if you don’t speak Matt will stop. “I was on the edge of the bed, face down ass up for you and you were- fuck.” His hips snap into you, the angle hitting a sensitive spot inside of you.

“Keep going,” he instructs, using his hand to work circles on your clit.

With each thrust your brain becomes foggier and foggier, but you’re eager to please. “You were fucking me from behind and your balls slapped against my pussy,” you spilled out quickly, a loud moan following right after.

“Then?” Matt grunts, you clenched around him in desperation for more. “Ugh.. then we did it in the hot tub. You undid my bikini and I sat on it. I bounced on it, felt so good,” you’re babbling at this point, struggling to form coherent words.

“Bounced on what?” He’s fucking you so hard and fast right now you don’t understand how he can even think straight.

“On your big dick,” you whimper, feeling your climax approach quickly. Matt stops asking questions, instead focusing his attention on pushing you past your breaking point. He’s starting to see stars, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier as he nears his orgasm.

“So fucking good,” he grunts, biting down on your shoulder as he cums inside of you, his hand still expertly drawing circles on your clit. The combination of stimulation is enough to make you cum, your body convulsing as you clench and cream around him.

You’re chanting his name, your thighs instinctively pushing together as the overstimulation becomes too much. He smiles at how fucked out he has you, removing his hand and finally slipping out of you.

The room goes silent, both of you so tangled in eachother that you can’t tell where one of you starts and where the other ends. He feels the drowsiness settle in his eyelids, they start to feel heavy and he fights it until he can’t anymore.

Shortly after him, you fall asleep too. Whatever consequences that were going to arise from tonight were tomorrow’s problem.

—

MASTERLIST

A/n:

🤫🤫

Shh they eepy.

- L.A.M.B👼🏻💗

—

taglist: @sturniololovers