#does he monologue in bed

[ethnicallymoral]

You think Vander heard his ex monologue in cursive for the first time again in years and was like “I sincerely forgot you talked like this, jesus christ.”

[milk-crafting]

🐞🧣🍒 for laz pls 🥺🫶

You did this to me, bully. Made me ramble and feel sad for my boy.

🐞 - What does a perfect day look like for your oc? What do they do? Who do they see?

a perfect day for him is probably literally just any day (night) spent with someone who cares about him without being compelled to 🥺. He just wants to be loved as much as he loves. Even though she's his ghoul too, and wouldn't really be able to firmly say no, Winona even would be a perfect option for him to spend time with. Some of his fondest memories are of going to shows together when they lived in Vegas, or even just wandering the streets together. In my and your shared canon too obviously the same could be said for him and Erse too, he just likes spending time with the people he cares about.

In the game he's in, conversely, it'd be spent in a cute little occult shop or at the library now that he's branching out and starting to read uwu

In a perfect world it'd be spent with the sun he worships kissing his skin, freckles appearing without his added input, maybe even getting a tan or a sunburn. He's at the park he used to go to in Vegas when he was a child and there's someone beside him and he feels at peace.

🧣 - What comforts your oc? Is it an item? An action? A person? Whatever it is, how any why does it comfort them?

So thinking about it, there's a few things! He has a little hematite worry stone that he carries with him, and even if he doesn't have it I think he kind of does the same motion he would use with it just against his finger to like, fidget a bit? When he's worried? And then there's his ghoul Winona who like. 🥺 he would be a mess without (which is tragic because I got reminded that ghouls are replaceable :)) ). But with her it's like a sense of familiarity, she's been his ghoul for 20 years, she's smart and sweet and he just likes to lay around with her and watch movies and stuff. He's recently started to find comfort in himself and his own ability to get by on his own though, mostly because he's like 15 pages into this book of commentaries on Descartes and he's proud of himself.

🍒 - Does your character have a best friend? How long have they known each other? What do they like most about each other? How did they meet?

Winona is the easy answer. He doesn't have many other friends. I think even if he looks down on her, he likes his sire's ghoul too ? But then also his touchstones Marian and Nevan are either *good* friends or soon to be good friends respectively. With Winona, they met when she was on a trip to Vegas, and he kind of got obsessed with her and she let it happen because she's a weird girl. Marian is his sire's great great etc grand daughter, and he met her *also* when her family was on a trip to Vegas (lil guy never got out much). Nevan he met recently at work. Nevan came in for a massage and Laz Immediately decided that he needed to take care of him.

Most people like him because he's pretty, or hate him because he's an idiot, but all three of them kind of see past that. Marian in particular thinks that there's so much more to him than either of those things and also that he's smarter than he gives himself credit for, even though mechanically speaking she's s o wrong about that. But still.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

hiii how are you ?

can I request a dad Charles where his daughter tells everyone that she French instead of Monegasque (just like Arthur) and Charles is just losing it every time she says it

She's Monegasque, not French

It started innocently, as most things with toddlers do.

Charles was sitting in the Ferrari motorhome, his three-year-old daughter Yn nestled comfortably in his lap, her tiny hands clutching a crayon-streaked drawing of what she insisted was “Papa’s race car.” The sun was bright, the paddock buzzing with media and mechanics and laughter as the summer European leg of the season carried on in full swing.

And then it happened.

“Papa,” she said sweetly, tilting her head up at him, eyes wide and so heartbreakingly sincere, “I’m French.”

Charles blinked.

“Quoi?” he said, pulling back slightly, eyebrows lifting in gentle confusion. “Ma chérie, no, you’re not French. You’re Monegasque, like Papa.”

Yn looked at him, lips pursed, deep in thought. And then she gave a little shrug. “Non. I’m French, like Uncle Thur.”

Charles groaned softly and let his head fall back against the couch. “Not this again.”

From across the room, Arthur—lounging lazily in a chair, eating grapes like he was Caesar in a past life—choked on his laughter.

“I didn’t teach her that,” Arthur said through wheezes. “She came up with it on her own. Genius, really.”

“You encourage it!” Charles accused, pointing an indignant finger at his younger brother. “You always say you’re French!”

“Well, I am French,” Arthur said with a grin. “Monegasque passport and everything. And clearly, Yn has excellent taste.”

“Excellent taste in traitors. And Monaco is not France,” Charles muttered, pulling Yn closer as if cuddling her tightly would somehow absorb her back into Monegasque pride.

But it didn’t stop there.

No, Yn had decided. French it was.

She told the Ferrari PR team she was French when they asked where she was from. She announced it proudly to the camera when someone tried to film a cute moment with her and her dad. She whispered it solemnly to Carlos while sitting in his lap eating strawberries.

“Papa’s sad ‘cause I’m French,” she told Carlos.

Carlos, eyes sparkling with mischief, leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s okay, Princesa. I’m Spanish, and he still talks to me.”

“Does he love you?” Yn asked, dead serious.

Carlos blinked. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Then maybe he’ll still love me even if I’m French.”

Behind them, Charles face-palmed.

The drivers got wind of it quickly—because of course they did.

By the next day, the jokes were relentless.

“So,” Lando said at breakfast in the hotel, stirring sugar into his coffee like he was preparing to deliver a monologue. “Do I address her as ‘Mademoiselle Yn’ now or...?”

“She’s not French,” Charles groaned.

“She told my engineer she wants her birthday cake in the shape of the Eiffel Tower,” Max deadpanned, walking by and tossing Charles a sympathetic look. “Good luck with that.”

Even Seb, who was visiting that weekend with his kids, gave Charles a comforting pat on the back. “At least she’s not saying she’s German. Yet.”

And then there was Esteban.

“Oh, this is fantastique,” Esteban beamed, scooping Yn up in the paddock one afternoon. “You’re French, just like me!”

Yn squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “Oui!”

Charles practically melted into the tarmac. “Mon dieu…”

But it was Arthur who reveled in it most.

He started wearing a beret. A beret, for god’s sake.

One afternoon in the hospitality tent, he presented Yn with a baguette and a small fake mustache. “For my fellow French citizen,” he declared proudly.

“Merci, Uncle Thur!” Yn beamed, sticking the mustache crookedly on her nose.

“I am living in a cartoon,” Charles mumbled into his hands.

No amount of explaining helped.

“But Monaco is in France,” she argued one night while Charles tucked her into bed in the team’s motorhome. “It’s right there.”

“No, chérie,” Charles said gently, brushing her curls back. “It’s close, but it’s its own country. Like Papa said before, remember?”

“I like France better.”

He sighed and tried the next best tactic: bribery.

“If you say you’re Monegasque again,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Papa will buy you ten ice creams tomorrow.”

Yn narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “What kind?”

“Any kind. Strawberry. Chocolate. All of them.”

“Hmm…” she tapped her chin with exaggerated thought. “I still wanna be French.”

He clutched his chest. “Traitor.”

The situation hit a new peak during the Saturday driver briefing. Yn, accompanied by Carlos and Charles, had been allowed to come along briefly before things got official. She toddled in wearing sunglasses way too big for her face and a little Ferrari cap.

Yuki crouched down to her level with a big smile. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Yn.”

“I’m French!” she declared proudly, striking a pose.

Yuki laughed. “That’s so cool! Then you must know that Uncle Pierre is also French!”

Yn froze.

All the drivers went still.

Charles raised his head slowly, eyes narrowing.

Yn’s nose scrunched up.

“…Uncle Pierre?”

“Yes,” Yuki chirped, unaware he was about to break the world’s most stubborn three-year-old. “He’s very French. Like super French.”

The silence that followed could have swallowed a pit lane.

Charles watched her face shift—concentration, confusion… and then determination.

She took off her sunglasses, turned to her father, and declared solemnly, “Papa. I’m not French anymore.”

Charles blinked. “You’re not?”

“I’m Monegasque now.”

“...Why?”

She folded her arms. “I don’t wanna be the same as Uncle Pierre.”

“WHAT?!” Pierre shouted from across the room, utterly betrayed.

Arthur was on the floor, laughing so hard he nearly cried. “Nooo! The French alliance has fallen!”

Carlos, barely holding it together, whispered, “Monaco wins.”

Charles scooped Yn up with the biggest grin he’d worn in days. “You have made Papa so proud.”

Yn patted his cheek. “Do I still get ice cream?”

He laughed, hugging her tight. “You can have all the ice cream you want, mon amour.”

Behind him, Pierre was muttering in disbelief, “What did I do? What did I do?”

And from that day on, Yn was proudly, defiantly, loyally Monegasque.

Until next week, when she decided she wanted to be Italian because “Papa’s car is red like Italy.”

And Charles just sighed into his espresso.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[phagodyke]

reading ttg is just reminding me that no soulmates trope will EVER beat watashi/ozu... oh your guys are in love? that's cute. mine arent but they meet in every single life to be best friends and annoy the shit out of each other <3

[iannmin]

WILL IT FIT ? ⋆ 전원우

🏷️ : smut, drabble, soft!dom!wonwoo x smaller!reader, size kink, first time, intentional lowercase

🗒️: really short idea i thought of,, :)

୨୧ ‘ masterlist ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆ ⁺₊❅⋆

you didn’t see it coming. and no. it’s not the typical “nerdy boy but turns into a slutty man in bed” type of trope. but much to your surprise (or we say amusement), it was the complete opposite.

clumsily sliding down his half-zipped jeans was already enough of an embarrassment to the already flushed-face wonwoo but it wasn’t. it was hot. in fact you found his bulge so awfully hot it got you absolutely glued to his outline. but of course, wonwoo didn’t get the cue.

���does it look disgusting? should we just stop here? it’s totally alright, we can just go back to playing computer games”

you didn’t listen. like some sort of mantra or spell that he magically put you under, you were straddling his thighs in a split second, not to mention, exposed too. and when poor wonwoo peeked down to have a good look at the little hole of yours, he was yet sent into another endless spiral of monologues.

“oh my goodness, it’s not gonna fit!”

“im gonna hurt you, I don’t wanna do that”

“how?”

but all words fell flat on his tongue as he watched your pussy absolutely stretch to accommodate his length, and in this situation he was put under, he learned for the first time that in fact “nothing is impossible”.

a slight “o” forming with his mouth, coupled with your breathless whimpers was enough to heighten the experience of feeling you inside, wrapped around him. and that was enough to drive him crazy, on the edge of his high, fingers digging into both sides of your waist. to you, it felt no different. wonwoo was undeniably big, probably a little bit too big for your comfort but the way his raw length dragged in and out of your hole felt too good. too fucking good.

[lili-kie]

Sylus would 100% be freaking out internally every time you do something even mildly flirty in his midst. You could even be doing some of the most basic things around the N109 zone, simply walking around his mansion with his shirt on and his brain would just short circuit while he gives you a carefully crafted snarky response. His internal monologue would simply be “oh my god she’s my girlfriend and she doesn’t even know it yet. Is she doing this on purpose? Does she know what she’s doing to me?”

This man is absolutely horrendously down bad and pathetic and we love him for it. Watching you fall asleep in his clothes, in his bed and in his mansion would simply do irreversible damage to his poor dragon heart, because his hunter finally feels comfortable being around him.

[yinyuedijun]

TRUST FALL | asakura shin x f!reader

Shin is a painfully vanilla guy but tries his best to let you live out your kinky fantasies. You have a breakdown when you try to indulge his very normal one. (Or: 3 times Shin humoured your kinks + 1 time you humoured his.)

11.5k words, sequel to situationship. nsft tags: fingering with the power glove, free use, somnophilia, domesticity kink + breeding kink. all sex is consensual (sometimes veers into cnc territory, shin relies on esp to obtain consent), none of it is rough or mean. toward the end of the fic, the narrative focuses on anxieties and/or desires about starting a family. chapter 203 spoilers. dividers by @/cafekitsune!

IMPORTANT: the reader is hypersexual due to off-screen sexual trauma, which is not explicitly described, but is discussed. there is also one non-graphic nightmare related to this trauma that turns into a horny dream about shin (lol). 20% of this fic is a psychosexually strange healing narrative, 80% of it is just silly porn.

Sometimes, Shin is glad that he can hear all your thoughts.

Mind you, it's not like he doesn't want to give you some privacy. God knows he's tried a million times to tune out your internal monologue the way he can normally do with other people, and god knows you’ve tried your hardest to imitate the cognitive trick that Nagumo does to keep his mind hidden away from Shin. The reality is, though, that your feelings always overpower any psychological barrier that the two of you attempt to create. Your thoughts are always too loud for him to ignore, usually because you're either too happy or too horny around him to keep them quiet. Apparently Shin has that effect on you.

But often he doesn't mind it. It’s sometimes even convenient. Helpful for all the stuff that you want to do in bed, for example.

Now, Shin’s known from Day 1 that you're kind of a freak. He’s seen enough of your psyche to understand the exact nature of your sexual fantasies, and on the day that you became an official couple, he went home and googled how you're supposed to have safe, sane, and consensual sex with a person who dreams of doing the exact opposite of that. Although Shin is himself a strictly vanilla guy, and the two of you were already having perfectly nasty vanilla sex that was satisfying you—he likes you a lot. He wants to treat you right, give you nice things. This includes everything from flowers to chocolates to exciting orgasms for the rest of your life, even if it means he’ll need to get a little freaky about it.

Shin’s since ended up learning a lot about BDSM, and he’s also ended up trying a lot of basic BDSM practices that don't really work on you. You are shockingly bad at enforcing your boundaries. You always get too horny to remember your safeword (Resident Evil—you chose it yourself), find it too much work to use nonverbal cues, and you dry up whenever he tries to use the traffic light system.

“It doesn't matter,” you once whined at him, “it’s not like I’d ever not wanna have sex! You can do whatever you want to me.” Which was an insane thing to say, and exactly why Shin feels like you should know how to use a safeword. But when he tried to explain this to you, you’d crawled into his lap and begged him to fuck you anyway. His dick got so hard that he could only say yes, though he first made you understand that it would be regular sex, not the stuckage roleplay you'd been asking him to try.

Regular sex. You're only supposed to be having regular sex.

There is no reason why you should be in tears right now, desperately trying to stop yourself from cumming on Shin’s fingers—and all over his power glove.

This is mostly your fault. Mostly. Ever since seeing Shin nearly kill someone using the thing, you've fantasised about him having it on in bed. Specifically, you’ve fantasised about him wearing it while his fingers are knuckle-deep in your dripping pussy. Shin wasn't ever planning on humouring those daydreams, but, well. He likes you a lot. He wants to give you nice things. If you want to have a mind-blowing orgasm while you're grinding your clit against the power glove, he'll let you—on the condition that you don't ruin it.

You've been having a lot of difficulty fulfilling this condition.

You're breathless, broken. Face tight from the effort of holding back your orgasm for so long. You’ve cum nearly twice now, and only didn't because Shin decided not to force it. Not yet, anyway. He admits he's being a little mean: every time he curls his fingers and rubs your sweet spot, he feels your cunt drip for him and he can’t help but do it more. The tears pearling up at the corners of your eyes and the way you're trying to squirm away from his hand would ordinarily make him stop—even make him worry—but then he hears you thinking, right there, right there, feels so good Shin you make me feel so good do that again, and then of course he has to comply.

“Shin,” you whimper, “I’ll cum if you don't stop that.”

You try to pull away again, hips jerking back from his touch, but your pussy is begging for him—tight and wet and greedy for more. His fingers are soaked, as is the black steel encasing his palm. Part of Shin feels like the glove has already been ruined; the rest of him is too horny to care. Completely unrepentant, his thumb rubs gentle circles into your clit, and he feels his cock throb at the noise you make.

“Shin,” you whine, “don't.”

He glances up at you. “You want me to stop using my fingers?”

No. You bite your lip. Pretend to look distressed. “I… I’ll make a mess if you don't.”

“I'll slow down,” he promises, and when he eases the pressure on your g-spot, your inner disappointment is so loud that he knows what he should do next.

When Shin lowers his face between your legs and pushes your thighs open with his free hand, you squeal.

“Shin!”

“What? I’m not using my fingers. Should be fine, right?” He doesn't need to wait for a response—he already knows what you're thinking—so he leans down and puts his mouth on you the way he's been wanting the whole night.

You whine when you feel his tongue on your clit. Clench immediately around his fingers—more Shin please I want more please touch me the way I like, you know where—so he curls them again, and the way you cry makes him want nothing more than to get on top of you and fuck you properly.

But that's not how you want to cum. You don't want to cum on his cock; you want to finish on his fingers, soak the sheets, and probably ruin Natsuki’s day with a repair call. So Shin closes his eyes and starts sucking at your clit, and he’s relentless about it—even though you try to push him away, even though you start keening and telling him to slow down, even when you’re panting hard and pleading with him to give you a break. “Shin,” you say, voice breaking, “Shin, no, I can't, please, I'll—I’ll cum, you gotta stop, no no no, I can't, I can't—”

You sob. Fully cry as your back arches, and Shin groans as you gush all over his fingers. Can’t help but watch as you fall apart for him, the way you’ve been wanting the whole time. He admits that it was hot seeing you cum despite the fact that you were begging not to, knowing that he was the one to make you lose control. Still, Shin is a vanilla guy; as soon as you've calmed down, he's wiping away your tears and studying you carefully.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Was that alright? I was reading your mind the whole time and did whatever you were saying to me, but I was still a little worried that—”

You throw your arms around him and shut him up with a kiss.

Once Shin gives up on the use of safewords and starts relying on his clairvoyance, the free use thing also becomes a lot easier.

Now, it isn't like you aren't beaming into Shin’s mind—whether at the store, in your home, or even on the train—that you want him to fuck you at all times. It isn't like he's happily obliging whenever he's over at your place, as many times as his dick will allow. But he likes to ask first, and he likes to hear you say yes first. Unfortunately, you have the specific fantasy that Shin doesn't care what you want—you just want him to manhandle you and pull you onto his cock whenever he feels like it. Also, it's apparently very important that he takes you by surprise, and that he keeps going even if you complain about it?

Shin truly doesn't get it. He's not opposed to having frequent sex. He likes you a lot, wants to give you nice things. You want his cock inside you at all hours of the day? Sure, he’ll give it to you. But why do you want him to be so rude about it? Whatever happened to saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?!

So anyway, he does it.

It’s hard catching you by surprise. His ESP tells him that you do want—and now expect—to be fucked nearly every moment of every day. You want it in the morning, when you wake up in bed and heat starts curling in your belly at the sight of him next to you. You want it when you're in the kitchen, trying to focus on making dinner while you squeeze your thighs together and try to relieve some of the heat between your legs. You want it as you clean the windows, your panties soaked and thighs messy with slick, thinking of the way Shin fucked you against the glass just the day before.

Want you inside me, Shin, you think nearly all the time. Want you to use me. Please?

This is how you find yourself leaning against the kitchen counter, all the dishes in the sink forgotten as your pussy squeezes around his dick. How you find yourself warming his cock as the two of you watch TV, your focus on the screen wavering as his fingers circle your bud. How he ends up interrupting you when you’re trying to read, pulling down your top so he can squeeze your breasts and tease your nipples through your bra. Stress relief, he calls it, which is true. There are fewer things that take his mind off his ex-assassin troubles than playing with your tits as you squirm on his lap, listening to you squeal and whine as you try to read. Sometimes he can get you to cum that way, too—just by licking and pinching your nipples and letting you grind yourself on his thigh.

It takes him a long time to actually get you off-guard, though.

He finally manages it when he comes home after a late shift in the store, wound up from nearly (but not actually!) killing two hitmen. It wasn't the violence that had bothered him, really; it was the fact that those pricks had knocked over an entire shelf in the store in the process of attempting murder. Couldn't they have attacked Mr. Sakamoto outside?! It took fucking forever to clean up and restock all those cooking wines and soy sauces. Assholes.

To his significant shame, Shin spent his entire commute afterward thinking of coming home and seeing you. Not to kiss you and cuddle with you, which was the sort of thing he wanted to do at the start of the relationship—but to pull you onto his lap and hear the cute noises you make whenever he plays with your body. Apparently that's now his stress response after several weeks of your free use policy, which makes him want to die a little bit. But as this been your explicit goal, he also decides not to fault himself for it too much.

By the time he's stepping into your apartment, he's already hard and thinking about which positions he’ll fuck you in.

In a miraculous twist of fate, Shin catches you while you're folding laundry and thinking about the news, rather than the way his dick felt inside you last night. He knows then that this is his moment: the stars have aligned, and he can finally fulfill your favourite fantasy.

“Shin,” you say, face lighting up. “Welcome home! I didn't hear you come in.”

When he kisses you, you beam at him in a way that's so pretty and innocent that it makes his cock twitch and has him feeling bad about what he's about to do. The two of you could have a wholesome night in for once. You're in the mood for it. He can tell from the way you’re chattering at him about your day off with Lu, and how you’re thinking about maybe doing a trip to Hakone with him because of a travel ad you saw on the subway. I've only ever been once on a mission… it would be nice to go as a couple next time. I wanna go to a ryokan with Shin…

Shin would definitely enjoy a couple’s trip with you. Not just to Hakone, but everywhere else in the world too. Maybe it can be an annual thing, something to do for anniversaries. (Though it's not like he’s thought of destinations for your next five anniversaries or anything. Nope. Not at all.)

Ordinarily he'd start trip planning with you on the spot, but this is an unprecedented opportunity, and his dick is throbbing from the sweet way you keep looking at him. You're in the middle of talking about plans for the rest of the evening, still folding laundry, when Shin's hands slip beneath the hem of your t-shirt.

He feels like a creep doing it. It's rude, right? It's so rude. You were thinking just now about making some popcorn and cuddling up to him and watching John Wick tonight. You weren't expecting to feel his palms sliding up your sides and cupping your breasts. Or for him to start kneading them.

But after a moment of shock, Shin hears a mental cheer from you that’s so loud that it nearly has him laughing.

Of course, you don't voice your enthusiasm. “Shin,” you whine instead, squirming as his fingers start circling your nipples, “I'm—ah—trying to get these chores done.”

“I’m sure they can wait,” he says, pulling you backwards. His cock presses against your ass and your thrill is palpable in his neurons. “This’ll be quick. I promise.”

You don't give in immediately. You chide him a little, then make a half-hearted attempt at continuing at your task. Your hands shake as you pick a shirt out of the basket and start folding it, all while you're being groped and teased and rutted against like a toy. You’re opening a drawer when Shin’s hand wanders between your thighs and he runs his fingers along your shorts. They're thin enough for you to feel his touch through the fabric, and you shudder when he starts rubbing your pussy through them—with a precision that has you melting, because he can hear it when you think about how good it feels when he touches your clit like that, especially while he's ignoring your complaints about it. Who knew you had it in you, Shin? you giggle internally. (Definitely not him, he wants to reply.)

He slides a hand into your shorts, and that's when you drop the laundry and give up.

Shin finds himself fucking you for the better part of the night, first from behind, then from beneath you. The sight of you bouncing on his cock drives him so crazy that he has you pinned underneath him not too long later, moaning and drooling as he drives you into the mattress. He only stops when you start thinking that you're starting to feel too sore. (You can keep going anyway, Shin, you tell him, but he knows he wouldn't be able: it kills his boner whenever you're in any kind of pain.)

But even if you’re a bit uncomfortable, you're practically glowing by the time he's finished.

“That was so fun,” you say as you kiss him. “You should do that more often.”

Shin snorts. “I don't think we can have sex any more than we already do without my dick falling off.” He gives you a curious look, suddenly worried. “Is this really not enough for you, though? ‘cause I can do other things if you want. Use my mouth, or toys, or whatever…”

You seem confused. “Well, it's not really about how many rounds we go…”

He blinks. “It's not?”

“No.”

“Then what is it about?”

You tilt your head. “Haven’t I said it? I mean, I've definitely thought it. It’s about being treated like a ho—”

“I know,” Shin interrupts, deadpan, and you giggle. But then he's studying you intensely; if he wants to give you exciting orgasms for the rest of your life, he'll need to understand what makes you tick.

“What’s the appeal of, uh… being treated that way? If it's not just about how many times we do it in a day?”

Shin encounters one of the major limitations of ESP: if you can't form a coherent thought, then Shin can’t read it. He can only see the knot in your brow, feel the discombobulation in your mind as you try to make out the exact shape of your desire. See it in your face when you can't.

“Who knows,” you finally say. “It's just hotter the way we did it just now, I guess? Like, it's a whole genre of porn. Tons of people like it.”

He frowns. Shin truly doesn't get it, and he wishes he did. But he doesn't need to understand your fantasies to humour you, as long as it makes you happy.

Though... there is one free use scenario he can't deliver.

No matter how many times he’s tried and how many times you've begged him, Shin can't bring himself to have sex with you in your sleep.

He feels a bit bad about it, honestly, because you clearly really want it. You've pleaded with him to try it out for the past twenty nights in a row, slept in exceptionally revealing lingerie just to tempt him, and have recently begun a diabolical routine of teasing him every night. You make out with him, rub yourself on him like a cat in heat, and grind your core on his aching cock through your tiny little panties—all before rolling over in bed and knocking out.

But despite your new habit leaving him with the worst case of blue balls in the world, Shin just can't bring himself to touch you in your sleep.

He doesn't get how it's supposed to work in the first place. It's a kink you probably picked up from all the fanfiction and doujinshi that's rotted your brain, and it doesn't make sense at all when applied to real life. A trained assassin is the worst person to try somnophilia with: “You're a light sleeper and your first instinct is to kill anyone who startles you,” he’d pointed out once. “How am I even supposed to touch you in your sleep without you waking up and accidentally stabbing me?”

In response, you started to take benadryl and melatonin before going to bed, and you promised that you would absolutely, 100% not stab him if you woke up in spite of that. (Okay, it might be more like 90%, but Shin can just use his ESP to see the future and dodge, right?) This flabbergasted him, but also didn't really surprise him.

It also didn’t really help.

The heart of the problem is that somnophilia is truly just too freaky for Shin. Despite everything he's tried with you, nothing really hits like vanilla sex. Even when he's enjoying the more adventurous stuff, he can only do so if he knows without a doubt that you're fully into it, and that's just kind of impossible if you're asleep when he's doing it. What if you wake up and realise that you didn't want any dick that night, actually? What if you wake up and you feel complicated, empty—not as good as you thought you would?

“But I’m always going to want it,” you insist, “and I'll like whatever you do with my body! You don't have to worry about all that.” Which is, again, an absolutely insane thing to say—but Shin doesn't know how to explain that to you. Your mind buzzes with frustration and something that feels a little like heartache whenever he tries, a knot in your chest that you don't really understand yourself, and it makes him feel so bad that all he can do is kiss you until your sadness ebbs away.

So Shin keeps his hands to himself, even when you're having the horniest dreams he's ever seen.

He doesn't mean to peer in on them. It's just impossible not to when you're next to each other in bed and your subconscious is making you think and feel crazy things. The sad dreams are probably the loudest ones, but the wet dreams are a close second. And this current dream is both very wet and very loud. Whenever Shin closes his eyes, he sees it clearly: some faceless man is on top of you, inside you. With each thrust of his hips, you shift in your sleep—thighs pressed together, hips twitching. Hot breaths, little whimpers. Your body is begging to be filled.

Shin doesn't take it personally that you're dreaming of some random guy instead of him. It's part of a particular kind of free use fantasy for you—the idea of anonymous men using you impersonally, like some kind of gloryhole. You used to think of it so much in your waking hours that it's lost all shock value to him. It doesn't turn him on, either—it's just not his thing.

So he lies down next to you and prepares to fall asleep to some pretty mundane gangbang visions. He's nearly drifted off when something happens that makes his eyes open wide—

You start to feel uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable, uncertain. You've just realised that you can't recognise the face of the man on top of you, that you aren't sure if it's Shin. You’re squirming, wanting to get away, because I don't want anyone other than Shin to touch me, I don't want anyone other than him to use my body, I don't want anyone other than him inside it. A sense of panic grips you, and now the whimpers you're letting out don't sound needy anymore.

You sound afraid.

Shin is on you immediately. A hand on your cheek, his voice soft so as not to scare you. “Hey,” he says, “I’m right here. I'm right here. Wake up for me, okay? C'mon.”

He shakes you gently, and then not so gently, and now he's wondering what ungodly cocktail of sleep meds you took to stay unconscious like this. But even if you aren't awake, you can still hear him, his voice cutting through the fog of your sedative-fueled dream—and that's enough to comfort you. You can make out his features now, which are so handsome that you can't help but calm down.

Oh, your dream self says, it is you. Hi, Shin.

Shin sighs. “Hi,” he says, voice full of relief. “Yeah, it's me.”

The little smile you give him is so tender that his heart lurches. I'm so glad, you sigh. I don't want anyone else to do this to me.

This dream version of you is chatty. Infinitely chattier than your real self. I wouldn't have minded some other guy on top of me in the past, you know? you tell him as he undresses you. As long as I came, I didn't really mind whoever was inside me. It's not like I got to choose anyway. I was using my body for missions, so I only slept with whoever I got assigned. Cumming was a nice bonus though.

The Shin in your dream kisses a path from your jaw to your neck to your breasts, ignoring you. (The real Shin would never do this—he would probably start crying if you ever talked about any of this stuff out loud to him, actually.) He doesn't reply as you keep babbling about what sex used to be like for you, about all the stuff that Shin’s seen in your sadder dreams. Not that you think they're sad; you don't know that you sometimes cry in your sleep. You don't think it's too strange that the kind of sex you had for missions sometimes made you pretend that you weren't in your own body, that the kind of things being done to it weren't also being done to your heart. As long as your body had an orgasm, then you were probably enjoying it—that only makes sense, right?

But then you started sleeping with Shin, and sex always feels so different now. Shin doesn't just make you cum; he makes you feel like you're melting. Like you don't want to be anywhere in the world except in his arms where he can hold you and kiss you and hopefully fuck you a second time.

I never liked going multiple rounds with other people the way I do with you, you observe. I kinda feel like I maybe didn't like having sex at all. But you like it if it's Shin. All the things you hated doing with other people—being held, being kissed, being used—you always enjoy doing them with Shin. You’re actually pretty sure that you were doing them all wrong before you met him, and it's nice that your body feels right whenever he touches you now.

That's what you like most about when he fucks you, actually. You can always trust Shin to make your body feel right.

That's when it clicks for him: the shape of your desire, the reason your heart twinges when Shin starts talking about safewords and boundaries and how he can't just do whatever he wants with you. It makes him feel an ache in his own chest, and he finds himself leaning down to kiss your forehead, and then—after a long, thoughtful pause—the silky contour of your mouth.

The Shin in your dreams moves in lock-step with him. Kind of. He kisses you as well, his hands wandering all over your body. But then he gets wildly out of character. Shin goes bright red when he hears the porn dialogue he's been assigned. He wants to wake you up so he can tell you that he wouldn't ever call you his cum dump (what the hell), but it's making you wet that you're being treated like one—and to his utter shame, Shin’s dick is starting to twitch too. Something about you squirming underneath him, desperate and vulnerable for him even when asleep, is making his brain short-circuit.

When you start begging him to touch you—please, Shin, I was so scared I need to feel you now, need you inside me right now, want you to use my pussy, only you and no one else—Shin feels something inside himself snap.

And he touches you.

He starts with your breasts, because that seems least likely to disturb your sleep, and god knows he doesn't want you to wake up and witness him doing something so deranged. But your eyes stay closed even though you feel his touch in your dreams, your nipples pebbling as he teases and pinches them. Your brow dips and you whine, and you only get louder when his tongue starts swirling around a nipple—but you stay fully asleep.

When he reaches down, he's unsurprised to find your panties soaked through. Not just from your juices, but also from all the cum he left inside you earlier in the day. He strokes you through the ruined satin, a thumb rubbing your swollen clit, and he’s startled to feel you get even slicker. His dream self wonders at how sensitive you are, how needy your pussy is, and Shin cringes at hearing himself saying all that—but he also agrees. You always make a point of using toys to keep yourself stretched out for him if he's not around to do it himself, and your body is at this point practically trained to expect his touch—but even then, it's shocking how ready you are to take him even when unconscious.

When he pushes your panties to the side, he sees your hole is fluttering around nothing—both here and inside your dream. The sight makes him lose any shred of self-restraint, and he frees his dick from his sweats and starts fisting himself until his length is slick with his own pre-cum. Your subconscious can't quite recreate the feeling of taking his cock, leaving you panting and unsatisfied, and he fully intends to fix that.

He lines himself up with your slick folds—and he pushes into you.

Shin can hardly believe that you're still sleeping right now, all while your pussy helplessly swallows his cock. He'd feel bad if he didn't know how blissed out you were, your subconscious flooding with euphoria, your body overfilled with pleasure. He's being pretty rough with you in your dreams, but he's careful with you in reality, the way he's always told you he'd be.

Plus, he really doesn't want you to wake up.

But despite his best efforts, your eyes open. You're groggy, confused, not understanding what's happening and how come your breasts are exposed or why is there a cock inside you—and then your eyes are going wide as your pussy starts pulsing around him, and you're gasping and crying as you feel yourself soaking everything.

By the time you figure out what's going on, Shin’s come back to his senses. He blurts an apology on instinct, launches into a garbled explanation of why he was fucking you—but you just give him a dazed smile, a sweet little kiss, and then you turn over to spread your dripping pussy for him.

“Keep going, Shin,” you say, voice drowsy but no less clear. “You're still hard, right? Use my body until you feel better. Promise I'll like it.”

Shin sucks in a breath, feels the last threads of his sanity snapping. He's a vanilla guy, after all. Nothing hits like hearing you ask to be fucked out loud—except for maybe the sight of his cum dripping out of your swollen, needy pussy, your cunt fluttering around nothing and clearly wanting his cock back inside it. The combination is driving him wild.

You don't end up getting any more sleep after that.

The two of you do a lot after that. Way more than Shin ever thought he would in bed, including the most embarrassing roleplays in the world. There was the stuckage roleplay, the sex worker roleplay, the school classroom roleplay, the french maid roleplay, and—perhaps the worst of them all—the chikan roleplay.

(Yes—the two of you tried the free use thing in public, with Shin feeling you up during a commute home as you squirmed and pretended to ignore it. He'd tried to be subtle, telling himself he would stop if anyone noticed what you were doing, but you kept thinking that you really wanted him to keep going, so of course he had to oblige. Shin now can't take the Yamanote line without wanting to die from shame, nor without thinking about you instantly cumming on his fingers when he told you that you were being watched.)

But despite all those insane sex acts, nothing scares him as much as when you ask about his kinks.

“I don't have any specific fantasies,” he says quickly. “I'm a vanilla guy. You know that.”

“Uh huh. Sure. I also know that you're lying.”

He tries not to sweat.

“It’s okay, Shin,” you say delicately. “You don't need to be embarrassed. Breeding kinks are very common and respectable. It's the most normal thing out there, if you think about it. Humans need to procreate somehow, don't they?”

Shin can't form a response. He’s too busy visualising potential escape routes from this room, of which there are none because you are much faster than him and could easily intercept him if he bolted. When he accepts his fate, he forces himself to look at you and finds himself being stared at. Studied.

“So,” you say.

“S-so?”

“Tell me what flavour of breeding kink you like.”

His face burns. “What do you mean, flavour?”

“Like the kind of scenario where the breeding is happening. Like omegaverse, or hybrids, or those stories where someone's chained up and forcibly bred. You know.”

Shin realises then that he absolutely cannot tell you the fantasy that has him furiously jacking off when you aren’t around. He just knows you wouldn't understand it, and possibly you'd also read too much into it. Maybe you'd even freak out and break up with him. He’ll need to keep this a secret and carry it to the grave—or at least for another five years, after which it might make more sense to bring up as a serious conversation.

But you're very, very persistent about asking, and around five weeks later, he caves and tells you everything.

“Pleeease, Shin,” you beg for the millionth time, batting your lashes and giving him wide, pretty eyes you know he can't resist. “Whatever it is, I promise I won't judge. Like—I’m the last person who can make fun of anyone for their kinks. You know the kind of shit I read.”

Shin does indeed know the kind of shit you read—he’s also read it all, secondhand through your thoughts—and he does indeed know that you are in no position to judge anyone else for their preferences. But judgment isn't what he's worried about. It would be easier if it were. If his breeding kink had anything to do with omegaverse or hybrids or the weird dubcon stuff you described, it would be far less incriminating. But given the truth, he coughs and tries to crack a joke—“I dunno, it might be too freaky even for you”—and you give him a look so disappointed that he nearly flinches.

“H-hey—what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” I just wish you trusted me. “I’m fine, I promise.” I trust you with my thoughts. How come you can't trust me with yours? “Don't pay attention to whatever you can hear from my mind, by the way. It's not anything you should worry about.” I don't want you to feel guilty.

The two of you have a strict rule, given your lack of mental boundaries: when Shin overhears something that you don't want to discuss, he's supposed to pretend it never happened. Usually he obliges, but this is just impossible to ignore. You have a point: you are willing to be vulnerable around him 24/7. There are no psychological barriers between the two of you. Each moment you choose to be with Shin, you also choose to forfeit all privacy for your heart—an act that confuses Shin as much as it moves him. Because everyone dislikes his uninhibited access to their minds. Everyone has something to hide. Everyone should be at least a little bit afraid of him—you, most of all.

The one time Shin voiced all this, you gave him a funny look and thought, I don't understand what you mean.

Because you don't mind that Shin can hear all your thoughts. You don't mind him knowing your insides, feeling out all the places that make you feel nauseous and bruised and dirtied. You don't mind that he's seen things about you that make you feel disgusted with yourself, things that make you feel like your body is undeserving of love—because you know he won't judge you for any of it. Because Shin is a good person, he’s good to me and he's good to my body, better than anyone else has ever been and will ever be. That must be why I have such mind-blowing orgasms when I sleep with him.

I didn't know how good sex could feel until I met you, Shin. Did you know that?

Shin did know that. He had actually figured all that out some time ago from seeing your dreams, which is only making him feel worse. His access to your thoughts is so unlimited that he understands your desires better than you do yourself. It's only fair that you should also understand some of his, right?

Besides, it's just a kink. A harmless kink. You won't think too hard about it, right?

Right?

He clears his throat.

“I…”

You glance at him, curious.

“I'm kinda into… like, a domestic kind of scenario… with the whole, uh…”

He can't bring myself to say it, so you do it for him: “The breeding thing? Like, you’re into the idea of breeding me in a domestic roleplay?”

Shin is going to die. But he perseveres, because it's you, and you deserve this bare minimum from him: “Yeah… like. You're a housewife, and we… y'know.”

You give him a blank stare, which then gives way to understanding. “Oh! I know what you mean.”

“D-do you?”

“Yeah! Like those doujinshi where there's a lonely housewife and the neighbour cucks her husband by sleeping with her, right? Or her daughter’s boyfriend sleeps with her. Or the husband’s father.” You hum, studying him, somehow not reacting to the way his jaw just dropped. Just what the hell have you been reading when he isn't around? “Or is it one of those wedding NTR scenarios?”

“What? No!” Shin really is going to die. But he comes clean, because he won't be able to live with himself if he gets roped into a roleplay about any of those situations: “I just mean, like. We’re a married couple, and we’re trying for a baby.”

You stare, and he hears the open confusion in your mind. Apparently you can't fathom why anyone would find a life of domestic bliss sexy if it's not about to involve some form of cucking. But you keep your word and don't judge him: “Oh. Well, that'll be easy enough to do.”

Shin blinks. “You mean… you’ll do it?”

“Of course I'll do it,” you say, warm and reassuring. “I wanna make you feel as good as you make me feel, Shin.”

Something in him melts at the words, especially because he can hear that you're saying them with your whole heart. Every response he can think of is lacking, and he's at a painful loss for a reply. But then you cheerfully add, “And anyway, you fingerbanged me on the Yamanote line. This is the least I can do in return,” and Shin goes back to wanting to disintegrate.

Despite Shin’s insistence that his fantasy has nothing to do with the R18 cucking doujinshi that you read, you seem dead set on taking inspiration from them. For the next week, he's subjected to some of the worst imagery he's ever encountered as you “perform research” for the scenario you're planning for him—which is to say, he reads a great deal of ecchi manga through your thoughts. Their contents make him incredibly afraid of whatever you'll come up with, but he's also oddly touched at how committed you are to the whole thing, so he can't help but leave you to your machinations.

And to be fair to you, you do your due diligence by asking him additionally what he wants.

“What’s your idea of domestic bliss?” you say one afternoon, when the shop is slow and sleepy and Lu is mercifully absent. “Like, what do you imagine a happy household looks like?”

Shin knows the answer immediately: Mr. Sakamoto with Ms. Aoi and Hana. Eating a home-cooked meal around a table with them and Lu. Waking up each morning to the scent of miso soup and the noise of a laughing child. Hana running into the store as she returns home from school, carefree and loved. Watching you teach her how to fold origami cranes so you can make some to hang from her ceiling. Seeing you beam when she says, Thank you, neesan.

Being embraced by you when he comes back to the store after almost dying. Feeling you wipe the blood off his knuckles before kissing them. Hearing you say, Welcome home, I missed you, let’s eat dinner. Cooking for you with his hands that he once used only for killing.

That's family to Shin. All of you, in the store, together.

Now, Shin will absolutely die if you use such sacred memories as a reference for this roleplay, so he doesn't voice any of this. Problem is—he doesn't have any other reference point for what a family should be. He grew up in a lab, and then afterwards he watched his father explode on a ship. You can't exactly fill in the gaps for him either, given how you were raised, and he constantly listens to the buzz of your disappointment at having no real material to work with for this roleplay.

“I dunno,” Shin eventually says. “Maybe, like, I come home and you’re in the kitchen? And I help you make dinner? And we eat together and go to bed together. I feel like that's what a married couple does.”

You hum. “Yes, that sounds right. And I'm wearing an apron, right? With a conservative outfit that's still tight enough to be kind of sexy?”

“Uh…”

“And I'm super lonely because you've been neglecting me because of work and we haven't had sex in two years?”

Shin is baffled. You can't even go two hours without asking him to have sex—two years is unfathomable. “Uh…”

“And the neighbour has made several passes at the lonely housewife next door, but I turn him down because I only want my husband’s cock inside me, right?”

Shamefully, Shin’s dick twitches at this last suggestion. Still, he says, “Er, no, I’d really just like you to act as you normally do. I don't need a re-enactment of The Neighbourhood Housewife series.”

“Aw, okay… And you're really sure you don't want me to wear an apron?”

Shin overhears a thought, and he almost snorts. “You're free to wear one if you want.”

“I just feel like aprons do a lot for me.” You give Shin—and his shop apron—a meaningful look. “Don't you?”

Shin tries not to flush. A little afraid that you'll next suggest that he wears an apron and plays a lonely househusband, he hastily says, “Good point. I think you should wear one.”

When Shin gets home that Friday, he discovers that aprons do a lot for him too.

This revelation is shocking for him, given all the housewife-centric porn that he's been forced to read secondhand. He's seen probably half a dozen women in nothing but aprons and hardly reacted to any of them, but the sight of you in a sky blue apron, humming as you chop away at some carrots, is doing something horrible to him.

The setup is getting to him too. There are couple photos placed throughout your apartment (among them is his personal favourite, taken among the cherry blossoms at Himeji Castle), as well as a fake wedding band on your finger (he’d picked out one with you at your insistence, and Shin thought it was funny at the time but now his ears are going pink at the sight of it). The air is rich with the fragrance of cooking rice and simmering curry. New curtains, a vase of flowers on the table, unfamiliar decor and some of his personal effects are placed throughout the living room—all to create the illusion of just having moved in together.

The scene isn't making him feel horny, exactly. It's more like it's making him feel warm.

It’d be nice if the two of you could live together like this, he thinks. If Shin could really come home to this everyday, and if you could really greet him with a kiss and smile, and if you could cook together and spend time together and fuck nasty together, if you could take your husband’s cock every day and get filled up with his—

Oh. Those are your thoughts. Not Shin’s.

He clears his throat, and he half-expects you to crack a joke about your dirty monologuing, but instead you put down your knife and come by to kiss him on the cheek. “Welcome home, dear,” you say warmly, and Shin’s heart jumps at the pet name. You smile as his cheeks flush: My husband is so handsome, you think, and Shin feels like he's about to explode.

Somehow, this is harder for him than fingerbanging you on the Yamanote line. That was mortifying, but this roleplay is quickly revealing things about his psyche that frankly distress him. Still, he plays his part, and tries to get into the appropriate mindset. You're his wife right now—his beautiful, pretty, gorgeous wife who he lucked out with and somehow married and now he’s has a home with you, and he's going to start a family with you, and he hopes the baby will have your smile and eyes and hair, and he's going to take so many photos of the two of you, and holy shit he's so glad you don't have ESP.

Anyway, he comes up with an underwhelming response: “H-hi. How was your day?”

“Good,” you say. “Was nice to get a break from work. Missed you the whole time though. You kept me waiting too long.” Wanted to feel you inside me all day, you whine at him mentally, and Shin doesn't know how actual married couples go about their daily lives. If you were really his wife and he heard you thinking like that, he'd probably never leave the house.

(Roleplay, he reminds himself immediately after. This is a roleplay. He shouldn't think about actually marrying you. That would be a dangerous route to go down, and he definitely hasn't thought about it before. Nor dreamt about it. No, sir.)

“I'll make it up to you,” he promises.

“You'd better.” You point at the curry that's simmering on the stove. “You can start by helping me with dinner.”

The way the rest of the night is similar to a regular evening together. The two of you cook together, eat together, and clean together. The only difference is that instead of hearing you monologue in your head about how much you want your boyfriend to fuck you, Shin is instead subjected to fantasies about your life as newlyweds. You beam a false memory of your wedding night directly into his head, and the mental image of Shin fucking you in your wedding dress has him so bricked up that he nearly breaks several glasses.

By the time you've both showered and gone to bed, Shin has been tortured for hours with detailed fantasies about your married sex life. (They involve various sets of bridal lingerie, an amorous honeymoon in Thailand, and sex on every surface in the apartment. All unprotected, of course, and accompanied by tender kissing each time.) Somehow, you don't break immersion even once. Even when Shin joins you in bed, you're thinking about how lucky you are to have him as your husband.

Shin doesn't think he's ever been so hard in his life.

You giggle when you’re straddling his lap, feeling it for yourself through your silk slip. “Someone’s excited.”

“‘Course I am,” he says between kisses. “How couldn't I be?”

How couldn't he be, if you were his wife?

(Roleplay, he reminds himself again. Roleplay. This is a roleplay! It's not good to think in marital hypotheticals. It's stupid, really. But he's doing it anyway and holy shit is it making him horny.)

He reaches under your slip, isn't surprised to find your cunt bare and dripping for him. Stretched myself out for you while I was at home today, you think as you move your lips against his, hot and messy and addictive. Used a toy, but it just wasn't the same as my husband’s cock.

He groans against your mouth as he reads your memories of your day: not a fabrication like the hazy visions of your false wedding and honeymoon, but detailed and heated and real. How you really did feel the frustration of a lonely and neglected housewife and couldn't help but take your favourite vibrator and spread yourself out on your shared bed. How you split yourself open on it and moaned his name as it stretched you out. How you gushed as you came, and how it still didn't feel as good as Shin’s touch because you didn't get to kiss him and feel his arms around you at the end.

He feels crazy when he lays you out beneath him. Insane when he studies your gaze, honeyed with lust, and your pussy, pretty and glistening for him. You give him a smile that's shy—genuinely shy, he can tell from your thoughts, because you've done a million freaky things but you've never acted out anything so tender before. Never played house like this, never imagined a cozy and warm life where you get to have a family.

He's never really thought of it before, either. He never had a cozy and warm life growing up, and he didn't really think he could ever change enough that he could have one. Never thought he could have a family, and maybe this is just a roleplay, but it's the first time he's really envisioning himself starting one.

“Are you gonna put a baby in me, Shin?” you ask shyly, and he nearly cums in his pants.

Shin generally likes to take his time with you in bed. Even if he can hear you mentally whining for his cock, he ordinarily likes to tease you with his tongue and fingers first. But he's desperate to be inside you today, and he can tell that you aren't upset by how quickly he frees his cock and presses it against your entrance. He can feel himself throbbing as he slides between your folds, his cock twitching at the slick and sticky noises from your cunt.

“So eager,” you tease. You break immersion just to taunt him, bedroom eyes turning sly: Wow, you really do get off to this stuff. Never would have pinned you for the type to enjoy breeding someone like this—

“Wife,” he corrects you without thinking, and you blink.

“Huh?”

“You’re not ‘someone’, you're my wife,” he says, fully talking with his dick, “I wouldn't marry anyone other than you, and I wouldn't put a baby in anyone other than you.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. Shin is vaguely aware of your heart pounding as he lines his cock up with your entrance, your pussy fluttering even as your mind scrambles for words. “O-oh, really? I mean, I guess that is what the scenario-ohhh—aah…”

Your mind goes blank as Shin pushes into you, and Shin’s finding it equally hard to think. He can never get used to how you feel around him—tight and hot and perfect—and it’s even more overwhelming this time thinking that he'll get you pregnant. The thought has him feeling so insane, he can't help but start fucking you immediately.

You gasp when he starts thrusting, driving his cock into you at an angle that has you curling your toes. Pleasure bursts in your mind as he hits your sweet spot, your pussy squeezing around him each time. He's touched you so many times, fucked you into oblivion so many ways, committed every inch of your body and mind to muscle memory—it’s easy for him to take you apart, force you toward a quick finish.

Your hole starts dripping uncontrollably, and your belly tightens in a way that short-circuits your thoughts. Shin reaches between your bodies before you can fully comprehend it, rubbing your clit until you’re whimpering.

Sometimes your mind sounds very needy when you’re about to climax—more more more, right there, right there, don't stop, don't stop—and sometimes you sound pretty depraved—that’s right, Shin, fill me up, wanna be your cum dump—and sometimes you sound very tender—please kiss me, please hold me, please be as close to me as you can—but right now, you just sound shocked.

A-already? you think, dazed, and before your brain can catch up with what he's doing, Shin presses down on your belly and grinds his cock against your g-spot and suddenly you're tearing up as you gush all over him.

It's so hard not to cum with you. Shin nearly has to resort to using ESP on himself to keep it from happening. But he fucks you through your orgasm without pause, and he doesn't really slow down until you're a hazy, fucked out mess. Every inch of your body is so wrung out from pleasure that Shin can't hear a single, coherent thought—just a mindless rush of dopamine—which means you're probably relaxed enough to take his cock just the way he wants.

He brushes his lips against yours, sweet and easy, before he says, “Let me know if this is too much.”

“Hmm?” Not ready to form real words yet, you think, What are you up to, Shin? and You can do whatever you want with my body, you know that now.

Shin answers by throwing your legs over his shoulders. You squeal when he practically folds you in half, grabbing at the sheets when he starts to move again. Your pussy tightens around him as he pumps his cock into you, your body eager for more even though you just came. Deep, you think, gasping, it's so deep—

Shin feels it when he hits your cervix, and he hears you thinking it too. You keen when he does it again, moaning at the feeling. Feels good, Shin, you reassure him, your fingers reaching for your clit. Keep going. It's all he needs to hear before he starts pounding into you again.

He feels like an animal when he fucks you like this. Can't think about anything other than how deep he is inside you and how completely he's going to fill you up, how you're going to be walking around with his cum inside you for days. You’re thinking about it too—please, Shin, want your cum in me, want it in my womb, want you to breed me, please, please, wanna give you a baby—

Shin groans, his hips stuttering to a halt as his cock starts twitching, and soon he's pumping thick ropes of cum into you. You follow not long after, you pussy milking his cock as you gush all over him. He lets it, too—stays inside you the whole time and makes sure that you take it all, the two of you kissing each other hungrily. Only pulls out once you're both spent, and you whine at the emptiness afterwards.

Your hole is stuffed so full that his cum drips out of you almost immediately; you make a small noise as you feel it soaking the sheets. Somewhat predictably, you reach in between your legs, spreading yourself to give him a show.

“You came so much,” you say. “I can’t keep it all inside me.” As if you even tried.

Shin is used to your cumshot displays, but he feels his throat go dry at the sight anyway. “Um…” He licks his lips, and he’s momentarily torn between cleaning you up with his mouth and pushing it all back inside you. “Aren’t there, um. Positions you're supposed to stay in after? To help. With keeping it in. To get pregnant, I mean.” At least Shin remembers this fact from one of the many breeding fics you read over the past week.

“Are there? Oops.” You give him a guilty look. “I didn't know that. I guess we're gonna have to do that all over again.”

Shin snorts. Figures. “I'm gonna need a few minutes,” he says. Then he lies down, pulls you with him. “I wanna hold you first anyway.”

You make a happy noise as you're wrapped up in his arms, his chest pressed against your back as he curls around you. Apparently still committed to your role, you grab your phone as you snuggle up to him and look up post-coital positions for couples trying to get pregnant. Shin watches you type on your screen, idly touching you all the while—his lips kissing your shoulder, his fingers running along the arc of your hip. “Oh, huh, you're right. I'm supposed to lie down and keep my lower body elevated…”

“Elevated?”

“Yeah, people put a pillow underneath their hips sometimes… or sometimes they put their legs up.”

He makes a face as he tries to imagine it. “Sounds uncomfortable. I feel like the pillow thing should be enough… not that I think it's gonna make a difference with how often you like to have sex, anyway.”

You laugh. “Kind of a wonder I'm not pregnant already, huh?” Then you give him a look that's supposed to be shy, but is a touch too playful to be convincing. “But hopefully I will be after this.”

Heat crawls up his neck as he listens to your thoughts. You're not even imagining anything especially filthy—just thinking about what it'll feel like to carry his child. Shin recognises some of your monologuing from a fanfiction you read two days ago, a lot of which is sort of sensual. But it's really the original, non-sexual bits that are doing a lot for him. Stuff like how you'll probably have really bad morning sickness, but you know Shin will be there to rub your back as you throw up. Or how you're worried about whatever weird cravings you’re going to get, but you know Shin will buy whatever snacks you want. Or how uncomfortable you'll be when your stomach gets huge and the baby starts kicking, but I bet Shin will be excited to feel that, though.

There's a long, heavy pause before you think, You're gonna be such a good dad, Shin. Because Shin is a good person, he's good to you and he's good to your body and he's good to everyone at the store. He’s going to be so good to his child, and he’ll be good to their mother, too.

Shin doesn't realise that his fingers are resting on your stomach until he feels you lay your own over his. He closes his eyes and imagines a life there, cradled beneath the hand that he once only used for killing, the laugh of a child carefree and loved, the sound of your voice welcoming him home at the end of the day—every day, for the rest of his life—and obviously it's just a roleplay, it's a roleplay and he's being a moron for thinking in marital hypotheticals, but he says, “I can't wait to start a family with you.”

You stiffen.

Shin blinks. He listens for your thoughts, but there's only a long, crawling silence, and then you bolt upright and say, “Resident Evil.”

His eyes go wide. He sits up, reaches out for you—“H-hey, what's wrong?”—but you're already slipping out of bed.

“Need to pee!” you squawk. “Don't want to get a UTI, y'know?” And then you're gone and the bathroom door is slamming shut.

Your apartment is small, just like most places in Tokyo. The washroom is well within 400 metres of the bed, so Shin can fully hear you crashing out in there. The thoughts are incomprehensible at first—garbled words, high pitched buzz, flashbulb images. Chain link fence. Bloodied knife. Needle in a child’s arm, a string of cranes hanging above their head. Zombies on a screen, Mario and Princess Peach. An older boy with white hair, pinching a crease into flower-patterned paper. Niisan left me they all left me they never wanted me. Nobody ever wanted me, except for Sei-nii but that was only to use me for missions so many missions I lost count. A dark room full of men, their jugulars slashed. Other men, other rooms over the years. There are so many of them, so many men inside my body using my body has Shin ever looked in my head and counted them all?

The sound of chimes in a convenience store. Your favourite place in the world. Then Shin at the stove, in an apron. He's so handsome. Now he's holding a baby, a little boy who looks just like him.

There's someone beside him, and it isn't you.

You turn on the shower, and the rush of water is loud so Shin can't hear the sad little noise you make with your throat, although you can probably hear everything in my head, right? Sorry. Please ignore me. I'll be normal in a minute.

Shin wants nothing other than to kick open the door to help you, but his guilt stops him. His regret at how invasive his powers are, at how he can't shut out your thoughts, so loud and raw, when you most need privacy. It's the least he can do to respect your wishes and leave you alone.

He sits on the bed, listens as the roil of your thoughts become a simmer and then still. The shower turns off. The toilet flushes. I really don't want a UTI. You wash your hands, count to ten, and you come out looking and sounding so calm that if Shin couldn’t read minds, he'd never guess that you just had a mental breakdown in the toilet.

“Hi,” you say neatly as you sit down, and Shin pulls you into a hug so suddenly that you yelp.

“I said to ignore my thoughts!” you whine, squirming in his grip, trying to get away.

Shin actively stops himself from sighing. “I don't need to hear your thoughts to know something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I'm fine! I'm normal. I'm very normal right now.”

He gives you a long, unimpressed stare, but you return it with the look of a prey animal about to bolt, and he realises he has to humour you.

“...alright,” he says, “you're normal. Nothing's wrong.” Shin watches you uncertainly, seeing the tension in your body, hearing the rush of blood in your skull. You're staring at your fingers, remembering how to fold the wings of a paper bird. Trying to focus on the motions and not the person who taught them to you. Trying not to let Shin see all the people you miss and all the things that weren't meant for you.

You find it hard to look at him, so he stares at the wall instead.

“Do you want to be left alone right now?” Shin guesses.

Your voice is very, very small: “...yeah.”

Shin’s brow knots, but he can't hear anything other than a vague emptiness from your heart now, and he shouldn't be listening anyway. Shouldn't exploit the fact that your mind is so defenseless around him.

He's pulling himself away when you say, “Wait.”

You’re visualizing escape routes out of the apartment right now. You'd beat Shin in each one, and you'd be able to disappear from Tokyo long before he could ever catch up to you. But you stay on the bed instead, fidgeting as you stare at your lap, and even though your face is calm, the flood of your thoughts is so scared and sad and hopeful that Shin finds his head and heart aching simultaneously. He wants crush you in his arms and say all the things you want to hear—and then all the things you need to hear, but don't know.

But he stops himself.

“If there are thoughts you want me to ignore,” he says, “then you'll need to say the ones you want me to know out loud.”

You wince. You trust Shin with listening to all your thoughts, but actually voicing them is something you're not very good at yet. Assassins are secretive by nature, and you were raised to be a killer. I’ll throw up if I say this, you think, face miserable.

“You'll throw up if you don't,” Shin points out, feeling your stress response in his brainstem.

You nearly look—and feel—physically pained when you say, “I… I’d like it if you stayed.”

Shin's not sure when his own heart started feeling so heavy, but he's relieved to feel the weight lift. “Okay.”

So Shin settles next to you in bed, and after a moment, you start to relax. The anxious chatter of your mind goes quiet. The old memories stop blinking at you. You try to focus on your boyfriend to further ground yourself. He has a handsome face so it's easy. He goes bright red at the thought, which makes you smile.

Shin cracks a joke, which makes you snort, and after that you crawl pretty eagerly back into his arms. You demand kisses and he happily obliges. Your fingers seek him out and he knows to hold your hand. You rest your head on his chest and you listen to him talk about all the goings-on the store, the upcoming movies he wants to see, the ryokan he's booked for the two of you, and now you're very drowsy.

People's thoughts get slippery and strange when they’re on the verge of sleep. Sometimes it's garbled nonsense, but sometimes it’s their unguarded feelings. Shin hears yours, faint and scared but so very, very tender:

Wasn’t raised for a life like that… Never even thought about it… But if it's Shin…

Shin wants to grab you and make you look at him. If it's Shin, what?! he wants to ask. Suddenly, he’s having insane thoughts about if you’d like to actually live together and when's the right time to get serious and come to think of it, Mr. Sakamoto wasn't much older than him when he got married, right? Maybe he's not crazy for having daydreams where your face is lighting up at a diamond ring that he got you. Not a fool for wanting to come home to you every night. Not losing his mind for thinking that it might be nice to have kids at some point down the line.

Not stupid for maybe sort of really wanting to have them with you.

It did make him feel like he was insane, when he first started having those thoughts. Shin had never contemplated any of that stuff before. He’d grown up in a lab. Drifted through life being rejected for his powers. Shot his own father and watched him die. The only person who looked out for him after that was Mr. Sakamoto, and then he dipped soon afterwards anyway. All this to say, Shin wasn’t exactly raised to expect that he'd someday have a family, either. Never even thought about it, because he was sure he'd never get it.

But even if he’s never expected such a life, Shin can’t help but hope for it when it comes to you.

He would really like to tell you all this, but by the time his own mental crashout is over, you're fully asleep and drooling on his chest. So deep in the REM cycle that when Shin tries to read your mind, he catches you dreaming about kissing him on the Yamanote line, giggling into his mouth as his ears turn red. Typical.

There's a ring on your finger, different from the pretend-play version you left in the washroom. This one’s got a diamond, simple but pretty. It suits you.

Shin commits the design to memory, and he decides to stay up a little bit longer, watching the dream with which you've trusted him.

END

notes: the funniest part of this fic to me is how much build-up was required for shin to try the most standard kinks on tumblr dot com. i am very sorry if you felt misled by the summary/tags, expecting to read something super kinky only to find that this fic was fairly vanilla. i blame shin.

also i know this is not my best writing </3 I actually lowkey wanted to delete it all at the midway point alskdfjsldfkj but we move. please do let me know if you liked it!!!!

[elixrr]

the fall to rock bottom is a long way from here. he sits, contemplating. loving you was hardly a mistake— he loves you, he'll keep loving you, and he'll never regret it. you're the mountain that keeps him from falling back down; you're the steps on a ladder that keep him from tumbling down to the floor.

needless to say, you make him happy.

it was hard for him to realize at first, but when he did, he could never forget. you're a song in his head that he can't get out, but now he doesn't want it to ever stop playing. he stares at your face as you rest in your shared bed. you're beautiful, he thinks. you're in perfect peace. he's in perfect peace, too, all thanks to you. his eyes trail to your lips. it looks like you're smiling. it's subtle—it's quiet, but it's sweet. you're sweet. originally, he would've hated it, but the sugar—your sugar—is far more addicting than he anticipated.

he smiles at your smile. you're still asleep, but you're probably having a nice dream right now. it's early, and he doesn't have a real reason to be awake right now. the only thing keeping him up is how perfect you look with the dim lamp on. actually, even if the lights were off, you'd still be gorgeous.

he looks at the clock. it's 04:27. he looks over at the window, and through the subtly translucent fabric of the curtains, he sees the faint glimmer of the moonlight. he should probably be asleep, but he doesn't really care much about that. he doesn't have anything to do today, and he'd probably wake up thirty minutes after falling asleep, and then he'd do the exact same thing that he's doing right now: admiring you.

he sighs, reaching over to the nightstand and turning the lamp off. the moonlight passes through the curtain and rests on the carpet by the windows. it reflects from the carpet and onto him, illuminating his skin.

you secretly open your eyes. he's beautiful.

he sits and stares at his blanket-covered legs. he glances over at you, not realizing that you're awake. he smiles a little more. the fall to rock bottom is so far now, and he finally accepts the fact that he's never going back down. not alone. not without you reaching out for him.

he glances at you and admits to himself,

“I'm so glad that we're here. together.”

he shifts downwards and rests his head on the pillow, facing you with a yawn. his entire body sinks into comfort, and he gazes back at you. your eyes are finally open wide, and you're smiling really hard at him.

“I know, right? ”

he screams at you, jolting up, and he falls off of the bed.

ps: he makes sure that you're asleep every time he does this now (he stopped doing the monologuing for like a good month afterwards)

[moongreenlight]

Ex Husband!Price who still comes over and shovels your driveway every time it snows. But then you feel bad because he comes into the mud room every fifteen minutes to warm up so when he’s done you insist he stays for a hot meal.

But then he helps clean up. Does the dishes and shoos you away when you tell him he really doesn’t need to do all that.

Even worse if you have kids!! They’re thrilled that dad is around so they beg you to let him stay to watch a movie or play a few rounds of their video game. Of course you say yes. Who are you to take him away from the kids?

But then it’s late and he’s wound up carrying the kids up to their beds and tucking them in because they’d already fallen asleep on the couch. You say your goodbyes and honestly it’s a little bittersweet because it’s been such a surprisingly good evening.

But when he tries to leave the driveway’s already gotten all snowy again and you’d hate to be worrying about him driving home in these conditions so you offer him a spot on the couch swearing it’s only for tonight.

But then you get to talking about schedules and the kids sports they’re signing up to play and he winds up walking you to your room so you can just finish your thought about how the two of you should split the costs for the sports your kids are doing in the spring.

But once you’re in your bedroom you remember that you’ve been meaning to ask him about something on your computer so you leave him with your laptop while you get changed.

But then oh noooo he comes into the closet to ask you for a password and catches you pulling on the top of your pajamas. You’re mortified. He says it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.

Somewhere in between deciding if you’ll drive to or pick up from practice on Thursdays, his hands start to wander. Resting over your sex from over a pair of flannel pajama pants. Usually, you’d tell him off. Monologue about how this isn’t how things work because it complicated things and you both need to set boundaries. But tonight you don’t.

Maybe it’s because you had two heavy-handed pours of your favorite wine with dinner. Maybe it was seeing him with your kids again. Maybe it had just been too long since you’d felt anything other than a cheap bullet vibrator.

So you let him slip his hand down your pants.

But it’s a bit jarring to feel his wedding band still on his finger.

[kooppss]

lost

Jungkook's POV from thirsty.

Sexy Disasters With Feelings series masterlist

warnings: male masturbation. mention of sex and female masturbation. Jungkook is a fuckboy. This is his inner monologue, zero dialog.

word count: 2.1K

Jungkook chose you as his roommate because you're hot. 

He thought that, worst case, you’d fuck, and he’ll have to find a new roommate. Returning to where he was. 

He was sure it would be a treat to have a pretty little thing like you wandering around the apartment. He did ask you some questions about your cleaning habits and shit like that. But frankly, you could live like a raccoon, and he’d still choose you. 

Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. 

You are a treat when you walk around in your pajama shorts or your slutty going out outfits. Not to mention the thin tank tops with no bra. He likes to imagine you put in extra effort for him to enjoy. 

Earlier today, you were a vision—your too-tight, too-short sports set clinging to your body, messy hair stuck to the sweat on your skin. Jungkook hopes he managed to fool you with his cool act when you talked to him. For the life of him, he has no idea what you were talking about. The final straw was the flush on your cheeks—a look he’d imagined on you more times than he’d like to admit.

It’s not his fault. He swears!

What can he do when the walls in your apartment are so thin that he can hear you being fucked in your adjoining room? When he can hear every beautiful sound you make?

He loves how loud you are. 

Sometimes, it was just your beautiful moans and whines.

Sometimes, he could hear choking sounds. He imagined it’s him in there. That you’re choking on his dick. 

Sometimes, he could hear the guy’s name spill from you. He preferred it when you didn’t. It ruined the vibe for him.

He didn’t mind when you moved in and started bringing your hookups to the apartment. Like, free porn, right? Who would complain? 

And he isn’t a hypocrite. He does his fair share of bringing people to the apartment. And you never nudged him about it, unlike his previous roommate.

Was it weird of him to touch himself to the sound of his roommate fucking in the next room?

Maybe. 

It’s not like he could do anything else when all the blood in his body traveled south. 

So why has he stopped enjoying your little shows for him lately? 

Why did he go to the gym when he heard a guy’s voice from your room? 

It’s not like he’s jealous or something stupid like that. No way. 

It was just annoying that they got to have what he couldn’t. 

Why weren’t the two of you fucking to begin with? 

Wasn't it the original plan? 

Do you not find him attractive? 

What do they have that he doesn’t? He can fuck you better. He knows it. 

So Jungkook tried to stop bringing girls when you’re at home. He thought that maybe it’ll make you stop as well. 

He hasn’t stopped fucking around, obviously. No need to be radical. 

But now he has a new problem. He misses hearing you. He wants to hear more of you. He wished you’d make those sounds for him, but until then, he’ll take whatever he could get. 

And fuck. You looked so hot earlier. You’re not making it easy for him. 

You returned from your yoga class, or whatever hot girls' workout you’re doing. With the way you looked; he couldn’t stop thinking this is exactly how he imagined you. Usually, in his head, you’re wearing way fewer clothes and you’re sprawled on his bed. But close enough. 

Shit. You’re driving him insane. 

He’d usually just fuck you out of his system. But you don’t seem to be affected by him like he expects you would. He needs to do something about it. 

So Jungkook finds himself is lying in bed, trying to think what he could do. 

He has been lying for a little while now, hand lazily stroking his length under his boxer. It doesn't seem to be evolving anywhere, but he’s too bothered to just fall asleep like that. A sound from your room snaps him out of his dazing state. It sounded like you dropped something. Maybe it was the water bottle you always take back to your room. 

It doesn't matter; the noise is a reminder that you’re right there, on the other side of the wall. He really wishes he could hear you right now. That’s always helped him get going in no time. 

He wonders, did you also touch yourself when he brought girls home? He wants to think that you did. He always tried to recall if he heard you, but it’s hard to notice when he’s balls-deep into someone else. 

He never heard you when you’re alone. Are you quieter when you masturbate? Do you use your fingers? He bet they’re not enough—not like he could use his fingers on you. Maybe you need battery-powered help? He never heard a buzzing sound. He could help you use it.  

Fuck. 

Jungkook sits up in his bed, pushing his boxer down to free his dick. He spits in his hand and spreads it over his length. The smoother glide of his hand makes him groan.

He wishes it was your hand on him. 

Would you act shy, or would you grab him with confidence? Would you be a good girl for him or a little brat? He’d know how to put you in place. He’ll do it gladly.  

He thinks about all the ways he’d take you. How he’d utilize every surface of this apartment.

A louder moan slips out of him, and he halts for a second. 

Do you hear him right now?

God, he hopes you do. 

The thought pushes him further towards the edge. He increases his pace, thinking about you listening to him in your room. That cute flush of your cheeks spreads as you lie in bed.

And with that image, he comes. 

Fuck. He needs to get a grip. 

Or get you.

__________________________________________

Jungkook had a good day. He slept like a baby last night and hit a new PR at the gym.

He’s just out of the kitchen on his way to his room when you decide to ruin his day.

Seriously, where the fuck do they sell skirts this short?

Because he wants to buy you a hundred more.

You look amazing. You really do. Why do you have to do this to him?

And it’s not even 24 hours since you made him lose his cool over you.

You didn’t see him, and you fully bumped into him. You look all flustered and cute. Blushing and stuttering.

Well, now it’s his time to shine. 

He gives you his best nonchalant grin and teases you until you walk out of the room. He knows the fact that he’s shirtless and a little sweaty works to his advantage. He caught you snicking looks. 

Good. He should do this more. 

He can’t lose.

Later that night, after he showered and made dinner, Jungkook is sprawled on the couch, mindlessly zipping through Netflix.  

Nothing catches his attention; he just chooses something as a background noise while he scrolls on his phone. He goes through stories on Instagram when something is catching his eye.

It's you, in your little teasing outfit from earlier, sitting on a high chair at some bat with a drink in hand. 

You look fucking hot. If he’d meet you there, he’d 100% try his luck with you. 

Stupid random guys have a chance with you, yet he doesn’t get one. 

He clicks on your profile without much of a thought. Scrolling down your photos. He’s stuck on one from your last vacation; you went to a beach house with your friends. You sit on the sand next to the water, a beautiful smile on your face. And you’re wearing one of the smallest bikinis known to mankind. 

He barely processes that his hand is already inside his sweatpants. And if he weren't fully hard by now, the next photo would have done it. You stand with your back to the camera, still in the same location, same deviled-creation bikini, ass cheeks on display, covered with sand. Your ass looks fucking amazing.

Before Jungkook even finishes thinking about all the things he’d do to it, he’s already coming in his hand.

He sighs; you make him act like a teenage boy. Cuming in his hand from a photo of you in a bikini. Fucking embarrassing. 

He reaches for the tissue box on the coffee table and grabs some to clean the mess before cleaning himself better and washing his hands in the bathroom. 

When he returns to the living room, you’re there. He takes his spot on the couch, and before sliding his phone into his pocket, he realizes it’s still open on your Instagram. He knows how it looks. He assumes you can piece together to some degree what has happened here. He expects you to call him out, maybe to lash out. But instead, you look… shy? Could it be? He never pegged you for the shy type.

And you’re blushing now? Oh, Jungkook likes this game.

He looks at you, waiting for you to say something. To make your move. But you fold first. Saying goodbye and turning away.

Jungkook has won this round.

A slow grin spreads across his face as he watches you walk to your room, knowing this won’t be the last time you’ll play.

Hours later, Jungkook is still thinking about what happened. He feels like he should make a move, take advantage of the momentum. He has a proof that he’s had some effect on you; now he just needs to break through your walls. He’ll keep up the teasing, building this tension between you two. He saw an opening, and he should go for it—

Even if it’s just to see you blush more because of him.

__________________________________________

Jungkook pulls the headset down to rest on his neck. They just had a win, and now he’s waiting for Taehyung to come back after taking a piss. He grabs his phone and scrolls through it almost automatically.

Until he sees it.

WTF. 

Holly fucking shit. 

He mumbles into the microphone, “start without me,” and tosses the headphones away. 

He stares at the photo; he can physically feel all the blood in his body traveling directly into his penis. It’s so intense he almost feels lightheaded. 

What the fuck do you think you’re doing? 

So this is it. After days of him teasing you and trying to catch you off guard, you finally played your move. And what a fucking move it is. 

You fucking tease. 

Oh, you think you’re so smart with that. You want him to collapse? To fold down? No problem. You’ll get a front-row seat to him burning in hell. He’ll drag you down with him. 

You little devil.

Jungkook head spins with the image of you; he’s going to come embarrassingly fast. 

Fucking hell, you caused this problem; you should be the one fixing it. 

He can’t figure you out. You act all shy and flustered, and then you pull this? Why the hell did you even take that photo? Did you know you’ll need to torture him?

Jungkook doesn’t know if to bless you or to curse you. He doesn't know if he hates what you do to him or if he can't get enough of you. 

He thought he had the upper hand, that he was about to win. But you’re all-consuming. He thought he was the one hunting you, yet he feels like your prey. It’s so good and so sinful, this little game you play.

He’s a player, and he’s addicted to the game. 

He comes loudly. He doesn’t care if you hear him. You need to know the extent of your effect on him. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?

He leans back in his gaming chair, head tilting back, trying to cool down. 

Even with his mind fucked up, Jungkook knows what it means for him. He’s at the gate. He’s almost at his destination. The game is about to end. And honestly, he doesn’t care who wins or loses at this point—as long as he gets you.

After a few more rounds, they finally call it a night. Jungkook shuts down his computer and sets the headset aside. He pulls off his sweatpants and tosses them into the laundry bin. He’s about to get into bed when he hears noises from outside his room. He glances at his phone—it's already past 2 AM. You should be asleep. He grabs his phone and heads to investigate the source of the noise.

It’s you. You catch him off guard again. He finds you bending down in front of the fridge, reaching for a water bottle from the bottom shelf. You’re wearing nothing but a shirt and simple white cotton underwear. Cute. You look even better in real life. That ass looks better.

You turn around, startled by him.

And even though it’s too dark to see it, he knows it’s there.

He knows you’re blushing.

Yeah.

He lost.

Back to series masterlist

[bobasbn]

𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞

1.6k words | sylusxfem!reader | girl dad Sylus agenda, established relationship, married, and Sylus catches terrible baby fever after babysitting your co-worker's daughter. also posted on ao3: bobasbn

-

To say your husband, Sylus, has been acting a little strange is a huge understatement. He’s been acting completely out of character– you’re suspecting that he’s definitely been possessed.

It began when your co-worker flew by your home and dropped off her baby for you to supervise, and you took on the challenge. You were fond of children, especially ones that were chubby and well-behaved and this particular baby perfectly slotted into that criteria. You could count the rolls on her little arms, her nose was barely a small peak with two holes that were the size of a needle. Her cheeks were so large they sagged downwards, pulling her lips into a permanent pout. You were all over this baby the moment she was set into your arms.

At the moment you were laying on the ground as the baby was waving around her favourite bunny plush toy, gurgling and babbling about as if telling you an elaborate story in her own baby language.

Your ears picked up on the heavy footsteps entering the living room, indicating your husband’s arrival from work. He’s often abiding by his nocturnal schedule and insists that three hours of sleep is more than enough to fuel his energy for the day. Last night he had a mission that caused him to head out of the house in the early hours of the morning and be back by midday.

You immediately get on your feet, locking eyes with Sylus’s imposing crimson gaze.

“Good morning, sweetie,” Sylus drawled, placing his hands firmly on his hips before raising an eyebrow. “Were you making… baby noises?”

You can’t help but find his question, dripping with concern and confusion, to be hilarious. You only shrug your shoulders.

“I get bored at home all alone, you know. My husband just flees from our warm bed in the early morning, leaving his poor wife stranded-”

“Who’s baby is that?”

You’re interrupted from your dramatic monologue when Sylus steps forward and draws attention to the tiny human laying down beside you with a point of his finger. His attention on the baby shatters your whole stunt.

“Oh, this is Riley. My co-worker’s baby, so I’m on babysitting duty today,” you explain.

Sylus’s shoulders tense a bit when you pick Riley up and place her on your lap. He looks a bit uneasy for some reason before he says, “I must warn you that babies aren’t my biggest fans.”

You understand. He’s a large man with probing crimson eyes, which is a scary look. Sylus leaves an intimidating first impression on anyone but you know deep down he’s just soft-centred, like a prickly pear.

Although, Riley is an overly friendly baby. It’s like she senses Sylus’s uneasiness and it draws her attention. She tips herself forward, you catch her with your forearm before she can topple over but she persists with making grabby hands at Sylus.

Sylus quirks an eyebrow at the baby’s enthusiasm. “Is she… beckoning me?”

“This baby likes you,” you point out. Riley babbles and reaches for Sylus, clearly adamant to bring him closer.

Sylus takes a few cautious steps towards you, towards Riley. He kneels down, red eyes softened as the baby’s whole hand encompasses his index finger alone. Riley wasn’t afraid of Sylus’s menacing appearance.

It doesn’t take long before Riley switches from your lap to his. He picks up her bunny plushie that she dropped and gently shakes it to grab her attention, earning a wide smile from the baby who wraps her arms around the toy.

“She does like me,” he says with a child-like excitement laced into his tone.

After that, your husband’s attention was fixed solely on Riley. You couldn’t complain at all because the unexpected pair is beyond adorable.

She looks like a tiny, fragile doll perched on the strong arms that are now constantly carrying her around. He plays with her, feeds her, talks to her. Typically Sylus would be sleeping by the afternoon to upkeep his nocturnal schedule but today he was watching the baby roll around on the carpet.

“Aren’t you having too much fun? Riley’s real parents will be over in ten minutes to pick her up,” you inform him as you sit down on the couch. Sylus, who’s sitting on the floor, leans his head back to rest against your thigh.

“That’s a shame. Riley and I are practically besties,” he says but you can’t help the chortle that escapes your mouth when he uses the word ‘besties’. Aside from that, it’s evident that he genuinely doesn’t want to part ways with this baby who he actually got along with.

Unfortunately for Sylus and Riley, your co-worker came back after a busy day thanking you immensely for taking care of their little princess. You stress that it was absolutely okay, if anything Riley is more than welcome to stay with you and her beloved uncle Sylus any time.

Sylus stands in the distance, frowning as you hand Riley back over to her mother.

From that day, you’ve been continuing as normal. The image of Sylus with a baby was definitely a sight to behold, but you know that it will happen to you two in due time.

Sylus had become possessed. Not with a spirit or even a demon, but a desire that’s forcing him to fixate on the idea of having a child. Holding Riley for a day had unleashed this new aching need in his mind.

He decided to leave some not-so-subtle hints of his wishes.

Instance one, Sylus returned from a trip from the gym with a shopping bag in hand. He pads outside to the backyard where you’re lounging around, his skin shimmering with the sweat accumulated from his workout.

“What’s that?” You ask him, pointing to the bag that he slightly hides behind him.

“Oh, this?” Sylus plays dumb. He hands the bag to you and you’re suspicious. You peer into the bag, finding a pair of shoes resting amongst some tissue paper. The shoes are a caramel-coloured pair which are also the size of your palm.

“Baby shoes…” You say with a fake excited tone, making Sylus laugh.

“They were… on sale. I couldn’t pass up on the chance.”

Bullshit. Sylus doesn’t care for sales, he never did. He’s able to lavish millions at auctions and doesn’t hesitate to buy everything at top dollar just for you. Sylus is generally a good liar until it comes to you.

“Right…”

Instance two, when you came home from work to be met with the sight of your husband lounging on the couch with the smell of food wafting through the air. You stand in front of him with your hands on your hips. You thought he went to work today.

“Welcome home,” he greets you with a smile, sitting up from his spot on the couch.

“Why are you home so early?” You ask as Sylus tugs you down beside him, giving you a kiss on the cheek and he hums thoughtfully.

“I figured I could take the day off to take care of you.”

“Take care of me?” His answer only confused you more.

Sylus isn’t fazed by your confusion though, he only leans his head down on your shoulder. “I have no trouble taking days off. Being the boss means having free rein to take as many days off as I please,” he explains, but you aren’t really sure why.

“I’m aware.”

Sylus continues, “that means we wouldn’t need to stress if we were to expand our family arrangements.”

A beat of silence rings through the room before you let out a sigh. Another tactic performed by your husband to convince you that he wants a baby sooner rather than later. He has always shared the load of cooking dinner and doing chores around the house but now he’s taking whole days off just to prove his competence to become a family man.

“Totally.”

Instance three, he sits upright in bed, blanket draped over his legs as he handles his phone with only one hand. He wasn’t usually the type to be attached to his phone, often only using them to make business calls, contact you and take photos of you. Yet here he was watching something intently on his phone with a small smile on his face.

Curious, you crawl into bed beside him and peer over at his screen.

“What are you watching?” You ask. Sylus wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you right next to him, his hand resting at your hip as he tilts his phone to show you.

“Isn’t this cute, sweetie?” He says, scrolling through a social media app you didn’t know he had and showing you various family-related content.

“You’ve caught baby fever, haven’t you?” You poke fun at Sylus and gently prod his cheek with your finger.

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “Not at all,” he says, avoiding admittance in a sarcastic manner. His act crumbles the moment he looks over at you and sees your judgemental stare. “...The thought of having a child has definitely been occupying my mind more than usual.” He says, tapping his fingers against your body.

“I think we would make exceptional parents.” A glimmer of yearning stirs in his eyes when he nudges his nose against your jawline. Your breath hitches as he slowly inches his nose along your jaw, his lips eventually finding yours to claim. He pours all his love and need into it, his hands becoming more fervent in their exploration of your body.

The force of his actions toppled you back against the mattress. His hands brace themselves on either side of you, boxing you in as you rake your gaze over the way his cheeks flushed with a prominent pink blush when he pulls away.

His breathing is already picking up pace, mirroring his heart rate. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours with a gravelly whisper, “We better start practicing, don’t you think?”

- results out in 9 months part two: here

[makoodles]

I would give anything to know Ghost’s inner monologue during any part of the last fic you posted. Is he purposefully getting into her space at the beginning (because we all know Ghost is too aware of his body and his trauma to accidentally touch anyone, let along have his entire side against them)? When he walks in does he just blue-screen, is that why he doesn’t immediately leave? What is he thinking when he sees our wet cunt still stuffed? When he finds out no one has touched us that way, or made us cum? When we want him to fuck us so badly we beg him to do it raw? Does his heart break a little when he heard us say we thought he left us, while we were so vulnerable and still dirty? Is he also freaking out about the fraternization stuff, or has he decided that we are his in the same way that he is ours, and Price will just have to cover up another damn thing for his team?

yes to all of this

(a little drabble part 2 to this)

Ghost has a little habit, when you're concerned. He's usually hyper-aware of his body and his limbs and where he's touching, what's around and beside and behind him. His skin itches sometimes when he's touched without warning, though he always hides his reactions. But with you... he's not so careful. He lets his legs spread, his arms stretch, lets himself crowd into your space. There's something intoxicating about the way that you let him, the way you never lean away from him. You're just so soft, so warm, always letting him infringe on your space with a sweet little smile as though you're happy to see him. You're one of the rare people who are happy to see him, and it makes something uncomfortably warm wriggle in his belly.

So yeah, he leans into you when he sits next you in the rec room. It's mostly muscle memory, because you've never minded before. But today, you're a little tense. Ghost knows you, knows you well. He can see the way your spine is a little stiff, the way your eyes are a little glassy as you stare off into the distance. You look a little... ruffled. Ghost watches you carefully out of the corner of his eye, probes a little, but backs off when you dance around his question. He's knows boundaries well, and he won't push yours. Even if he thinks it's... strange that you leave so quickly, eyes averted.

Finding your phone wedged into the seat after you left was like an opportunity. Simon Riley has never had much, he's always made do, and yet he's admittedly greedy when it comes to you. He's not often a selfish man - he's never had enough to be selfish about - and yet he's hungry for your time, your smiles, your touch. And you're always so generous with yourself, so he doesn't second-guess his decision to follow you down the hall to your quarters. He's never been there before, and he wants to see your space, hungry for any shred of you he can get.

He should have knocked. It was rude not to. But he's so, so fucking glad he didn't.

He's a little rough when he opens your door, a little too eager to get into the room and see your pretty grateful smile when he gives you your phone back. But when he gets that door open, sees the sight of you on your back among your sheets, legs spread, head back, eyes fluttered closed, his mind goes fucking blank.

He watches you scramble, watches the mortification flash across your face as you attempt to shut your adorable little pink vibrator off as you shut your legs, depriving him of the prettiest view he's ever seen. Ghost is not a man with a weakness for pretty things, but it seems only natural that you're the exception, you and your pretty wet puffy pussy.

He hardly even knows what happens, his fingers and toes numb and his attention narrowed down to you, only you. Before he knows it, he's sitting on your bed, feeling enormous and ungainly next to you as you stare up at him. He reaches out, his big hands scarred and ugly against your pretty skin when he holds your vibrator, his blood buzzing at the thought that this had been inside you mere moments ago.

He never thought he'd be envious of a piece of fucking plastic, but here he is. A big man, a deadly soldier, reduced to a fool at your bedside. And yet, you don't even seem to notice. You're so good, so sweet, parting your legs when he asks you to and letting him look.

He asks you to finish. It's bold, and stupid, and greedy. He wants to see you come - he already knows it'll be the prettiest thing he's ever seen, that it'll be seared in his mind forever. In this moment, he thinks he'd do anything just to watch your eyes roll back, your face go slack, to hear the pretty little noises he knows you'll make.

It escalates faster than he could have imagined. Such a sweet thing, laying back and showing him how you use your vibrator. And he watches eagerly, his breath catching at the realisation that this is how you play with yourself when you're alone. You're clumsy about it, which is absolutely adorable.

But then you make a confession, and Ghost thinks he might be spiralling. You've never been touched, never been fucked, never come. It feels like an outrage. He thinks of how tense you'd been earlier, shifting beside him in your blue jeans, and he just thinks... what the fuck? Prettiest girl he's ever seen, and you don't even know how to touch your own cunt properly? He wants to show you, more than anything he's ever wanted before. Greedy. You make him so greedy.

"Let me try."

He's between your legs before he even knows how he got there, pulling your stupid little vibrator out so he can replace it with his fingers. And if he thought he was greedy, he soon finds that he's well-matched when it comes to you. You're just as eager, just as hungry. Spreading your legs and whimpering, all those sweet, sweet noises that spill out of your mouth, just like he knew they would.

You have the prettiest cunt he's ever seen. Pretty, slick, swollen, just as hungry as the rest of you. He alternates between his fingers and his mouth and your little dildo, a little drunk on your taste and your soft thighs when they squeeze around his head. He kisses you too, because he can't help himself. Greedy.

He's never been a chatty man, but his cock is so hard now and he knows his mouth is running. He can't help himself. Your salty-sweet slick on his tongue has loosened it; he barely even knows what he's saying, or what he's promising, but by god he's going to live up to it.

Then, your lovely sweet voice, all breathless and pitchy, asking “Can I try yours?”

Not only that, you beg. You plead with him to fuck you, to do it raw, as if he was ever going to say no. As if he'd ever be strong enough to say no. He can hardly handle hearing you beg like that; he feels as though he's going to blow before he even gets his cock inside you.

In his wildest dreams, he never imagined you so needy. You writhe, you're soaked, you make the most heart-stopping little noises deep in your throat when he presses inside. You're so hot and wet and tight that it feels as though you're about to squeeze his cock right off, and he tries so hard to feed it to you slow, to give you time to take him. You're so good, taking him even though you struggle a little. He's not a small man, certainly not an easy man to take inside of you for your very first time, but it's a testament to how slick and eager you are that he slides in with minimal effort.

After that, he loses himself. Hardly even knows what's he's doing, working based on pure instinct, filling and fucking you until he's losing his breath. God, you're beautiful, and he clenches his jaw hard to bite back his orgasm - he has to focus on you, only you while the tears are streaming down your pretty face as you gasp and cry for him.

He can see your orgasm creeping up on you before you recognise it yourself. When it hits you, it's a whole body event. Your back arches, legs spasm, stomach trembles, eyes roll back. Your cunt clenches down so fucking tight that it's a little bit painful. Simon doesn't dare blink - he's never going to fucking forget this. Your very first orgasm, and you're experiencing it on the end of his cock.

He loses it a little after that, his thoughts fizzing and slipping from his grasp as he loses his coordination. By the time he comes inside of you, cock throbbing and skin tightening, he's already decided that he's going to have to make you come again. Once isn't enough, not for someone as hungry as him. Or you.

He thinks he might have fucked you stupid. Your eyelids are fluttering and your lips are parted, but you're a little bit dead to the world. It's cute. He feels his pride swell, smug at the thought that he's fucked you so good that he's sent you reeling off into dreamworld.

He leaves, only for a moment, unable to be away from you for too long. He just wants to get a cloth, something to wipe you off with to make you all clean and fresh again. You're already awake when he comes back, though you're still hazy and clumsy and all teary-eyed.

He's happy to wipe you clean, despite your quiet mewling complaints, and then he hauls himself into your bed just so he can curve his big-ass body around your smaller one, relishing your sweet softness. God, he's wanted to hold you like this forever, but he's still a little nervous about hurting you. Killing and maiming and hurting have been the only things he's been really good at his whole life, and he's irrationally fearful of moving wrong and hurting you, even after the sex. Or maybe especially after the sex.

He can see your brow crease, the uncertainty in your eyes. He realises you're probably a little uncertain about where you stand with him, or what this is. That's fair. Simon has never been the most demonstrative man, but he's also been the type to cling on like a tick to the things he values, the things he wants to keep safe. He holds you, checking his strength, proud to be able to keep you safe in his arms.

He's going to make sure that you don't worry about it either. Your hair smells sweet, your skin is so warm, and your ass is so soft where it's pressed against his crotch. He's reaching for you before he can think about it, and his heart pulses hard when you spread your legs for him so easily. God, he's gonna ruin you. Just like he promised.

[slaygentford]

Armand's podcast chiarobscuro on obscure art history is just him speaking in a monotone for 1 hour about 1 page of 1 illuminated manuscript nd it's coincidentally number 1 trending on pods because people use it as a sleep aid. but then sometimes in the middle of it he'll say something incredibly disturbing and a cult (haha.) following starts claiming there are hidden subliminals in it which are allegations Armand never acknowledges and which people on twitter roast but reality shifters on tik tok get increasingly into. Daniels podcast by/line is beat out consistently by pod save America which is totally fine and not contributing to his alcoholism or his divorce or his psychosexual obsession with armand. he won't listen to armands podcast as a point of principle except for when he puts it on to fall asleep and then gets weirdly turned on and then pavlovs himself into arousal every time he hears armands voice. one sided psychological torture. Armand's cult (haha.) following continues to grow until lestat's podcast lestat (self-titled) filed in culture & the arts blows up and usurps him even though its an hour and a half one-man monologue about quite genuinely nothing at all, though worryingly often, his mother. and Louis? well Louis isnt privy to any of this because he has a child to raise and zones out whenever lestat starts talking about renting out a bigger recording studio for his podcast so that he can have guests on and invest in sound equipment FOR CLAUDIAS FUTURE, OF COURSE. her college fund Louis! the dividends will go toward her college fund. ahaha. what is the definition of this: dividends. Louis gets curious and listens to lestats podcast but gets distracted by recommended for you: chiarobscuro, finds it interesting enough that he doesn't fall asleep, and mentions it offhandedly to lestat after telling him lestat (self-titled) is cute. lestat is distracted by the high of being told Louis likes his podcast but wakes up in the middle of the night sitting straight up in bed when he remembers Louis said "chiarobscuro" in passing at precisely 7:46am this morning. lestat who has armand in his phone represented by the 🕴🏼emoji from college (Louis doesnt know he knows him, lestat has never once mentioned him) calls him from the bathroom at 4am and demands he immediately end his podcasting career. armand who of course answered at 4am counters that they meet in a neutral location to discuss terms. at 5am lestat and armand meet at a park. lestat rages, scaring off several sunrise joggers and their dogs. armand allows this to happen in silence and then says look across the pond. at which point lestat does and sees a bedraggled 50 year old white man plodding along with bodega coffee. you needn't worry about your Louis, says armand. I have a different project. I have been implanting subliminal messages in my podcasts in order to lure Molloy into my thrall. lestat, grudgingly impressed, concedes and stops to get coffee for the family before going back home. Louis and claudia are delighted by the impromptu breakfast and lestat is offered a special shower time reward. before disrobing, and working quickly, he hacks Louis' phone (passcode claudia's birthday) and in a fit of true selfless sacrifice deletes not just Louis' subscription to chiarobscuro, but his podcast app as a whole--damning his own podcast to never again be heard by Louis but removing armand permanently from their lives forever. he joins Louis in the shower, stunned by his own genius. perhaps he will have that worm molloy on his show in order to thwart armands plans. lestat 2 armand 0. it's almost enough to ease the burn of armand telling lestat in their audio production class in college that he's too dumb to start a podcast

[jesuistrestriste]

Patrick is 100% the kind of mf to be into period sex… smth about your blood on his cock makes him go borderline animalistic like it’s scary!! We’re scared!!! And horny

you tell him that you’re on your period and he just smirks and starts monologuing about how “a real warrior isn’t afraid to get blood on his sword” and how “orgasms actually help to relieve cramps”. tells you that he wants to take away all of your pain for a bit; he strokes your neck and begs with his eyes. but the more you look into his irises, pools of blue and green and spikes of curious brown, you feel that there’s something more to this proposal. something that he isn’t quite admitting to himself, or you.

he lays you back on the bed and makes sure you’re comfortable, tucking multiple towels underneath your hips and ass to protect the sheets. kisses your chest and then your lower abdomen, massaging it softly as he tugs his boxers down—his heavy cock, already swollen and aching, bobbing out with anticipation. he slides his fingers through your folds and bites his lip when red coats the pads of them. “fuck.” he has this look in his eye like a switch was just flipped in his head.

as soon as he slides himself in, he’s groaning into your neck and starting to hump you like a crazed animal. holding your legs open while he pounds his tip against your special spot, pulling back and sitting upright on his calves to look down. watches the way his length gets coated in your blood from his balls to the inches that are buried deep inside. it becomes really, really hard to ignore the way his limbs begin to lock-up with the building pressure in his gut. like a rubber band being pulled taut—just about ready to snap. “fuck, fff-fuck, so hot,” he moans, pelvis snapping against the backs of your thighs, “feelin’ better? s’feel good for you, baby?”

you moan, coming to the realization that your cramps have, in fact, been somewhat dulled by the arousal bubbling and fizzing throughout your body. your fingers dig into his sides, then slide down his chest and over his happy trail. only a moment more and then they’re rubbing at your twitching clit. your back arches up and you cry out, squeezing around his dick and accidentally pushing more of your metallic fluids out of you. patrick watches your body do it like he’s watching a magic trick—completely enamored. he fucks you harder.

“don’t,” he pushes your hand away as he starts to pick up the speed of his thrusts, your entire body now being bounced with every movement, “lemme help.. i got you, baby.. ‘m almost there, please..”

he replaces your hand with his own and swipes quickly—messily—over your bundle of nerves. the way that you bear down on him in response only makes it harder to stay focused.

then the reality of his desires bursts in his chest.

“i love seeing your blood on my cock..” he groans out suddenly, like he just can’t hold the words in anymore, like it’s an epiphany of sorts; an awakening, “.. it’s gonna make me come.”

and he does. copiously.

slams himself in you balls-deep as soon as he watches you scream out in bliss, your climax giving him just the push he needs to get sent hurtling into his own. he’s left grasping at your hip and moaning your name and letting his load flood your core.

“g-ohh, haah, s’much.. keep comin’ for me, keep comin’, that’s it, oughh, you’re sucking me dry—“

pulls out after a couple of minutes of catching his breath with you and gasps when his oversensitive tip catches on your tightness. jaw slacks when he watches his creamy release spill out of you, mixing with your own juices. his eyes get stuck on the ruby-red color coating and sticking to your skin and his own. pretty, he thinks, so pretty.

he resists the urge to clean you with his tongue.

[ssa-dado]

Annoyingly Yours - SOS

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, angst though it's more like ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: At 33, Aaron Hotchner prides himself on discipline and control... until you become his deskmate. With quirks that seem to clash against his precision, you’re nothing short of maddening. Even your breathing seems to provoke a visceral reaction in him... surely out of frustration, right? Not out of... attraction?! Warnings: None, just wanted to clarify the story is set in 1998, before Hotch became Unit Chief (Gideon and Rossi were charge instead). Word Count: 4.4k Dado's Corner: Based on this ask sent by the loml @c-losur3. Made a few tweaks because I can. And because I’m evil. Enter Aaron “convinces himself he hates you while secretly nursing a big fat crush” Hotchner. A timeless classic. Hope you like it.

masterlist

“People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use.” - Søren Kierkegaard

Written in blue gel ink on a neon pink sticky note, it sat smugly atop the pristine case file Hotch had spent hours perfecting the night before.

No signature, no admission of guilt.

Just a bright, audacious square of defiance left to mock him.

In all his years as a profiler, he’d never encountered a case this easy to solve. Hell, he wished his active investigations were even half as simple as this. Because only after approximately half a second of analysis, the profile of the Unsub was crystal clear:

Female. Early 20s. A twisted sense of humor. A fascination with philosophy, particularly the existential, though occasionally dabbling in absurdism. Works in law enforcement - specifically, the BAU. Only writes in blue ink because she needs her words to stand out as much as her personality does. Likely has a compulsive habit of arriving to work early but never early enough to beat him to the office.

And there she was, the Unsub, strolling through the entrance just as the clock struck 6:01.

“Good morning, Hotch,” you said without even glancing in his direction, as if you somehow sensed his irritation wafting across the bullpen.

You were the Unsub.

His polyglot, sarcastic, sticky-note-vandalizing deskmate.

Case closed.

“Why did you leave me this?” he scoffed as his fingers carefully peeled back the neon pink square from the folder.

The glue resisted just enough to be infuriating, threatening to leave a smear on what he privately considered his masterpiece - a report so cleanly written that it might one day serve as the gold standard for FBI rookies.

And now, his file, had been vandalized.

It bore your mark.

“Educational purposes,” you said airily, as you dropped into your chair facing his own, a complete lack of regard for the disruption you caused just by existing in his vicinity.

He despised it.

That your desk had to face his, ensuring that every time he so much as lifted his gaze, he was met with the perpetual source of his unease, was nothing short of torture.

Why couldn’t you be like his last deskmate? That moron at least had the decency to leave him alone unless absolutely necessary.

The most small talk he’d ever inflicted was the occasional, self-congratulatory monologue about whatever barely-legal college girl he’d managed to con into bed last Friday night with the oh-so-irresistible revelation that he was FBI.

At least after spewing his bullshit, the guy would shut up and return to his self-inflicted misery, no doubt haunted by the limitations of his pitifully small brain.

You, instead, were far too smart - too sharp for your own good, really - but still your humor was as broken as his own. You had the same, if not more, level of drive. And for some inexplicable reason, you shared his obsession with arriving early.

It was maddening.

It was his thing - his small act of rebellion against a world that had always expected more from him than he could give.

His hours of solitude before the office filled with noise, before the madness and the demands of others hijacked his peace. Those few precious hours were his escape, his refuge, where he could think, where he could breathe.

But no, you had to show up too. Every damn morning.

“Educational purposes?” He echoed flatly, regretting, for the hundredth time, that he ever encouraged you to speak before his second cup of coffee.

“Yes, Hotch. I’ve never seen you use a sticky note,” you retorted, as if your reasoning were completely rational and not mildly absurd. “So, naturally, I assumed you didn’t know they existed. Thought I’d be kind of me to introduce you to the concept.”

“You’re hilarious,” he deadpanned, the sarcasm sliding off his tongue with a sharpness that matched the ache now forming at his temples. “I know what sticky notes are. I don’t use them because they’re impractical. They always leave glue residue, it’s annoying.”

Since for some reasons he felt the need to emphasize his point, he held up his sacred notebook - a worn, leather-bound treasure he treated like an extension of himself. “That’s why we have these. To take proper notes. Like agents. Not middle schoolers.”

But you didn’t even flinch.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, the movement slow and casual, yet just enough to make him irrationally nervous that you might tip over. “They don’t leave residue if you close the case fast enough. The glue won’t have time to dry. But I guess if it takes you ages to solve something, that’s not really the sticky note’s fault, is it? Sounds more like a problem with the agent.”

His jaw locked so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack.

The nerve of you.

He hated how his body betrayed him like this, the faintest tingle at the back of his neck, the way his pulse faltered and then stuttered, because his decision to remain silent didn’t let his voice do the stammering instead.

Oh, he wanted to argue.

Desperately.

To lay out an irrefutable case demonstrating, that the fault lay not in the man who would undoubtedly climb the FBI ranks faster than anyone dared imagine but in the cheap adhesive some factory somewhere had slapped onto your stupid pack of hot pink sticky notes.

And all he wanted, absurdly, was to prove you wrong.

Not just wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

But instead of offering a retort worthy of his reputation, he exhaled sharply, forcing his jaw to unclench.

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours, narrowing into the kind of look that could silence seasoned agents, suspects, and even Gideon when necessary.

Yet somehow, it had no discernible effect on the 21-year-old profiler sitting across from him - the one who’d been in the BAU for barely three weeks and already seemed impervious to his most withering glares.

As if in response to his futile attempt at dominance, your smirk widened, as though you could hear the unspoken debate raging in his head. Worse, it looked like you were enjoying the fact that you’d managed to rattle him.

And God help him, he felt rattled.

“How many of those sticky notes do you have?” he finally asked.

Your response was almost immediate.

“As many as you need,” you said as you pulled open your top-right drawer – the drawer that had come to symbolize everything he couldn’t categorize about you.

It housed your so-called “essentials”: pencils, a collection of elastic bands you had an infuriating habit of launching at him when the mood struck, and the same six markers in various states of decay - probably relics from your high school days. There was a stapler in there too - one he had to admit, with no small amount of shame, he borrowed from time to time.

But then there were the other items. The ones his categorically organized brain couldn’t quite justify sharing space with stationary essentials.

A box of tea - the kind of black tea with a scent so strong it practically sucker-punched him from across the desk every time you brewed it, chocolate bars that mysteriously appeared and vanished like contraband…

…and, as it turned out, the dreaded sticky notes.

They were hidden beneath the tea box, of course - because why not force him to think about the assault on his nostrils that would begin precisely three hours and twenty-seven minutes from now?

You lifted the box, revealing the fluorescent pink squares of doom, a shade so bright it only made the pain going on in his head since the first moment you opened your mouth today even worse.

“I only have hot pink, though,” you announced, holding the sticky notes up.

“…And?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Am I not allowed to use hot pink? Do you have a problem with that?”

“On the contrary,” you said, your lips curling into that infuriating smirk again. “I’m impressed. I thought you’d whine about a color demasculating your sacred reports.”

He felt his pulse thrum in his ears at that.

He almost - almost - wanted to tell you that you were looking at a man currently wearing pink socks under his neatly pressed slacks. A pair that had, unfortunately, turned pink during his first solo attempt at laundry in college and had somehow managed to stay in his rotation all these years, as a reminder that even the best could make mistakes.

But he didn’t.

Not because he was embarrassed - he wasn’t - but because he knew you’d twist it into something else entirely, another jab, another laugh at his expense.

And the last thing he needed right now was more of this.

Whatever this was.

Instead, he picked up the hot pink sticky notes, tapping them against his palm. “I’ll take them, we’ll see if it’s really the agent’s fault."

By mid-morning, to his reluctant surprise, the sticky notes had become one of his favorite tools - not just for their undeniable practicality but because they gave him the perfect weapon to deliver a dose of your own medicine.

And you deserved it. Absolutely, unequivocally deserved it.

After all, it wasn’t him launching elastic bands at his deskmate with sniper-like precision at ungodly hours, the faint thwack cutting through the quiet bullpen as the band landed squarely in his lap, while he was clearly trying to work. This, from the same person who’d managed to fail their firearm certification twice

It wasn’t him leaning subtly - though not subtly enough - to sneak a peek at his case files because your own workload wasn’t challenging enough to hold your attention. Still too new to the team, you’d only been sent into the field once, a prisoner of the bullpen and endless paperwork. Yet, despite the monotony, you remained undeterred, tirelessly determined to prove your worth at every possible turn.

And it certainly wasn’t him disrupting the flow of the day by asking if his coffee needed refilling when he was clearly already immersed in work, only to return moments later with an extra steaming cup - and a piece of chocolate from that drawer - placing it without a word on his desk like it wasn’t an unnecessary intrusion. Because you were just kind like that.

It wasn’t him rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, the fabric bunching unevenly around his elbows - a motion so predictable it had practically become your tell when you were wrestling with a puzzle more stubborn than the agent that solving it.

Nor was it how your forearms inevitably transformed into impressionist paintings of smudged blue ink, the accidental artwork often bleeding onto the cuffs of your shirt, leaving the unfortunate soul seated across from you utterly derailed from whatever he’d been about to jot down, unable to look away.

It wasn’t him who dressed like that.

Had a brain like that.

A voice like that.

A face like that.

No.

It wasn’t him. It was you. And that was the problem.

Because for all his irritation, for all his carefully constructed disdain, he couldn’t stop noticing. Couldn't stop looking. Couldn't stop… what exactly?

…Right.

Couldn’t stop scribbling down his meticulously crafted revenge, which he would plant squarely on your desk the moment you wandered off to refill your coffee.

“We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid.” – Benjamin Franklin

Thought you might enjoy something to ponder while you’re busy ignoring the typo you made on page 7, line 15 of your report.– A.H.

He placed the sticky note precisely in the center of your desk, ensuring it was impossible to miss. Satisfied, he returned to his seat, feigning an air of indifference as he watched you from the corner of his eye.

It didn’t take long.

He didn’t look up when you arrived, but he heard it - the subtle shift in your breathing, the gasp as your eyes widened. The pages of your report rustled as you flipped through them, and the sharp exhale that followed told him you’d found it.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Never had a sound been so soothing to his ears.

And yet - he should have known better.

He barely had time to blink before the loud thud of your hand slamming onto his desk jolted him upright. He looked up to find you standing over him, your eyes gleaming with a smugness so infuriating it made him want to wipe it off your face.

His gaze darted down to the sticky note you’d slapped in front of him, and -

Oh.

Hotch stared at it. Then stared some more.

There, in all its crude glory, was what could only be described as a "creative interpretation" of a very specific part of the male anatomy, staring back at him from the bright pink square.

“The proportions are all wrong.” He deadpanned.

And then you, with all your infuriating composure, leaned on his desk.

Close. Too close.

"Oh, I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner," you said, raising a brow. "If you want it anatomically correct, maybe next time you should hand me a reference photo."

His brain short-circuited.

For a horrifying moment, he couldn’t think of a single word, but only at the implication of what you said… you couldn’t mean that… right?!

“Not yours!” you blurted out, your hands flailing in a frantic attempt to erase the moment. “I didn’t mean- I wasn’t asking for- I just-”

"And I certainly wouldn’t-" he cut in, his own voice breaking due to the sudden clumsiness of his own tongue.

But the damage was done.

Your cheeks turned the same vivid shade as the neon pink sticky note still plastered defiantly on his desk. He felt his own face burning, and the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, like his own body was actively rebelling against him.

Both of you were way too stunned to say anything that wouldn’t somehow make it worse.

Hotch’s mind raced for a way to defuse the situation, but every possible response felt like it would either escalate the embarrassment or reveal… something he wasn’t ready to confront.

And then, mercifully - or perhaps not - your survival instincts kicked in.

“I’ll just… uh… get more coffee,” you muttered, backing away from his desk like it might physically combust if you stayed a moment longer. You turned on your heel, clearly aiming to escape the bullpen as fast as humanly possible. “Do you want some?”

He blinked, thrown off by the question. “Yes, thanks. Black,” he replied automatically, his voice still a little stiff.

As soon as you were out of sight, he allowed himself to crumble. His left hand dragged across his face, fingers pressing against his temples as if they could massage the ridiculousness of it all out of his brain.

Stupid. The whole thing was so stupid.

A slip of the tongue, a misstep, blown completely out of proportion.

And yet, here he was, sitting at his desk, undone by a pink sticky note and a fleeting moment of awkwardness.

With a low, frustrated groan, he let his hand drop, hitting his forehead against the heel of his palm in a futile attempt to snap himself out of it.

Focus. He needed to focus.

He stared down at the open case file in front of him, its neatly typed words mocking him with their clarity.

He knew they were legible - he’d written them himself.

But right now, the letters blurred into meaningless smudges on the page, overridden by a far more vivid image - your face.

Flushed. Wide-eyed. Flustered.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

Just a joke, he reminded himself. Just a stupid, ill-timed joke.

And yet his chest still felt tight, his pulse erratic, like he’d run up the stairs two steps at a time.

His gaze flicked to the sticky note still sitting on the edge of his desk, as bright and offensive as the moment it had first been slapped down in front of him. Without thinking, he grabbed it, crumpling it in his fist.

There. Problem solved. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

He could move on.

But then his hand stilled, his grip loosening as he stared at the crumpled ball of paper.

His pulse still raced, his mind still spiraled, and all because of… this.

A rational man would throw it away. Rip it into pieces, toss it into the trash, and let it become a fleeting, forgotten memory.

He should throw it away. He would throw it away. Any second now.

But his hand didn’t move.

Instead, and against every shred of common sense he prided himself on, Hotch smoothed the crumpled edges as best he could and opened his desk drawer, tucking it far into the back, behind a few other things he pretended not to care about but couldn’t quite get rid of.

Hidden away, out of sight.

Safe.

From what? From you? From himself? He didn’t have the answer, and he didn’t dare linger on the questions.

Instead, he closed the drawer with more force than necessary, ignoring the faint tremor in his hand - but even as he turned his attention to the files in front of him, the pink still lingered in his periphery, an afterimage burned into his mind.

Of your flustered face.

Adorable.

So adorable that, over time, that sticky note became far from the only item inhabiting that drawer.

Aaron Hotchner - the very man who had once scoffed at your so-called “miscellaneous essentials” drawer - now secretly had one of his own.

A collection of odd, seemingly random things: items you had given him, thrown at him in moments of boredom, or those ridiculous little tokens you’d started exchanging lately that blurred the line between teasing and genuine thoughtfulness.

Because that’s what deskmates did, right?

They shared. They joked. They exchanged these odd little tokens of camaraderie that somehow made the job less crushing.

Except this felt like something more.

Maybe you were more than deskmates. Maybe even… friends?

And he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Gideon, had been starting to observe the two of you like he was profiling a particularly complex unsub, his sharp, knowing glances making Hotch feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Then there was Rossi, who took an almost perverse delight in making his observations less subtle. "Synergy," he'd say with a pointed smirk, the kind that made Hotch’s jaw tighten. "It’s a rare thing, you know, finding compatibility like this. Magic, really."

They saw something. Something neither of you was ready to admit.

And ominously - no, deliberately - they decided to exploit it.

Because that’s what bosses did.

The BAU was chronically understaffed, perpetually fighting against the outdated perception that profiling was glorified guesswork. The pay wasn’t anything to write home about, either. Most cases were worked from behind desks, saving the budget for the bigger field assignments.

But what the BAU lacked in glamour, it tried to make up for in partnerships - teams so seamlessly synchronized they became the backbone of the unit.

Apparently, you and Hotch had become one of those teams.

What had started as two distinct desks - two well-defined territories with clear boundaries - had slowly morphed into one chaotic shared space.

A 5’x5’ no-man’s-land where it was impossible to tell where your workspace ended, and his began.

Like now.

The oversized map of your current case sprawled across the desk, forcing you both into closer proximity than either of you would normally allow.

You were perched on his side of the desk, tracing potential paths and patterns, completely absorbed in piecing together the unsub’s geographical profile.

He told himself he was focused. Jotting down victim locations. Marking points on the map with  little red magnets.

Totally immersed in the task at hand.

Except he wasn’t.

Because the occasional brush of your arm against his felt electrifying in a way it had no right to be.

Because your voice, low and steady as you murmured your observations, felt less like background noise and more like the only sound in the room.

And yet, this closeness, this seamless partnership, felt natural.

Effortless.

Distracting as hell.

So distracting that by the time he placed the last magnet, he realized he’d miscounted. One victim left, and no magnet to place them.

“Hotch,” you said softly, your eyes scanning the map, “It looks like we might’ve missed a pin for Daniel Hardman.”

How diplomatic of you.

How unnecessarily kind, considering it was entirely his fault.

He’d miscounted the magnets - a mistake caused by a momentary lapse in focus when, mid-count, you casually asked him if he wanted to go watch the first Star Wars prequel with you next year.

It wasn’t just the advance planning that sent his mind reeling - though the thought of you penciling him into your future like that was disarming enough - it was the fact that you remembered he liked Star Wars.

A detail you had no business remembering, and yet, somehow, you did.

“Yes, sorry. There are more in my drawer,” he said, standing quickly to fetch them himself. But before he could stop you, you were already at the drawer, pulling it open.

“It’s the second one-” The words barely left his mouth before he heard the gasp.

“…from the top,” he finished weakly, already knowing what you’d seen.

There they were. Your tokens. In his drawer. Staring right at you.

The gun casing from the bullet you’d proudly handed him after finally earning your firearm certification on your third attempt. You’d declared, almost giddy, that you’d never be a burden to him again, and maybe it was his lessons, you’d added shyly, that had helped you finally overcome it. He wasn’t sure what had struck him more: the pride in your voice or the fact that you’d thought of him at all.

A framed solo photograph of the two of you from that year’s Thanksgiving spent stuck in the bullpen, drowning in case files while Rossi and Gideon insisted on a makeshift dinner with takeout. You hadn’t hesitated for a second, throwing an arm around him for the picture and leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. For you, maybe it had been. For him, it had been anything but.

Every single elastic band you’d launched at him -143, though he’d never admit to counting.

A single stray hair tie - the one you’d used to tie his hair into a ridiculous fountain one day when his fringe had gotten so long it kept falling into his face. He’d left it like that the rest of the day, silently cursing himself for how much he didn’t hate it.

An unopened pack of hot pink sticky notes, the only color he now allowed himself to buy, though he’d never admit why.

And, of course, every sticky note you’d ever left him, arranged in chronological order - except for one.

The “caricature,” the crude drawing that had started his ridiculous collection. That particular sticky note hadn’t stayed long in the drawer. Somehow, it had made its way home with him, “inexplicably” framed and placed on his bedside table.

It now sat next to his alarm clock, the two most irritating objects in his life.

Both constant reminders of things he couldn’t seem to escape - one for its relentless insistence on dragging him out of bed every morning, and the other for how it made him feel every time he looked at it.

And now here you were, looking up from the drawer, eyes wide. “Hotch…”

He tensed, his pulse quickening with each step you took toward him… what were you doing?

Without a word, you opened your drawer—the infamous "essentials" drawer he thought he knew like the back of his hand.

Except this time, its contents had changed.

Because right on top, perched like a cherished keepsake, was a photo he hadn’t known existed.

Another one from that Thanksgiving night.

The one photo taken moments later, when you’d decided, in your infinite ability to wreak havoc, to joke about “capturing a moment” and had wrapped your arms around his head, holding him still as you planted a kiss on his cheek.

His expression in the photo was pure indignation, eyebrows furrowed in protest - though it also captured the deep rouge spreading across his cheeks.

“This one is my favorite,” you said, laughing as you held it up for him to see. “You’re so red in it, it’s hilarious.”

He stared at the photo, feeling the telltale warmth creeping up his neck, threatening to betray him all over again. His ears burned as he managed to mutter, “Never been kissed by a woman before.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long.

You blinked, your laughter abruptly halting as your mouth fell open in shock. “Wait, seriously? Are you-?”

He sighed, cutting you off before your pity or disbelief could spiral out of control. “I was joking,” he said, voice flat and utterly deadpan. “I’ve been kissed by women. Multiple.”

You burst into laughter again, this time doubling over. “Oh my God! Why did you say it like that? Multiple! Hotch,” you said, gasping for air between giggles, “you’re killing me.”

“No,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to the map in front of him. “You’re killing me.”

You didn’t hear him, thank God - or if you did, you gave no sign. He wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

A moment later, you were back at his side of the desk, the missing red magnet in your hand. You held it out to him, your smile still warm, still lingering. “For the record,” you said, your voice softer now, “I think it’s kind of sweet. That you framed it, I mean.”

His hand hesitated as he reached for the magnet, his fingers hovering just over yours. Something so simple suddenly felt unbearably complicated.

Delicate.

He couldn’t seem to figure out how to take the magnet without brushing against your skin - not that he didn’t want to.

He just wasn’t sure if he should.

“It’s a good photo,” he said at last, his voice quieter than usual, his eyes flickering up to meet yours briefly before darting back to the map.

Safe. Neutral.

But you didn’t retreat.

If anything, your smile only grew.

“Yes,” you said, voice just as quiet. “It is.”

---

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[cvntroach5000]

The Lads helping black reader maintain her curls

fem!reader, no use of y/n. zayne and rafayel refer to reader as "wife" (actual marital status irrelevant; in their heart you are always wife). caleb calls reader "buttercup" instead of the p-word

content warning: slight yandere vibes from sylus, the usual yandere vibes from caleb.

Xavier 💫

He wants to help, he really does

But it's so relaxing and you smell so good, he keeps dozing off

When he's focused, he actually does a pretty good job, but it takes forever for him to be done

Impatiently waits for your hair to dry, cause you can't lie down and cuddle with him when waiting for the products to absorb

Excitedly helps tie the bow of your bonnet when it's done and you can come to bed with him

If you wash your hair at his apartment, he revels in the lingering smell of you in his home

You're literally downstairs and he's curled up in his bed, sniffing your shampoo like "I miss her"

He can surprisingly do better braids than curls, cause he just focuses more on separating the strands and weaving them correctly, so he's too locked in to actually relax and fall asleep

Immediately tries to throw down if anyone tries to touch your hair or makes the slightest weird comment about your appearance

That shit makes him so incredibly mad, he could kill

Usually settles for at least a broken bone

Zayne ❄️

His steady surgeon hands are built for fine work like this

Enjoys this process a lot cause he gets to do something, but it's a relaxing activity

It took some practice for him to learn how to shape the curls properly, but he's gotten the hang of it at this point

Because of Caleb having helped with your hair since you were kids, Zayne is very keen on doing well, cause as your future husband, he can't afford to be anything less than perfect at this

That'd be embarrassing for him and unfair to you

Can do very good braids as well, just the right amount of tight without being too painful

Has basically developed a reflex where as soon as someone tries to reach for your hair, he'll grab their hand

"Please, refrain from touching my wife so casually."

He sounds calm but his eyes are so murderous, it sends people scurrying off before he can get angry enough to give them frostbite

Any time someone makes a weird comment about your appearance, this man unpacks a monologue about how beneficial high concentration of melanin is

Poor Zayne thinks people are just uneducated, but unfortunately a lot of the time they're also massive assholes

Rafayel 🪸

This is actually so exciting for him

There's moisture involved, he's practically sculpting your curls, it's art, you're beautiful, everything is wet. This is the life

You basically can't do your own hair anymore, cause this man insists on doing it for you

He's very talented at it, your scalp feels like heaven, and your curls are shiny and bouncy

Some woman at an event dinner tried touching your hair without permission, but Rafayel roughly grabbed her wrist before she could manage

"Do you also touch the artworks at exhibitions? Keep your hands off my wife."

He's kinda obsessed with your bonnets

He loves getting you ones with marine-themed patterns on it

And if you have one with a ribbon, he likes to elaborately tie it for you

You keep telling him he doesn't need to make the bow so intricate, since you're just going to relax, sleep and take it off in the morning, but he insists he likes giving you a cute little decoration

"You look like an adorable jellyfish~"

He can help you do braids as well, but actually prefers the curls and is better at doing them cause wet

Happy to pay for a salon too, if you want to get your hair done

One time a guy asked you "Where are you from?" in a really weird tone, so Rafayel replied "The ocean" and punched the guy in the stomach

Then he grabbed your hand and walked away, cause fuck that guy

Sylus 🥀

Ultimate provider of hair care products

He won't settle for any less than the best for his beloved

Learned how to help do your hair after he saw you painstaikingly maintaining your curls with pruney fingers

It took some effort but he has high standards, and wouldn't let himself not do justice to your beautiful hair

Gives you a massage when applying moisturising products into your hair

Hums a melody while he does so too

It's super relaxing, you can practically fall asleep when he does it

He's not usually one for delicate work—detailed, yes, but not delicate and soft—but for you, learning this skillset isn't an issue

Mentally clutching his heart every time he sees you wearing a bonnet because you're just so cute

If you even look at a picture of braids, he's already looking into salons and pulling out his card—If you wanna get braids done, say less

Anyone who tries to touch your hair is as good as dead

Weird remarks about your appearance? Worse off than dead

This man runs a criminal empire, what's another corpse to the pile

If there's anyone he must kill, it's those who would disrespect his beloved

Caleb 🍎

This guy knows more about your hair texture than you do, honestly

When you were kids, Josephine's idea of a solution was to straighten your hair with an iron and after he saw how your hair looked straightened he was like "Yeah, no way in fuck that's healthy" and got really into hair care

Never allowed granny near your head again, absolutely not

Has learned how to do a bunch of different braid styles to perfection, you don't even need to go to a salon

He hates to think of other people touching your hair, even if they're professionals literally just doing their job

The amount of bonnets you have cause this guy just keeps buying you more

Different colors, different patterns, with and without ribbon

He just really likes seeing you in different bonnets it's like an adorable little fashion show

Also you're wearing something he gave you, that you use regularly, meaning you'll think of him more and he loves that

He once broke a guy's arm after the dude touched your hair without permission

You had to gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss your way out of the situation so Caleb wouldn't get arrested but you managed

Now that he's Colonel he can do it without making you worry he'll be arrested

Honestly anyone who's ever been weird about your hair and appearance since Caleb became Colonel has gone missing so

"Don't worry about it, buttercup. They're just worthless trash that had to be taken out~"