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em1i2a3 · 2 days ago

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Kiss It Off Me

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

Summary: You return from a mission only to find Sentry waiting to take care of you for the night.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and a little bit of angst, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of injuries, It was a very rough mission, and you’re in pain.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Sensual Touching, Fingering, Body Worship, Praising, Cockwarming, Use of ‘good girl’, Dirty Talk

Author's Note: Just a little blurb fic with Sentry, such a fun little write up. Also happy release day for Thunderbolts (digital edition lol). So fun to be able to watch the movie again at home! Anyways. Hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count: 7,799

The mission was technically a success, but success didn’t mean painless. Your shoulder screamed with every slight movement, a deep, blooming ache from where you’d landed hard on the edge of the stairwell after dodging gunfire. A shallow cut traced the curve of your hip–one you’d stitched yourself on the quinjet mid-air with trembling hands and a jaw clenched too tightly to scream. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t straight. But it was closed at least.

Your ribs bore the memory of a body slam you hadn’t seen coming–an armored guard catching you just as you’d turned to run. The impact with the concrete wall had left you gasping and disoriented, your side lit with white-hot pain that still hadn’t ebbed. You could feel the bruises setting in, blooming like dark flowers beneath your skin.

It wasn’t the worst pain you had ever felt–far from it–but it was the kind that crept in slowly. The kind that sank its teeth into you and settled in your bones, making every step feel heavier, and your chest tighten slightly. The pain didn’t scream, rather it whispered, and buzzed beneath your skin.

The elevator shuddered slightly as it climbed, and you let your weight sag against the cool metal wall, eyes half-lidded, jaw clenched through the buzz of pain still working its way under your skin. The mission was over. The job was done. But your body hadn’t caught up to that yet–it was still moving like you were bracing for another hit.

The doors slid open with a soft ding, and the warm, familiar chaos of the compound’s upper floor greeted you like a wave: the scent of reheated takeout, gear hitting the floor, the quiet murmur of overlapping voices.

The team was home.

Bucky sat sideways on one of the leather chairs, unlacing his boots with one hand and nursing a bottle of water with the other. Ava stood at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, sorting through a bag of confiscated tech with a half-eaten protein bar clenched in her teeth, and Yelena was peering into the fridge, handing more leftovers to Alexei, mumbling something to him in Russian

Walker glanced up from where he was sprawled on the couch and gave a low huff of air when he saw you.

”Jesus, what happened to you?” You shot him a look as you stepped stiffly out of the elevator, trying not to wince at the weight on your hip.

“Tried kissing a concrete wall. Didn’t go well.”

“Did you at least take out the guy who threw you into it?” Bucky asked without looking up.

“Twice,” You muttered, “Knocked him out with my elbow…Then a few minutes later he got back up so I needed to resort to a pipe.” That got a small grunt of approval. Ava raised a brow.

”You okay though?” You shrugged with one arm–the one that didn’t feel like it had been dislocated and snapped back into place all in one movement.

”I’m as good as I can be. I did stitch myself up on the Quinjet though.” You replied, lifting your gear up and pushing your waistband down slightly to show the gnarly gash off to your peers, hearing the sharp intake of breaths, the cringing that came with them picturing you stitching yourself up on your own.

“At least it’s straight,” Yelena commented, eyes narrowing slightly as she examined the already bruising wound you had exposed. You huffed out a weak laugh.

”Yeah, that’s all that matters, I guess.” You shot back.

“Should eat something,” Bucky chimed in, tossing his boots aside. “You kind of look like you’re on the brink of passing out.”

You let out a long, low exhale, scrubbing a hand over your face. “Yeah, I will. I just…Need a shower first. I feel all sticky and dirty.”

“You are sticky and dirty,” Yelena called out, tossing a crumpled napkin at you, hoping it would hit you, but it just fell helplessly to the floor.

“Guess we’ll save something for you.” Walker said, with a sigh.

”How thoughtful,” You shot back dryly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth as you turned and shuffled toward the hallway. You made your way to your room slowly, your footsteps echoing a little too loud on the polished floor, the pain in your ribs flaring every time you twisted. Your hand grazed the wall once to regain your balance, but you finally made it to your room.

You stepped in slowly, and closed the door behind you with a low click, hearing it echo off the walls as you let your body sag, breathing in deeply through your nose. Warm amber and soft spice met you like an embrace, subtle but unmistakable, it was the smell of your favourite candle. A moment of panic struck you for a second, thinking that you left it burning before going on your mission, and quickly you turned around–and there he was.

Sentry stood near your dresser, broad shoulders relaxed, golden light flickering in his glowing eyes. He was wearing a pair of navy sweatpants and a black t-shirt, holding the candle in question delicately in one hand, the flame dancing to life the moment his gaze locked on the wick. The matchbox sat untouched nearby. He never needed it.

The room felt warmer just from his presence.

And somehow…Softer.

The bath faucet was still running. You could hear it from the ensuite–a steady stream, purposeful and calm. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus clung to the steam curling faintly through the open door.

And on the small table by your bed–your favorite.

A toasted steak sandwich, still hot, wrapped in parchment from that little corner deli you swore by. Perfectly crisped. Melted cheese escaping from the edge. Just by seeing it your stomach growled, and it ignited a hunger in you that almost tore apart your insides. You practically had to tear your eyes away from the sandwich to look at him.

”Sen?” Your voice cracked softly, the weight of the day pressing down on every syllable, “What’re you doing?” He turned fully toward you, the candle flickering gently in his hand. The glow kissed the edge of his light brown hair, danced across the line of his jaw, and softened his usually sharp features. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips–that smile, the one that always felt like sunrise after the longest night.

”I haven’t done this for you in a bit,” He replied, voice low and tender, “I thought you deserved a little night of appreciation.” His words hit somewhere between your chest and throat, soft and heavy and sweet. Your heart stuttered–pressing against your ribs, a slight pain echoing through your torso.

“You don’t have to do that,” You said, shaking your head gently, as if that would somehow protect you from the way his kindness always hit so deeply. Sentry set the candle down on the dresser with care, then stepped toward you, the floor creaking beneath his weight. You didn’t move, you felt frozen into place beneath his gaze. Your back met the door with a quiet thud as he came to stand before you, towering, warm, steady. The glow from the candle behind him haloed the edge of his frame, golden light caught in the angles of his collarbone, the curl of his fingers as he reached for you.

His hand lifted–so gently–and cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over the faint grime still lingering on your skin from the mission. His fingers curled behind your ear, anchoring you in something that wasn’t pain, or duty, or exhaustion.

Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips. It was gentle, chaste in a way, but impossibly full. You leaned into it, your body sighing into the contact, your hands finding the hem of his soft t-shirt, rubbing the stitching gently. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I didn’t do all this because I had to,” He whispered, barely louder than the sound of the bath running behind him, “You know that.” You nodded faintly, your eyes slipping closed as you pressed a second kiss to the corner of his mouth, just over the edge of that quiet smile.

“I already know you apprec–” But before you could finish, his finger lifted to your lips, silencing you with the lightest touch. His expression was so soft it was almost like he was going to fall asleep.

”Just enjoy the gesture,” He murmured, “Please, my love.” Your fingers curled slightly against his abdomen. The fabric was warm from his skin, soft from wear. You let your hand linger there, the pads of your fingers gently kneading into the muscle beneath his shirt like you just needed somewhere to rest your touch.

“…Okay,” You murmured against his chest. Then again, quieter–closer to a sigh. “Okay.” He smiled and placed a kiss on your forehead–a soft, lingering press.

“Let me turn off the faucet before the tub overflows,” he said gently, brushing his thumb one last time along your cheek before stepping away.

You watched him go, your eyes trailing across the solid line of his back and the way his shirt clung to him. You could still hear the water running–low and steady–until it stopped with a soft twist of the handle. Silence settled in again. Not heavy. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that made your chest finally begin to loosen.

When he returned, the golden glow of the candle behind you cast soft shadows across his face.

“Sit down,” He said, voice soft but sure. “You eat and I’ll get you out of those boots and pants.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Wow, forward.” He gave you a small smirk.

”You always think I’m up to something.” He commented. You huffed a breath through your nose–too tired to laugh fully–and shuffled toward your bed, keeping your eyes on him. He followed at a short distance, not hovering, but close enough to feel kept. You picked up the sandwich slowly, still warm in your hands. The paper crinkled softly as you peeled it open, and the smell hit you like a gut-punch.

It was heavenly. The scent of caramelized onions, the sweet juice from the steak, the barbecue sauce that was just lightly brushed along the meat, all of it mixed together made your mouth water. You sat at the very edge of the bed, careful not to get the duvet dirty, and took a bite.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

A soft, indecent moan escaped your throat.

“Jesus,” You breathed, your voice hoarse and low, “That’s fantastic.”

Sentry laughed under his breath as he lowered to his knees in front of you. “I knew you’d love it.” You hummed around another bite, your body slumping slightly as the warmth and savour taste cut through your hunger and fatigue like sunlight through fog.

“Do you want a bite?” You asked through a full mouth, glancing down at him. He shook his head immediately.

”It’s all yours. Just keep eating.”

And you did.

As you chewed slowly, savoring it, you watched him unlace your first boot with methodical precision. His big hands moved gently–deftly–as if even your shoes deserved careful handling. He didn’t rush. He didn’t pull. He undid. Piece by piece.

Your boot came off with a soft tug, and he set it aside before moving to the next.

Seeing Sentry like this–kneeling between your legs, golden and gentle and steady–was a sight that stole the air from your lungs in a different kind of way. Not the way a body slam or a broken rib did. No. This was the kind of breathlessness that came from being known.

A god among men, down on the floor in front of you, untangling your laces like it was a ritual. Like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he’d do it a thousand more if it meant you never had to lift a finger after nights like this. His fingers worked with such careful rhythm, even after the second boot slipped free. He didn’t immediately stand–just kept his hands at your shins, thumbs tracing slow, grounding circles over your pants like he was still anchoring you. Like you might drift away if he let go too soon.

“Feel a little better?” He asked, looking up at you with those ever-glowing eyes. So much strength behind them. So much kindness.

You nodded, your throat thick as you took the last bite of your sandwich. “God, you're heaven sent, Sen.”

That made him smile, and then he kissed your knee. Not quickly. Not playfully. A soft, gentle press that made your heart flutter. You crumpled the parchment paper in your hand and leaned sideways to set it on the table. Your muscles groaned at the stretch, but it was easier now–easier with him there.

Then his voice again. That low, steady balm that always made you relax.

“Get up,” he said softly, his hands sliding gently up to rest at your thighs. “Let me get you undressed so you can take your bath.”

You bit the inside of your lip, heart fluttering now for a different reason entirely. “Are you going to be joining me?”

He raised his brows, the softest grin curling at his mouth. “Would you like me to?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Of course. You’re my human heating pad.”

He laughed at that, that warm, boyish sound that made your chest ache in the best way. “Well, I’m glad you like how I overheat.”

You reached out and gently poked the tip of his nose, “You’re a sun god after all Sentry, I think it’s only fitting.” His smile softened. The way he looked at you in that moment–bathed in candlelight, your legs still resting loosely on either side of him, his hands still holding you steady–was like he was drinking you in. Like he hadn’t seen anything more beautiful in his lifetime.

You rose from the bed with a soft sound in your throat–a half-whimper, half-breath–your legs stiff, your muscles groaning in protest. Sentry stood with you, rising as though tethered to your every movement, his presence immediately behind you, hands already moving with gentle purpose.

He started with your outer tactical shell, easing it off your body piece by piece. The Velcro straps peeled apart with quiet rips, but his touch was soft enough to silence the sound before it became harsh. His fingers skimmed along your arms as he slid the sleeves down, easing your bruised shoulder with a careful slowness that made your breath hitch.

“You’re so strong,” He murmured, almost to himself.

Then he went for your pants.

He crouched again, thumbs slipping beneath the waistband, dragging the fabric down slowly, his lips brushing along every inch of newly revealed skin–your hips, your thighs, the curve just above your knees. Each kiss was soft and grounding, like he was reassuring himself that you were here. Alive. Breathing. When your pants pooled at your feet, he looked up at you–eyes glowing gold, warm and unblinking. Then his gaze dipped to your hip, where the rough, crooked stitch job you’d done mid-air was still raw and angry-looking.

His hand hovered just above it.

Then–gently–he let a single finger glide along the length of it, following the uneven thread with a feather-light touch.

“Looks painful,” He said quietly, voice low and full of concern.

You shook your head, your fingers brushing lightly through his hair as he knelt before you.

“Not anymore,” You murmured. “It’s not bad, Sen.”

Still, he exhaled like it physically hurt him to see it on you. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss beside the stitches, and then another just below it. And when he stood, his hands trailing back up your sides, he kissed your cheek. Your forehead. Your temple.

“Let’s get you into the tub, hmm?” he said softly, brushing a knuckle down your jaw.

You nodded, trusting him to guide you the rest of the way.

The two of you crossed the room together, your body aching but lighter under his touch. Steam ghosted around your calves as you stepped into the bathroom, trailing from the wide porcelain tub half-filled with hot, lavender-scented water. The room was dim–only the low, golden glow from a small wall sconce and the flicker of candlelight behind you softened the corners. The air was humid and floral, clinging to your bruised skin like a second touch.

Sentry stopped you near the bath, his presence warm and unhurried. His hand skimmed across your spine as he stepped in behind you, and then up again to the curve of your shoulders, fingers lightly hooking the straps of your black bra.

“Let me,” He murmured. You nodded, and he slowly guided the straps down your arms. His hands barely brushed your skin, and yet every inch he uncovered felt more alive under his fingers. When the band loosened, he let the bra fall to the side, carefully, like it was something precious. He didn’t gawk. He didn’t rush.

Instead, he leaned in–his lips ghosting over the deep impressions the straps had left behind, kissing one and then another, his breath warm on your shoulder. Then he dipped lower, lips brushing across the tops of your breasts. Barely a kiss. More reverence than desire. It didn’t feel like he was worshiping your body so much as tending to it. You reached up, fingers carding through the back of his hair gently, thumb stroking along the soft strands at the nape of his neck. He lingered there a moment longer, forehead briefly touching your collarbone, before pulling back and lowering to one knee again.

“Almost done,” he said softly.

Your underwear was next–black, soaked slightly through with sweat and the faint copper tang of blood. He slid them down with quiet care, kissing the soft curve of your lower stomach before guiding the fabric past your thighs, your knees, and down to your ankles. You lifted each foot for him, and when they were gone, he pressed a final kiss to the center of your hip, just above your stitched wound.

Then he peeled your socks off–one, then the other–and stood, his hands trailing slowly up the outside of your thighs as he rose.

“Let’s get you in.”

You stepped toward the edge of the tub, and he helped you lift one leg, then the other, his arms steady beneath you until you were lowered into the water. The moment your body broke the surface, heat wrapped around your aching limbs like silk, easing into your bruises, your cuts, the dull throb in your hip. A soft gasp slipped from your lips.

“Good?” He asked gently.

You nodded, already melting. “Perfect.”

He lingered at the edge for a moment, watching you, before his hands slid to the hem of his shirt. He peeled it off in one motion, revealing the broad stretch of his chest and shoulders, all golden skin and hard muscle. His torso was carved like marble–sculpted without being cold. His chest was smooth save for the faint dusting of light brown hair at the center, a trail that disappeared below the waistband of his sweats.

And when those came off next–slowly, with care–you felt your breath stutter again.

Everything about him was warmth and gravity. Strength in the lines of his thighs and hips, gentleness in the way his shoulders stayed relaxed, in the way he moved with intention, never flaunting, never hasty. Just there. Present. For you.

“I’ll slide in behind you,” He said, his voice low and hushed in the warm air. “Lean forward for a moment.” You shifted, your arms bracing along the sides of the tub as you leaned forward slightly, letting the heat seep deeper into your muscles. Behind you, you felt the ripple of the water shifting–then the press of his leg as he stepped in, followed by the wide stretch of his chest as he sank down into the bath.

The moment his body settled behind you, the water seemed to rise–just a little–and you could feel the heat intensify. Not painful. Not overwhelming. Just more. Like sitting in sunlight instead of candlelight.

His arms came around you, steady and sure. One wrapped low around your waist, the other sliding up to cradle your ribs just beneath your chest, his palm broad and flat against your skin. You leaned back into him fully, your head falling against his shoulder, eyes closing. His chin rested lightly atop your head, and the two of you sat there in perfect stillness, wrapped in scent and steam and warmth, the water lapping quietly around your shoulders.

His thumb stroked over your side slowly, tracing idle circles.

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispered, his voice nothing more than a breath in the steam, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard. “Especially like this.” You hummed softly, your heart giving a tender stutter. His voice alone could do that–thick with warmth, like he was reciting a prayer.

“Everything about you,” He continued, lips brushing the crown of your head in a kiss so gentle it barely disturbed your damp hair, “Is perfect.”

A breath caught in your throat. Not because you didn’t believe him–but because he meant it. Every time. You could feel it in his voice, in the way he held you like the world didn’t matter outside this bath. Like there was nothing more important than the way your heartbeat thrummed under his palm. His other arm slid more snugly around your waist, pulling you just a little tighter against him. You felt his thighs shift under the water, cradling you deeper into his lap. His chest rose and fell slowly against your back.

“You’re a masterpiece,” He murmured, voice low and certain, like he was speaking scripture. “And you don’t even know it.” A quiet, shaky breath escaped your lips, and you shifted slightly in the water, your hands coming to rest over his–one at your ribs, one just below your navel. Your fingers curled over his knuckles.

“I’m so grateful for you, Sentry,” You whispered, tilting your head back just a little to nuzzle his jaw. His chin lifted from your head, and he dipped his face down, his lips brushing over your shoulder–first one kiss, then another, soft and wet, the heat of his mouth blooming against your skin.

“I love you,” He said, the words sinking through you, breath-warm and steady. “And you know I’ll do anything for you because of that.” You smiled, slow and full, the kind of smile that barely reached your lips but warmed your entire body from the inside out. Your fingers curled just a little tighter around his hands where they rested against your stomach, grounding you.

“I love you too,” You whispered.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty–it was sacred. Full of shared breath and heartbeat, of quiet gratitude. His arms didn’t move, but you could feel the way his chest swelled behind you, the small exhale through his nose brushing across your temple like a second kiss.

Your thumbs began to move slowly over his forearms, mapping the contours of him–learning the soft patches of skin beneath the crook of his elbow, the thick strength of his tendons, the way his veins pulsed gently just beneath the surface. You traced those invisible rivers without thought, memorizing him by touch.

His breath hitched–barely–but you felt it against your back. And it made something stir inside you. Your body shifted just a little, not deliberately–just a natural way to melt further into him. His hand at your ribs adjusted, the hold tightening just enough to press your back more fully into his chest, like he felt it too.

You tilted your head, pressing your lips to the underside of his jaw. A small kiss. Just skin and breath and heat. But it pulled a soft noise from his throat, low and reverent. You kissed him again, higher this time, near his pulse. And then you turned just enough to look at him–his glowing eyes already locked on yours, soft and awed.

Your fingers slid from his forearms to his thighs, underwater, where the heat lingered. You let your nails drag lightly down the muscle there, not in invitation—just in affection. But you felt him pulse against your lower back, hardening slowly, steadily.

His mouth found your shoulder again, but it was different now. Warmer. More open. His lips parted against your skin, and then he kissed lower—along your deltoid, the curve where your shoulder met your bicep, the soft edge of your tricep. You sighed, your breath catching as he trailed lower still.

And then his hand that rested just beneath your ribs began to move. Down. Slow. Worshipful.

It glided over the plane of your stomach, fingers spreading wide, trailing just beneath the surface of the water. His palm flattened against your lower belly, and the heat of it—despite the bath–seemed to brand you there.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

His fingers slipped lower, easing between your thighs under the water. The contact was featherlight at first, just a brush against your folds–but it sent a ripple of tension straight through you. You sucked in a breath, your hand flying to his wrist instinctively–not to stop him, but to steady yourself.

“You’re already so soft,” He murmured, his voice rasped and low, almost like he was in awe of it. “So warm.” He kissed your neck again, this time at the base where your pulse fluttered, and let his fingers dip deeper, slowly gliding through the softness.

“Is this okay?” He asked softly, his lips moving against your skin.

You nodded immediately, pressing back against his chest. “Yes,” You breathed. “Please, Sen.”

He groaned low behind you, the sound of it vibrating through his chest and into your back. His fingers began to move in slow, reverent circles over your clit, gentle at first–measured and steady. He was touching you like he had all the time in the world. You gasped, your legs twitching slightly beneath the water. The movement caused your hips to shift back, brushing more firmly against the growing hardness between his legs. That contact alone made your eyes flutter closed.

“Every part of you,” He whispered, pressing his mouth to your jaw, “Deserves to be cherished.”

You whimpered, your hand sliding down to rest over his, urging his fingers to move faster–but he didn’t. He kept his slow rhythm, teasing you with just enough pressure to keep you spiraling. His free arm wrapped tighter around your waist, pinning you gently against him.

“I want you to feel good,” He said, his voice breaking into a soft groan as you ground back into him. “You’ve been through too much today. Let me love you.”

His words were so sincere, so full of warmth and need that it made your throat tighten. You nodded, one hand clutching the edge of the tub while the other reached behind you to cradle the back of his neck.

“Then love me, Sen,” You begged. “Please.”

And he did.

His fingers pressed more firmly now, stroking you in slow, deliberate circles, dipping down to gather more of your slick before returning to that sensitive bundle of nerves. His other hand moved up–cupping your breast underwater, massaging gently, his thumb brushing slowly over your nipple.

You gasped again, your whole body arching into him now, water sloshing softly against the tub’s edges. The pleasure was building, thick and hot and slow, curling through your belly like steam rising through the air.

“You’re so responsive,” He murmured, his voice dropping lower, more ragged. “So good for me. I love how you feel in my hands.”

You moaned, helpless now, your body a live wire beneath his touch.

“Don’t stop,” You gasped.

“I won’t,” He promised. “I’ll never stop.”And with that, he kissed the side of your face, his fingers working you with increasing purpose, drawing you closer and closer to the edge with every breath.

“You’re everything,” He praised, “Everything I’ve ever wanted.” Your head tilted back, baring your throat to him, and he took the invitation with quiet reverence. His lips brushed the hollow of your neck first–soft, wet, lingering. Then higher, to the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw. He kissed you there again and again, each one slower, deeper, as though he was tasting you like something sacred.

As his mouth worshipped your throat, his hand dipped lower beneath the water. His fingers slipped past your folds, slow and deliberate, then eased inside you in one smooth, gentle push.

You gasped softly, your body tensing for a moment before melting back into him, the heat of the water wrapping around you both like a silken cocoon. His free arm cinched tighter across your waist, anchoring you against his chest as his fingers curled inside you–exploring, filling, stroking in the most tender rhythm. You could feel him everywhere. Beneath your skin. Around you. Inside you.

“Just like that,” He coaxed, his lips grazing your earlobe. “You feel so good, my love. So warm…So perfect around my fingers.”

The words hit like sparks against your nerves. Your thighs twitched under the water, knees flexing slightly as the pleasure spiraled up through your abdomen. The water sloshed softly with your movements, rippling against the sides of the tub in gentle waves.

He kissed down the side of your neck again, murmuring into your skin.

“You don’t have to do anything,” He breathed. “Just let me take care of you. You deserve this. You deserve all of me.”

His fingers pumped into you slowly, deeply, his thumb brushing over your clit with each upward stroke, sending a fresh wave of warmth through your body. Your breath hitched, your mouth falling open slightly as your head dropped back against his shoulder.

“Sen…” You whimpered, one hand grasping his forearm, the other gripping the tub’s edge. “Oh my god…”

“Shhh,” He hushed his mouth tracing the curve of your ear now. “I’ve got you. Just let go. Let me love you through it.”

Your hips rocked up against his hand instinctively, chasing the growing rhythm. He kept his movements steady, perfectly in tune with your body, curling his fingers just right, dragging over that sensitive spot that made your whole body seize and tremble. His breath ghosted over your cheek, ragged now, heavy with affection and want.

“I love when you fall apart for me,” He groaned softly. “You’re so beautiful like this…Coming apart right here in my arms.”

The tension built rapidly, coiling inside you like a spring. Your thighs jerked again, and your mouth dropped open in a gasp as your climax surged–hot and overwhelming. It ripped through you in waves, your body twitching as the water rocked around you. His arm held you tight to him, anchoring you while his fingers continued slowly, lovingly stroking you through every last flutter and aftershock.

You shook once, twice–then sagged completely into his chest, a soft sob of breath escaping your lips as you melted in his arms. Your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow waves. His lips didn’t leave your skin once.

He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

“I’ve got you,” He whispered again, voice shaking with how much he meant it. “You did so good for me. So perfect.”

As your breathing began to slow, his fingers slid free from your core with the same care they entered. You whimpered faintly at the loss, but then he pressed his hand flat against your stomach again–warm and grounding.

His hold was tender and soft. The steady pressure of his palm over your belly made you feel full again, secure, like you hadn’t been emptied at all.

You shifted slightly in the water, your body still trembling faintly from the aftershocks of your orgasm. The bath had quieted again–just the soft slosh of water lapping against porcelain, the echo of breath between you. But beneath the stillness, you could feel him.

Thick. Hot. Pressed along the curve of your ass and lower back, his cock throbbed softly where it had been pinned this whole time, heavy and insistent. You didn’t need to move to feel the ache begin to return, blooming low in your belly–not pain this time, but want. Deeper. Slower. A hunger that wasn’t desperate, just…Present and persistent.

Your hand slid underwater, down your own thigh before curving outward, and you reached behind you–finding the firm, muscled line of his leg beneath the surface. You traced up his thigh gently, fingers brushing the strained muscle until you felt the sharp twitch of him under your touch.

Sentry let out a low sigh, something halfway between restraint and awe. His voice broke softly on your name.

”Y/N…You don’t have to,” He murmured, his lips brushing your temple, “You’re exhausted.”

“I know,” You said, your voice low, lazy, lips still kiss-wet. Your fingers brushed higher, teasing along the base of him now. You felt him twitch again. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be inside me though…” His breath hitched. Then he let out a soft, huffed laugh–a little stunned, a little teasing.

“You gonna sit on it?”

You nodded slowly, the motion brushing your cheek against his shoulder. Your voice dropped even lower–silk and smoke in your throat.

“Gonna let you fill me up real slow. Just wanna feel you.” His hands tightened on your waist, his restraint fracturing. You could feel the heat pouring off him behind you, more intense now than the bath itself.

“Mmm,” He hummed against your neck, “And you’re not gonna do anything else but sit on it?” You felt your face flush at that. Heat prickled over your cheeks, your chest, even under the water. You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

“I’ll try my best…” You whispered, your voice a little hoarse, a little wrecked from your previous moans.

He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, his lips grazing your ear.

“Alright…Sit up a bit.” You lifted yourself just enough for the bathwater to lap between your thighs, your whole body trembling slightly from the effort–and from anticipation. The heat of him pressed against your entrance, heavy and hot and so much. You could feel the thick crown of him nudging there–slick and swollen from restraint, the skin silky against your folds.

One of his hands stayed at your hip, steadying you, fingers splayed wide with control. The other slipped beneath the water–between your thighs–and you felt the faint ripple just before the blunt head of his cock was guided into place.

A shiver tore through your spine the second he aligned himself.

“Ready?” He murmured against the shell of your ear, voice like molten gold–liquid, thick, reverent.

You nodded. “Yes…Please.”

And with that–slowly, impossibly slow–he began to ease you down onto him.

The stretch was exquisite. Hot, full, delicious in its ache. Your walls fluttered around the tip as it pushed in, your breath catching in your throat.

“Ohh–” Your mouth fell open with a gasp as your body began to take him inch by inch. His grip on your hip tightened, not enough to bruise, but enough to hold you steady as gravity helped your tired muscles sink onto him. You felt every ridge. Every vein. The press of his cock against your tender, sensitive walls made you burn and melt and tremble all at once. He was thick, and your body opened for him slowly–so slowly.

“F-fuck,” You breathed, your voice raw with overwhelmed need, “God you feel so fucking good.”

“I know,” He murmured, his lips brushing the edge of your ear, his voice taut with restraint. “You’re doing perfect. Taking me so well.” Your hips trembled as you sank further–deeper–feeling him fill you with his sacred heat. The water sloshed faintly around you, breaking against porcelain as you eased down the last few inches, your walls dragging against every inch of him like they were memorizing him.

And then–you were fully seated.

He was deep. Pressed tight against the softest, most sensitive part of you.

A long, breathless moan escaped your lips as your back collapsed into his chest again, your head lolling back onto his shoulder, heart thundering beneath your bruised ribs. The fullness was dizzying. Beautiful. Complete.

You felt him groan low behind you–his chest rumbling where it met your spine.

His lips dragged along the slope of your neck as he wrapped both arms around your waist again–tight, possessive, tender.

“Now just sit here,” He whispered against your throat, the heat of his breath fogging your skin, “And be a good girl.” He pressed a kiss just beneath your jaw, his mouth curling into a grin as he added, softer:

“Don’t move.” You swallowed hard, the command sinking deep into your chest, coiling in your belly like molten syrup.

“S-Sentry…” You said, your voice almost a whine, high and shaky. You could feel him smiling against your neck.

“You said you’d try your best…” He teased, the amusement low and hot in his voice. “Are you giving up already?” You clenched around him hard at that–unintentionally. It made your walls flutter and your breath stutter. His cock twitched inside you in response–pressing right up against that soft, perfect spot inside you that made your eyes flutter shut.

“No…I’m not.” You said quietly, but your hips shifted just the slightest bit–your body betraying you–and immediately you felt both of his arms tighten around your waist, grounding you, locking you in place.

“Ah ah ah,” He warned, his voice now dipped in velvet and steel, “No squirming.” You gasped as he pulsed inside you again, hot and thick and impossibly deep.

“You said no moving,” He murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “You wanted to feel me…So feel me. Don’t fuck me. Don’t grind. Just take it.”

You whimpered again–your entire body trembling with restraint.

It was exquisite torture.

Because you could feel him. Every twitch. Every throb. Every time your walls fluttered around him–his cock responded, pulsing right up against your g-spot, rubbing against your most vulnerable, swollen nerves without even moving.

It was maddening. Divine.

“Please,” You whimpered, “I–I need–”

“I know you do,” He whispered back, his breath hitting your skin while his mouth dragged down your throat again, kissing over your pulse as it fluttered, frantic. “You’re being so good. Just a little longer.” Your whimper cracked into the steam like thunder, trembling and high, the sound barely human from how much it hurt to be this full without any movement happening. Your nails dug into the porcelain of the tub, searching for any kind of grounding as your thighs quaked, every breath a stutter against his chest. You couldn’t stop clenching around him–your body reacting to the pulse of him buried deep inside, his cock twitching again like it was teasing you on purpose.

“Sentry…” You gasped, your head turning just enough to bury your cheek against his shoulder, voice breaking with desperation. “Please…I feel like I’m going to lose my mind if you don’t start moving…” The ache was unbearable. It was the kind of ache that shimmered on the edge of tears–not pain. Just that maddening, insistent hunger that sat behind your ribs and twisted like a vice. You needed friction. You needed relief. You needed him. He exhaled softly, the sound brushing your ear like silk. One of his hands slid down, rubbing slowly over your hip–soothing, almost, like he was petting a live wire and pretending not to notice how close it was to sparking. His other hand came up, cupping your breast with warm, deliberate reverence. His palm spread wide, thumb brushing over your nipple slowly, rubbing small, tender circles into the sensitive peak.

“Can’t hold back, can you?” He murmured, his voice dipped low and rich, thick with affection and restraint. “You really want me to fuck you, hmm?” You nodded immediately, the movement jerking as you struggled to stay still.

“Yes,” You choked, your voice breathless, cracking. “I need you, Sen, I need it–please, please…” His lips brushed your temple, and he let out a quiet, approving hum.

“Okay,” He whispered, soft and devastating.

And then he moved.

His hands slid to your waist–firm, steady, claiming–and he shifted you up just enough for your body to whimper in protest at the loss of fullness. But he didn’t leave you empty for long. With a slow, controlled thrust, he pushed up into you from beneath, seating you fully again with a deep, wet grind that punched a cry from your throat.

“Fuck–” You gasped, stars exploding behind your eyes as the friction finally, finally met the ache. Your hands flew to cover his at your waist, clutching at him like a lifeline.

And then he did it again.

A smooth, deliberate roll of his hips, thrusting up into you with the strength of a man built to hold the sun. He wasn’t wild. He wasn’t rough. But god, he was relentless–dragging his cock against every sensitive inch of your fluttering walls like he was carving himself into your body.

“You take me so well,” He groaned, voice rough now, fraying at the edges. “So tight, so fucking wet for me.” Your head tipped back, your mouth falling open as he fucked up into you again, this time harder, the sound of water sloshing around your joined bodies adding a rhythm to the moans that spilled from you. His arm tightened around your waist, keeping you pressed flush to his chest, keeping you his.

The angle was perfect. Every upward thrust pressed against your g-spot with brutal precision, making your legs shake and your body arch against him helplessly.

“You wanted this?” He gritted out, his mouth at your shoulder now, teeth grazing your skin, “Begging to be filled, to be fucked just like this?”

“Yes,” you gasped, writhing now in his grip, the water splashing around your hips as he began to pick up a rhythm. “Yes–oh god–Sentry–don’t stop–”

He didn’t.

His hands gripped tighter, anchoring your hips as he fucked into you from beneath, water sloshing with each deep, wet thrust, the slap of skin and steam wrapping around you like a second storm. You could feel the wet heat of his breath on your neck, his lips pressing frantic kisses against your throat between ragged groans.

“Gonna fill you up,” He growled, teeth dragging just enough to make you cry out. “Gonna make you feel me for days.”

Your hands flew back to tangle in his hair, pulling hard as your body began to climb—higher and higher toward that edge again, your core clenching around him with every thrust. He cursed against your skin, losing rhythm for just a second from how tightly you squeezed him.

“That’s it,” He moaned, his voice wrecked now, desperate and holy. “Take me–take every inch like the good girl you are.”

You broke.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a wave, hard and wet and sob-wrecked. You cried out as your body seized, shattering around him as he held you through it, fucking you slowly through every tremor, every shudder, every helpless moan. Your nails scraped down his thighs underwater, searching for something–anything–to hold onto as your vision went white.

He fucked you slower now, like he was worshipping the way your walls kept fluttering around him, the way your body kept spasming from pleasure even as you sagged back into his arms.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” He whispered into your ear, his voice trembling. “I’m so close…Can I cum inside you?”

“Yes,” You breathed, dazed, tears clinging to your lashes. “Yes, please…Give me everything Sen.” He groaned, deep and shattered, and you felt his cock twitch–once, twice–before he slammed up into you one final time and stilled. His whole body tensed behind you as he came, heat spilling into your fluttering walls, his breath ragged against your ear.

You could feel the pulse of it. Hot and claiming. You collapsed fully against his chest, breath catching in your throat as the scent of sex and lavender swirled around you both. He held you there, unmoving. Still deep inside. Still wrapped around you like a shield.

Your breath slowed in his arms, chest rising and falling in gentle waves against his, every limb heavy with release, every nerve still humming with the afterglow. The water around you sloshed faintly as he shifted just enough to wrap you tighter, still buried inside you, still holding you like you were something sacred.

His lips pressed to your shoulder–once, twice, three times. Gentle. Grounding. He breathed you in, his voice warm and low against your skin.

“You okay?” He whispered.

You nodded slowly, your head resting against his collarbone. “You take care of me so well, Sen…God, I love you so much.” You felt him exhale through his nose–soft, reverent. Then his lips returned to your shoulder, brushing it again with tender affection, like he couldn’t help himself.

“I love you too,” He murmured. “I’m dedicated to you. I want you to feel satisfied…And happy. Always.” Your fingers found his beneath the water–his hand still resting over your stomach–and you laced your fingers through his, threading them tight and sure.

“I’m always happy with you,” You whispered.

He let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound vibrating gently through your back, through your ribcage, through your very bones.

“I know you are,” He said, kissing your shoulder again with a crooked smile in his voice. “Even though I probably get on your nerves sometimes.”

You tilted your head back just enough to kiss his jaw, your lips brushing over the strong, sun-warmed line of it. “You balance me out,” You murmured, “You relax me. You never get on my nerves.”

Then you brought his hand up, still interlaced with yours, guiding it to your lips. You kissed each knuckle softly, one after the other, pressing your mouth into his skin like a prayer.

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shouyuus · 3 days ago

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─── 星穹铁道 POSITIONS

ft dan heng, jing yuan, aventurine, sunday, phainon, mydei; smut/fluff (mostly smut), missionary, doggy, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, prone bone, mating press, incoherent bullletpointed ramblings, lapslock, no "y/n", this is deeply unsrs

summary: switchin' up positions for you (jk, they all have their favs)

a/n: i have no excuse. none.

─── 丹恒 DAN HENG

missionary boi

not bc he's boring or anything like that, but mainly bc he's never been the best with words, so he likes it when he can look at you, likes it when he can see you, and you can see him too

he wishes he had the words (sometimes, he wonders what the point of living so many different lives might be if he can't even summon the words to describe them) to tell you how much he loves this, how much he loves --

"is this... is this okay?" "yeah -- it's m-more than okay -- dan heng please --"

he'd have to hold back, even though the feel of your body beneath his feels something like resolution -- and it's always been strange, living in a body that he knows had not always belonged to him, but like this, buried inside you, somehow, he feels at home.

because he can kiss you, graze his lips along yours, pant against your mouth, bury his face in the star-kissed skin of your shoulder when he feels the tide coming, and he lets it come --

"s-sorry... that was..." but you shake your head, laughing, carding a hand through his slightly sweaty bangs, "don't... it was good." dan heng pushes up, his eyes flickering across the planes of your face; something coils in his gut -- desire, or perhaps something more insidious -- the swirling grip of a dragon's greed -- twisting inside him till he he groans, his cock twitching inside you once more.

you hiss, and yes, he thinks, there's no other way he'd have this, have you, than splayed out beneath him, moaning his name, nose to nose, face to face.

─── 景元 JING YUAN

mating press

bc he loves seeing you folded in half, tears pearling along your bottom lashline, your cheeks red, your lips bruised from how hard you've been biting it, fucking down into you till you're writhing in pleasure

he like the feeling of your ankles in his palms, the way he can see when he hits that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your whole body jolt, likes it when you can't get his full name out, or even better, when the only thing you can manage is a choked out "g-general --!"

bc he loves teasing you, grinning when you hiccup at the way his cock pummels your cervix, or the way he pushes down on your tummy just to keep his own tip press against his palm, "hm? what was that, little dove? it's too much? oh... i think you can take it, right? you've always been so good at taking it for me."

likes the access he has like this, to turn his head and kiss at your calf, or to simply lower his mouth and sink his teeth into the plump of your thigh, revel in the reddened ring it leaves along your skin as you keen beneath him

"fuck, you always get so wet when i fuck you like this -- is it that good? hm?" he chuckles at the way you try to nod, cocks his head, groans at the squelch of his cock sinking into you over and over and over again

"yeah... that's good. that's a good girl for me."

─── 砂金 AVENTURINE

cowgirl

the roi is high with this one; all he's gotta do is lay back and enjoy the view -- ofc, he doesn't let you do all the work -- he'll watch you work yourself up, tease at your nipples, tug on them with his fingers, his eyes half-lidded, an easy smirk painted over his lips, before rolling his hips up into yours just to see you jolt, feel the way you tip forward, how your pussy flutters around his length, hard enough to make his stomach clench

he likes the way you whine when your thighs get sore, likes it when you pout down at him with those watery eyes of yours, beg him to make you cum (because only he can)

"aven-enturine -- 'm so close --" "oh yeah? cum then -- i'm right here, aren't i?" he asks, rubbing his thumb in placating little circles on your thighs, his other hand still pillowed behind his head

he'd make you beg, if only because you sound so damn pretty doing it, but he's not an unfair man -- that'd be bad for business -- so he relents eventually, rocks you down with his palms on your hips, groaning as he feels you tighten with every languid thrust of his cock

shifts his legs up to ruck you up further, better support for your back this way, easier for him to dig his heels into the mattress and fuck up into you till you're bouncing on his cock just the way he likes

"that's right -- ride me -- i know you can do it -- make it all messy for me."

─── 星期日 SUNDAY

prone bone

bc this is a day of rest -- no, but he enjoys the control (sometimes, he wonders what that says about him, still), enjoys how he can feel every inch of your skin pressed against every inch of his, how his breath warms the nape of your neck and he can smell the sweet, milky scent of your shampoo

"shh... just let me -- nngh -- make you feel -- good --"

obsessed with kissing your neck, lacing his fingers between yours, brushing your hair from your back as he fucks you slow; likes the way you tighten around you, the way it feels so much more intimate this way, even though he can't see your face, he can see each tremor as it works through your body, see every goosebump that rises along your skin

(and he really does like the control, like having you beneath him like this, the way you're so soft, how he can shift you this way and that, tug you closer, press you deeper into the sheets, how his cock looks nestled between your ass-cheeks, the friction of it as the bottoms out inside you)

"sunday... ah --" "does it feel good? tell me... tell me what you like --" "w-want more --"

and he'd give it to you, fuck you as hard and as deep as you'd like, till his name on your lips starts to sound like a prayer, till you wrapped around him starts to feel like redemption

"come for me -- show me what you look like --" he breathes, pressing his forehead to the nape of your neck, thrusting down into you hard enough to make the bed rock, "please -- please," he has never been one to beg, but for you -- "please."

─── 白厄 PHAINON

doggy

bc he likes the versatility and faithfulness, he knows the angles, knows just how you like to be fucked -- like this, his hands on your hips, pulling you back, the dull smack of skin on skin echoing around his bedchambers, the linens crumpled beneath your fingers

and occasionally, he likes to reach out, wrap your hair around his palm and tug -- gently, of course, only a small sting, but he's long since learned that a spot of pain might elicit the most mind-numbing pleasure -- after all, isn't that why men have always thirsted for war? for the pain of victory, the delirium of conquering

"f-fucki -- phainon --!" "mm -- that's good -- c-can you keep -- keep going?" he asks, soothing at your waist with his fingers

you nod, and he laughs, a not un-kind sound, nodding as he redoubles his efforts, pressing a palm to the back of your head, pushing down till your cheek is against his pillows; he groans at the tightness of your cunt, the way you push your ass back into him, eager, desperate for more, and he tries to stop himself from going too hard, too fast, but he's never claimed to be the strongest soldier

"ph-phainon --!" your voice breaks along the line of his voice, and he feels the coil burst inside him, fingers digging into your hips, hard enough to leave tiny crescent-moon divots in your skin; he hisses as he shudders, forcing himself to keep fucking into you till he feels you come undone around him as well, a fluttering flurry of heat clamping down around him

he drops his face into your back, breathes out and drops a kiss there, his vision flickering slightly as he steadies himself and tugs you into his arms, the pair of you collapsing onto the bed

"mm... that was good," he remarks, twisting to grin at you with bright, sea-foam eyes, "what do you say to another few rounds?"

─── 万敌 MYDEI

reverse cowgirl

bc he likes to yank on your hair like a pair of reins, likes the way you keen above him, the way you glance over your shoulder with your wide, reproachful eyes, likes smacking at your ass cheeks just to watch you bounce on top of him, harder, harder

"that's it -- that's right -- god that feels good --" and he'd know, wouldn't he? all that fire and ichor running through his veins, he should suffer the pleasure of you, such a priceless treasure, worthy of a king

he likes the noises you make, how you can never keep quiet, whining and whimpering, even as you work yourself up into a frenzy above him, likes the thought of you using him, getting yourself off on his cock, just like this, your eyes half-shut, your hands braced along his thighs

"c'mon, you can do better," he says, "th-that's a good girl," he gasps, grunting as you swirl your hips in a quick figure 8, the friction making his vision dance; he tugs on your hair, your head jerking back as you give a small gasp of pain; he groans as you clench down around him

there's slick running down your inner thighs, sticking to his hips as he lets go of your hair; you tip forward, your ass pushing back; he lets out an appreciative hiss as he reaches forward to grab two handfuls of your ass, helping you work along his cock -- up and down, forward and back

"mydei -- mydei --" you chant his name, half-reproachful, half-pleading; he lets out a puff of breath, giving your ass a quick smack, "almost there, i can feel you -- gonna fill you up, hm? that what you want? wanna be fucked full, don't you?"

your answering keen is all he needs before he makes good on his promise, and in the sweaty-drenched aftermath, he takes you into his arms, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, and cradles you in his arms, "rest," he murmurs against you, "we've got a long night ahead of us yet."

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dailydndidea · 24 hours ago

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Way of the Hollow Frame

Monks of the Way of the Hollow Frame embrace imperfection, impermanence, and the truths stitched into the bones. These ascetics wear garments that are more than clothing, they are extensions of self, art pieces that speak to mortality, memory, and the discipline of enduring.

In battle, these monks flow with ragged grace. Their ki manifests in spectral echoes of the garment’s bone-like stitching, creating ghost-ribs, phantom hands, and cage-like patterns of energy that ripple outward from their movements.

Ribcage Stance When you adopt this tradition, your ki warps your presence into the form of a ghostly cage. While you are wearing your unique ribcage haori, you can use your bonus action to enter Ribcage Stance for 1 minute. While in this stance:

The first creature you hit on your turn with an unarmed strike must succeed on a Strength saving throw or be restrained by ghostly ribs of ki until the start of your next turn.

You gain resistance to force damage.

You can’t be forcibly moved unless you choose to be.

You can enter Ribcage Stance a number of times equal to your Wisdom modifier per long rest.

Threaded Memory Your patched garment holds echoes of your past selves and teachers. When you finish a short or long rest, choose one of the following Thread Forms to stitch into your ki until your next rest:

Frayed Edge (Blue): You can use your reaction to halve damage from a weapon attack once per round.

Blood Stitch (Red): When you reduce a creature to 0 HP, you regain 1 expended ki point.

Golden Loop (Yellow): When you spend ki to Dash or Disengage, you can also move across vertical surfaces or water as if under the effects of Step of the Wind.

Bone Pattern Reversal Your aura now twists and tightens like threads in a loom. When a creature within 10 feet of you makes an attack roll or saving throw, you can use your reaction and spend 1 ki point to impose disadvantage on the roll, as your aura “tightens” around them like a ribcage.

Spiritseam Form Your haori becomes a living thread between body and soul. When you enter Ribcage Stance, you can also manifest a spectral duplicate of yourself – a stitched outline of ki that hovers just behind or beside you, mimicking your movements. While the Spiritseam is active:

You have advantage on Dexterity saving throws.

You can make one additional unarmed strike as part of your bonus action if you spent ki this turn.

When you are hit by an attack, the attacker takes force damage equal to your Wisdom modifier as the Spiritseam reflects their violence.

Unravel and Remake You master the cycle of decay and creation through the art of ritual clothing. As an action, you can spend 6 ki points to tear open your aura, causing the ribcage pattern of your ki to expand outward in a massive, spinning mandala of threads and bones.

Each creature of your choice within 30 feet must make a Constitution saving throw. On a failure, they take 6d10 force damage and are restrained until the end of your next turn. On a success, they take half damage and are not restrained.

Until the end of your next turn:

You are under the effects of Sanctuary (no concentration required).

You regain 3 ki points.

Your unarmed strikes deal maximum damage.

You can use this feature once per long rest.

Rib-cage Kimono by MUTSU (2022)

#sub class #monk

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wintrbears · 2 days ago

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Cradle Robbers | JJK (DRABBLE)

Summary: Jungkook decides to generously thank you for allowing him use your body for his pleasure, but your best friend is an overachiever and his immense gratitude leaves you absolutely breathless.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Pregnancy AU, Childhood Friends to FWB to Lovers, Slow-Burn, Smut, Fluff, Crack, Angst (barely, you have to squint to see it)

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: kissing, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, missionary, oral sex (f receiving), big dick jk :), neck kissing, cum eating, fingering, that's all hehe.

Author's Note: SURPRISE! this is just a little drabble that takes place during month four of the second trimester after koo paints her tits and proceeds to make her come untouched. technically it could also be read as a standalone? I figure everyone could use a little filth in their lives after jungkook decided to look like a whole meal during the OT7 live today. enjoy and see you all on friday for the final chapter :)

-> Cradle Robbers Masterpost

Jungkook is kissing you as though he’s trying to push you headfirst back into the pool of desire. His hands curl around your waist and up your back, forcing your bare chest flush against his own, your wet skin from his precious work transferring salvia onto his pecs.

He departs from your lips to ravish your cheeks and jaw, leaving quick, chaste kisses all across the bottom half of your face before nibbling on your ear.

“Koo,” you moan while his hands traverse your torso and find home on your hip bones. “What do you think you’re doing?”

This man just made you come faster than you can even comprehend, and all without even touching your sex. He produced a stupidly powerful orgasm purely from a mixture of sexy eye contact, his warm mouth on your tits, and the slowly hardening cock pressing down on your clothed cunt. If he wasn’t the one person in the world who knows you better than you know yourself, you’d be embarrassed beyond belief.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Jungkook takes a sharp bite out of your cartilage and then lowers his mouth to your neck, licking the sweat right off of your jugular and sucking on your most sensitive spots.

One of his hands sneaks across your abdomen like a shark underwater, his fingers slowly traversing you until they reach your pussy that’s already begun leaking for him again.

“I have to thank you properly, Bams. You suck dick like a fucking goddess,” he tells you.

“Send me a thank you card.”

Jungkook snickers and bites at the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“No, no,” he says in a low tone. “You deserve so much more than that.”

His fingers enter you unceremoniously and you cry out, your hand desperately clutching his hair as your head creates a deep divot in the pillow beneath.

The long, tattooed fingers pushing and pulling themselves out of your cunt send you into delirium. Couple that with the way Jungkook sucks on your neck like a vampire and you worry you’ll come even faster this time. The sound your sopping wet pussy makes as he fucks his fingers into you is humiliating, because there’s no reason you should be this wet when you were the one pleasuring him prior to this.

Unfortunately, the sensations from his hand don’t last long before he removes his digits from your hole and starts stroking his dick back to full hardness, using your juices as a lubricant over his velvet skin.

You watch with greed in your irises as he lines himself up and thrusts into you all in one go. Latching onto his shoulders for support, you whimper pornographically at the feeling of him filling you up completely.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, his forehead falling to your shoulder as he shakes his head in awe. “How the fuck do you feel this good, Bambi?”

“Maybe it’s Maybelline,” you joke.

Jungkook laughs hysterically into your skin and you can’t help but smile at the sound of his delight.

“You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

He ends the conversation there to focus on his fervent strokes into your cunt. His muscular thighs move diligently to send his cock as deep as possible before leaving you devastatingly empty and then repeating the pattern. Your nails bite into his shoulders as he works your hole open for him.

The hands holding your hips feel like fire on your skin, your whole body lighting up with ecstasy while you breathlessly moan your best friend’s name like a prayer. Jungkook’s dick is rock hard and pulsing within your walls as though he didn’t just cover your tits in cum a few minutes ago. His stamina is truly diabolical and you’re thankful you finally asked him to be friends with benefits so you can reap the wonderful reward of him fucking you dumb.

Your need for him is far too great to only connect down below, so you pull his face to yours for a sloppy kiss as your tongues fight for dominance in one another’s mouth. Jungkook seemingly goes bananas over your taste, making him pull one of your thighs up higher so he can reach a better angle in your cunt while the other tugs your hair and exposes your throat to him.

A strangled gasp leaves you as he attacks your neck with his lips and teeth, scratching across your jugular before licking away the ache with his hot tongue.

“Koo, baby,” you whimper without realizing what you’re saying.

He growls in response and his hips amp the speed up to ten, sending your mind into outer space while you see stars behind your closed eyelids. His dick stretches you so completely that your pussy becomes insatiable for him. Your walls convulse and tighten like your body is trying to ensure he never leaves you again. And truth be told, you wouldn’t mind that one single bit.

Jungkook is still maiming your neck as you whine and pant for more. Eventually, he returns to your lips and releases your hair so he can pin your hands above your head instead. His hands are so big in comparison to yours that he only needs one of his to clasp your wrists together and keep you in place.

The leg that’s currently hooked over his hip is pushed up even higher as he continues to thrust into you at a damning pace.

“So fucking tight, Bams,” he grunts between kisses. “And so wet, too.”

“I wonder who’s to blame for that,” you respond.

“Oh, I know,” he chuckles. “I know exactly how fucking drenched I make you, babygirl.”

If he wasn’t perfectly correct in his assumption, you’d be annoyed at his cockiness. Alas, your pussy quite literally weeps for him and he’s giving it to you too good to fight him like you normally would.

Between him greedily kissing you and fucking you hard enough to wreck your insides, you can’t keep up with all the sensations coursing through your veins. Your orgasm is building at lightspeed with no way of slowing down. The intensity of Jungkook’s movements are too much for you to bear, and you feel your end nearing just over the horizon.

“Gonna come again?”

“I’m close, Koo,” you answer across a groan.

“That’s right, give me another one,” he orders.

You despise how easy it is to release your cum all over his cock just from him merely telling you to do so. A high pitched moan breaches the air as Jungkook squeezes your thigh and you come hard around him. He groans loudly in your ear at the feeling of your cunt suffocating his dick as it pistons into you.

“Wanna feel you come, too,” you beg with a kiss.

Jungkook shakes his head and leaves you horrifically empty when he pulls out.

“I’m not ready yet, but I will be. Just gotta give me some time,” he states.

He doesn’t give you a chance to question what you’ll do in the meantime, because he’s already sinking to his knees and yanking your body down the bed. You watch in awe as he traps your thighs with his biceps and starts kissing along your sweaty skin. His ascent to your core is tortuously long because he takes his sweet time making out with your inner thighs and leaving drool in his wake.

The whole time he’s kissing your flesh he’s moaning as though he can’t get enough. It makes you feel so unabashedly desired that your head spins.

When his lips finally grace your cunt with their presence, you cry out from the pleasure. He’s a goddamn menace with his tongue, gingerly licking up your slit a couple times before rolling his tongue over your clit with barely enough pressure to satiate you.

“Jungkook,” you snap.

The giggle which meets your wet skin makes you wanna clamp your legs around his head and suffocate him.

“What, you want more?” He rests his head on your thigh and stares up at you in pure innocence. You feel his finger tracing your hole before it enters you with a squish. “Tell me what you want.”

“Eat me out, Jungkook, please,” you say as you meet his tantalizing gaze.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Leaving his digit inside you, he starts sucking on your clit while his tongue flicks over the sensitive nub. You gasp and hold onto his head with both hands, letting your fingers rake between his black hair.

It shouldn’t be possible for him to bring you back to the same precipice again this quickly, but here you are, only a few minutes into his mouth being on you. Jungkook can tell by the way your cunt pulses, and he wants to enjoy this as long as possible, so he purposely slows the rhythm of his tongue and removes his hand. He grips your thighs until his fingerprints appear in your skin while shoving his face into your pussy and curling his tongue to drink your essence.

It feels like absolute heaven and hell simultaneously. Your mind is entirely blank save for the sinful thoughts about your best friend. You aren’t sure where he learned to eat pussy like a god, but you need to thank whoever it was in person.

“Fuck, right there,” you gasp when he kitten licks your pearl only to return to your folds and leave you craving more.

Jungkook doesn’t listen to your instruction, but perhaps it’s for the better, because instead he pulls away for a moment to gather spit in his mouth so he can cover your pussy in his saliva. The feeling makes your head fall into the pillows and you unfortunately miss the sight of him devouring you as he fucks his drool into your hole with the tip of his tongue.

“God, Bams, you taste so fucking good,” he says. “Hands down the best fucking pussy I’ve ever had.”

“Is that so?” You lift your head and force his own up via your grip on his hair. “Then do your fucking job, Jungkook.”

His eyebrow quirks up at your demand.

“I’m sorry, do you think you’re in control here, Bambi?” To prove his point he tugs on your thighs until your cunt is directly below his mouth again. “You had your fun watching me fuck your tits and getting to suck my cock, but now it’s my turn.”

He doesn’t say another word before returning to your pussy to continue eating you like a man starved. Honestly, you don’t regret pissing him off a little, because he’s working his tongue with harsh strokes and it pulls you even closer to your climax.

Jungkook is goddamn ravenous. His tongue sinks into your hole before he fucks the muscle in and out of you until you’re crying, then just when you’re about to release all over his mouth he moves upwards to your clit and bites down. After a moment of that torment, he pulls away entirely to take long licks along your slit from bottom to top.

You wish you could say you hate him for doing this to you, but it feels so good it would be a complete lie to tell him that.

When he finally grants you the reprieve you deserve, the orgasms crash over you back to back, with the second one beginning to form in your belly before the first even ebbs. Your scream of ecstasy overtakes the whole bedroom as your body shakes in his hold. Unlike usual, he doesn’t continue making out with your cunt as you come, instead he raises his head to watch your face as you release endless amounts of cum from your hole with the force of your double orgasms.

“Atta girl,” he whispers. “You look so pretty like that, Bams.”

“Fuck… you…”

You hear Jungkook’s laugh directly above you and when your eyes finally open again, you’re level with his stare. He kisses you rather than responding, but you’re still mildly annoyed with his teasing and tightly grasp his cock in your hand to return the favor.

“Oh, shit,” Jungkook moans while you pump him slowly.

Your other hand grabs his jaw so you can continue kissing him. He moans into your mouth over the feeling of you working his dick and he grabs you by the hips to keep himself steady above you.

“You ready to fill me up now or do we have to wait for you to recharge some more?”

Jungkook tsks and slams your hips into the mattress.

“Be careful what you wish for, I’ll leave you with so much of my cum in you it’ll leak out for days.”

He plants an outrageous kiss on your mouth while one of his hands slaps your fingers away so he can hold himself and push into you. There’s an abundance of relief which floods your system at the feeling of him returning to your warm walls. You’ve already come four times and your cunt is still begging him for more.

Ironically, his pace is slower this time, but you’re certain it’s only because he wants to fuck you deeper. His cock is meeting your cervix with every thrust and all you can do is scream and allow the hot tears to roll across your cheeks as he fucks you open.

“Jungkook, holy fucking shit,” you gasp.

His arms encompass your waist so your bodies are completely flush and you’re holding onto his back and shoulders for dear life as he pulls his cock in and out of you. He’s kissing away the teardrops of pleasure as they appear, shushing you while his dick splits you apart.

“Fuck, no one takes me like you do, Bambi,” he states.

You know you’re both close because you can feel Jungkook’s dick throbbing and the fire in your abdomen is growing at a dizzying rate. Like the true best friend you are, you exert all the power you can from your thighs to meet his strokes and send you both tumbling into euphoria. Luckily, the plan works perfectly, and Jungkook grunts in your ear as he body shakes with the force of his release.

“Oh, God,” he gasps and holds you even tighter.

It makes you whimper and nearly pierce his sweaty skin with your nails as your own orgasm washes over you due to the feeling of his cum coating your gummy walls.

“Oh fuck, Jungkook.”

The combination of your climaxes turns the room absolutely erotic with the sounds of you both moaning and the noise created by your bodies connecting. You fuck through the highs, mindlessly rutting against one another while your cum soaks the other’s sex in essence.

“Jesus…” Jungkook laughs when he lifts his head to look at you. “Was that five?”

“Dasot.”

His nose scrunches and he plants a single kiss to your lips before pulling out and collapsing beside you.

“Well, you know what this means.”

“Hmm?”

He turns his head to look at you with a devilish grin.

“The first time we fucked I said I’d give you five orgasms, which was already a compromise, by the way.” He sits up on one elbow and traces your arm with his fingertips. “So now that we’ve reached that, it’s time for double digits.”

You stare him down incredulously, rolling away from him and grabbing a shirt from the floor, not realizing it’s his until you pull it over your head.

“Stay away from me.”

Jungkook’s smile turns even more sinister. He lunges for you across the bed and you screech as he forcefully returns you to his embrace.

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kurooh · 10 hours ago

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SILK LINGERIE !

⊹₊˚. NANAMI’S BDAY 2025 — something comes up at work, and kento’s stuck at the office until the early evening on his birthday, of all days. you’ve promised to celebrate his birthday, so he expects something simple, like dinner and some presents . . until he walks in to see you on the table, a gourmet meal and gift wrapped in lace.

warnings: 18+ content, mdni. fem! reader, modern! au, marriage, lingerie, oral, dirty talk, lots of foreplay, mating press, breeding kink, squirting, discussions of pregnancy & kids, creampie, gojo slander. wc / 4.5k

xoxo, juno: happy birthday to kento ♡

everything has fallen into place.

dinner sits hot and ready in covered pots atop the cooling stove, and a finely decorated cake hides away in its box in the very back of the fridge. it’s a vanilla beauty from his favorite local bakery, replete with fruits adorning the surface of it like gemstones. fresh, airy mousse fills the inside of the cake and adds a new layer of flavor to the celebratory dessert.

Today 6:49 PM Lots of traffic, heading home

kento had sent the message a short while ago, and yet, he’s still not home. it’s a good thing, though, because you’re able spend the extra time making sure that everything is flawless. you’re perched atop the dining table, silk stockings snug against your skin as you readjust your body for the thousandth time.

the idea is rather racy—kento will walk in after a long day and see you, splayed out on the table in a sexy position and draped in lace. knowing him, he’ll drop everything and flush a bright red. there’s absolutely nothing that can get under his skin in the way you do.

you try getting on all fours, arching your back as you do so. it’s simple, and far too forward to be the kind of surprise you’re going for. this production must appear to be brilliant and well thought out, especially since you had scratch your entire initial plan once he got the notice to come into work today from his boss! it was more expensive than it should’ve been to cancel dinner reservations and day bookings, but so what? if kento had to work eight hours on his birthday, of all days, you could still make today a great one without all of the extra amenities.

just acting out the various positions gets your heart racing. he’s only ever taken you on the dining table once, and that was when you’d first moved in together. you’d been joking around, saying something about christening the place, and he took you up on the offer. it was only last year, not long after you’d gotten married. so much has changed since then—buying a new house, paying off debt, and being designated as the hosts of the annual christmas party. (gojo was the most insistent, just to annoy kento.) even so, you’re still like newlyweds, overcoming challenges and having sex very regularly.

on your back with your legs open? no, you think, you’ll wait for him to put you in that position. there are traces of his aftershave and cologne hanging in the air that act as an olfactory aphrodisiac and get you thinking about how his hands would feel along the curves of your body. kento’s not even there, but his effect on you is palpable; your thin panties are getting wet at the thought of him.

how does he plan to fuck you tonight? would he bend you over the table and pound at that spot inside you that makes you dizzy? what if he decided to carry you to the bedroom, in the same way he carried you down the aisle, and take you on the new, clean sheets? you’d be covered in love bites and marks given in the heat of the moment by the time you’re in the shower with him. one of his hands would be between your thighs, under the guise of ‘cleaning up’, when he’d come across the evidence of too much passion.

that half-guilty, half-horny expression would wash over kento’s face, and he’d end up on his knees, happily making up for it.

you’re too damn wound up. every bone in your body and every thought in your head is begging you to do something about it, to finger yourself open to better prepare for being split apart—but you can’t. you won’t, not when you know how much foreplay means to your husband.

keys jingle in the lock.

as the rotor is turning, you’re scrambling to get into position. your knee bangs against the table right when the door opens, and you school your face into a small smile, swallowing down the pain. his hand is on his tie when he turns his head, eyes landing on you.

even after a long day of work, kento looks a little more delicious than he did when he stepped out the door this morning. exhaustion digs lines between his brows, pulling his entire expression into one of neutrality—but there’s a fire in his eyes when he takes you in, looking over you like he can’t believe you’re real.

in an instant, everything else is unimportant. he lets go of his tie and takes a few slow steps closer, eyes crinkling at the corners as he confirms that you are, in fact, real. you’re very much real, although he’s wondering if perhaps his wife has ascended to her true form as a goddess and is awaiting an offering.

he can smell sweet perfume, and the dinner on the stove buried somewhere beneath it.

“hi, kento,” you giggle, like you’re not the reason he’s about to lose his mind. you even wave your fingers at him, your feet kicking idly in the air. god, you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing to him—and you haven’t even touched him yet. you’re laying on your belly, chin propped up on one fist; just past your arm is a dizzying amount of cleavage that’s barely held back by a lacy bra. in his entire life, kento has never once looked twice at anyone’s feet, but now he’s thinking a little more about yours and how tight the silk is around them—what, has the spirit of gojo gotten into him?

“hi, sweetheart,” he must immediately clear his throat to prevent his voice from cracking; his slacks are quickly filling out with all seven and a half inches of his cock. “is this—is this for me?”

your voice is hot enough to make him melt. “it is your birthday, ken. also known as my favorite day of the year.”

bathed in the warm overhead light, kento is standing over you now. despite having been in them all day, his clothes remain smooth, pressed in place by meticulous ironing. he looks good, professional, but you’d much prefer them in a heap on the floor. he looks nothing short of handsome when he laughs, a small smile playing on his lips.

“favorite day, hm? is there any specific reason as to why?”

“i can think of a few,” you purr, now sitting up and on your knees. seeing the lace move with your body as you scoot closer and reach out your hand is just the right amount of tantalizing for tonight. the lace and silk is tight against your skin, yet so delicate it’s nearly splitting at the seams. your palm presses against his abdomen; you can feel the warmth of softened muscle through his dress shirt. “for starters, i get to take care of you.”

light and playful, your fingers trail up, up, up until you get ahold of his tie and pull him in close. you’re almost at his level, and still, even when you’re kneeling on the tabletop, he still manages to be a few inches taller than you.

the spotted tie coils around your fist as you reel him closer, leaning in as if you’re going to give him the kiss he’s been waiting for all day.

“take care of me?” kento echoes, chasing your lips when you draw back, “i thought only one of us could receive the ‘princess treatment’, as you call it.”

your other hand slides into his hair and ruins the neat style of the gel, setting the blonde strands free from their hold. “don’t get me started on all of the gifts i’ve been dying to give you.”

“you got me gifts, angel?” kento feigns surprise, his hands spanning your waist. he’d said there wasn’t a thing he wanted, but you still took it upon yourself to figure him out. “i thought i told you i only wanted to go out to dinner and that i’d be satisfied just spending the day with you, my love. why would i want any gifts when i have you?”

you’re close. close enough to share the same breath. close enough for your voice to be nothing but a whisper against the corner of his mouth.

“i know,” you say, tongue darting out to lick at his lip, “but it’s been torture keeping all of them a secret since april.”

with a rueful chuckle, kento squeezes at your hips and makes you giggle. “okay. are you going to kiss me or are you going to go on about how long you’ve been waiting for my birthday?”

“i think i’ll give you that kiss now, ken.”

after the longest of eternities, his mouth finally meets yours to make good on that kiss he’s been waiting for. it’s simple and easy, as if it’s been done a million times before—his lips are soft, warm, and slow as they kiss the air out of your lungs. finally, once you’re faintly begging for more through gasps or quiet whines, kento’s mouth opens against your own. his tie has momentarily gone slack in your grip; your fingers curl in his short gel-slick hair, pushing him for more.

something in the air shifts and grows a few degrees hotter when you breathlessly open up for him, eyes falling shut. you were supposed to be the one taking care of him, but it seems like it’s quite the opposite when his tongue is sliding against yours, all loose and languid.

you nudge him back, knuckles swathed in his tie. “k-kento, that’s not how this is gonna work. don’t distract me, i have a plan.”

“what, i can’t kiss my wife?” kento murmurs, eyes hooded. “i know you’ve got something planned for me, but it is my birthday. and as the birthday man, i say i want to have my cake and eat it now.”

“birthday man?” you sound incredulous, or maybe you’re just trying to distract him from unwrapping your hand and leaning you back onto the tabletop. he thinks you look very pretty—it’s nothing new, he thinks this everyday and tells you more often than not—tonight, dolled up just for him and full of plans to make his day a great one. “you sound like a clown introducing themselves at a kids’ party. why not just call yourself the birthday boy?”

kento laughs, loosening his tie as he stands over you. “i’m going to be thirty-five this year. i’m pretty sure that ship sailed five years ago.”

he leans in, pressing his lips to your collarbone. slowly, without a single shred of haste, kento begins to pepper kisses along your skin. they’re mostly chaste little pecks, with the occasional nibble and lick combination thrown in when he descends further down your body. he’s drawing it out now, deliberately making you ache for his touch, the relief you’ve only been craving the entire day.

you get a hand in his hair and bite your lip, “kento, do not do this to your wife. if you keep me waiting for more than five seconds from now, we won’t be cuddling tonight.”

please. nine times out of ten, you’re the one who always reaches out for him first. kento trails the tip of his tongue down your belly, just to make you squirm; it’s about time to get down to business once he’s at the ribbony waistband of your panties.

“you’re so impatient, angel. you know i’ll take care of you regardless of how long i make you wait.”

kento drops to his knees before you can retort anything. even though he pretends to be a little exasperated, you know how important the banter is to him—it is the overture to undressing, the setting of a match to a flame. going back and forth is what really keys him up, gets him more excited than anything else.

with his large hands, he spreads your legs and pulls you to the edge of the table for easier mobility. his ring finger twinkles, the silver of his wedding band catching the light. now that kento’s positioned comfortably between your thighs, you’re sitting up on your elbows and watching to see what he’ll do next. instead of tugging your panties down your thighs, he holds your gaze and raises a brow.

“now, this is my kind of mess to come home to,” his thumb presses at the soaked-through fabric and drags along your clothed slit. “is this all from waiting for me, sweetheart? or did you get impatient?”

there’s so much slick in your panties that the fabric is tight against you, making the outline of your pussy very visible. too fast for you to notice, his eyes flick downward, and he sees you clench at the question. more deliberately, his thumb rubs at your clit; you inhale sharply, brows scrunching up.

“yeah—yes. i just couldn’t stop thinking about you, ken. the whole day, i’ve been waiting for you.”

the images flash in his mind, coming together like a movie reel—his pretty girl, his beautiful wife, thinking only of him the entire day. he thinks of how god damn wet you must’ve been when you slipped into the lingerie, sprayed on his favorite perfume, and did your makeup. you put in so much effort, and here he is making you wait, when he should be making you cum.

no more teasing, no more build-up.

kento’s already pulling at your drenched panties, taking great care not to rip them. you’re a gift, but the lacy wrapping isn’t like paper; he’d love to see you wearing this set again, especially on your anniversary. he tugs them to the side, and a moan of relief bursts out of you—just having your pussy exposed to the air is nearly orgasmic.

“if only you could see this pretty pussy right now,” kento actually moans, sliding a thumb through your messy folds, “i’ve never been so thirsty, angel.”

your cheeks are hot, but you spread your legs wider. “so drink up, then.”

“oh, i will,” he pulls his thumb back, and you swear you see his hazel eyes darken at the sight of your sticky arousal clinging to his skin. “is that supposed to be another one of your challenges?”

you clear your throat, feeling slightly more confident. your hand finds its way into his hair again, and is much rougher than last time—the diamond encrusted band of your matching wedding ring drags against his scalp, and his spine straightens. “it’s an order, kento.”

the authoritative voice, the feel of your ring, the usage of his full name? my god, are you trying to make kento explode and stain his slacks?

right then and there, he forgets about his work pants. they’ll end up in the wash anyway, especially since he’s already kneeling on the floor with them. without making you wait a second longer, kento pushes two fingers inside of you and curls them just so you moan and tug at his hair harder. they go in without any resistance, thanks to how soaked you are—he’s pissed he didn’t get home earlier, if this was the state that you were in.

kento’s tongue finds your clit. he flicks the tip of it over the sensitive bud, like he always does before getting down to business, and then he flattens it for you. it feels both silky soft and rough as he licks your clit, only increasing in speed when you moan, wiggling your hips closer. he builds a steady tempo, focusing on pumping his fingers in and out, deep and hard.

“fuck, ken,” you let out a pitched whine, voice breaking on his name. “just like that, please.”

that lets him know that he’s doing something right—but he already knew that he was, judging from the twitching of your thighs and the strained sound of your breathing.

kento’s a very generous man, but even more so as your husband. he doesn’t just get between your thighs to prep you for something bigger, or because you ask him to, but simply because he needs to. constantly, he finds himself craving you, his favorite meal. his ideas of fine dining are a) your pussy or b) freshly made garlic bread. so, what does he do when that sweet tooth in the back of his mouth is acting up?

he spreads your thighs and devours you, licking and slurping up everything you have to give him, and even then, he’ll keep going for more. aside from his persistent thirst for you, kento genuinely can’t get off if he hasn’t eaten you out first. it’s a problem—his pleasure is yours, and going without it is nearly unbearable.

you tug at his hair, insistently pushing his face down. “more, ken. ooh, ‘m so close.”

the wet squelches of your cunt finally make their way to your ears, and god, it’s filthy—you just clench up, pushing impossibly closer. his fingertips are hitting a particularly sensitive spot deep inside of you, each thrust making you see more stars than the last. your jaw drops with every wanton moan falling from your lips, and you’re starting to work your hips forward, rolling them against his fingers and tongue.

hot tears sting in your eyes, a few of them racing down your cheeks and falling onto the lace of your bra. it’s just so much, all at once—your stomach’s twisting and the heat inside of you is now sweltering, running your temperature up like a fever.

“k-kento, baby,” the way you say his name makes his eyes roll back, “nghhh, oh my god, ‘m gonna cum.”

tight as a vise, your thighs squeeze around his head and pull him in. kento’s out of breath when you cum hard all over his fingers, but he just keeps licking until you squirm away, whining from the overstimulation. he’s not trying to be lewd, but it certainly comes across that way when he sticks his fingers into his mouth, sucking away all of your sticky cum. it shines on his lips until he stands and you pull him in by the collar, kissing it away.

you taste bittersweet and a little bit like candy. perhaps this is why kento’s always buried between your thighs, and coming back up with a debauched kind of smile on his face.

“i’m all yours, ken,” you say softly, breaking the kiss to look him in the eye, “so do what you want with me, please.”

a sharp inhale; his nostrils flare slightly. “sweetheart, i—don’t, don’t say that. you know what that does to me.”

you smile teasingly, just to egg him on. you’ve already made quick work of his belt, which dangles loosely at his waist. “of course. that’s why i said it.”

“you—” kento shakes his head in disbelief and huffs, trying his best to come up with a response when the blood flow has diverted from his brain and is going straight to his cock. “you’re just impossible.”

he’s working on divesting himself of his stupid slacks and dress shirt—there are so many pointless buttons that he nearly rips it open—when you start positioning yourself on the table. silk and lace weave around your body in intricate patterns, but some of the lingerie pulls tight in different places, practically begging him to tear it off.

then you start up again, voice smooth and sweetened. “how do you want me, ken? like this, or like thiiiis?”

you’re first on all fours, and then you’re on your side, lifting your leg up to show off the mess between your thighs. this pussy of yours is definitely going to be the death of him one day, he swears.

“tell me, which was the best position for babymaking?” kento’s sliding his dress shirt off, finally letting you see his arms. veins span the length of his lean forearms, but it’s his biceps that always draw your eyes first. thick muscle flexes and ripples under his skin as he stretches, getting ready to hold you in place. although he’d asked you the question, he already knows the answer.

“so that’s what you’ve been waiting to do with me,” you’re now flat on your back, legs spreading so that he can stand between them, “i knew you didn’t show me those articles for nothing.”

“i might’ve been trying to get you thinking more about it,” kento presses your thighs to your chest and pulls you to the edge of the table, “we’ve already talked a lot about it, though. i think we’ve got plenty of time to keep thinking about it, hm?”

“are you sure this isn’t just a fantasy?” you’re both having the kind of conversation that should definitely not be taking place during sex, and he’s running the tip of his cock along your pussy.

he chuckles, rubbing the precum on his tip against your already wet clit. “definitely not just a fantasy, sweetheart.”

“kento, i already said i’m all for it—” you gasp as he pushes inside, slotting his body over yours. this position is probably going to rip your silk stockings, especially with the way your ankles are dangling over his shoulders. “—ooh, fuck—but i haven’t stopped taking the pill yet.”

“then we’ll practice,” kento groans, fingers intertwining with yours, “but right now, i just want to focus on you.”

he fits inside of you like a puzzle piece. a really long, thick puzzle piece, at that—his cock’s a tight fit, but goddamn is it worth the stretch. the new position also seems to work wonders; being folded up like a lawn chair makes you feel like you’re one step closer to finally being full.

“okay if i start moving, my love?” kento’s teeth are digging into his bottom lip, like he’s trying to hold onto his restraint. he really, really wants to fuck you like he has no idea what the word respect means, but he’s holding himself together.

“just put a baby in me, kento.”

it’s only practice, but fuck, that lights the hottest of fires under his ass. before long, kento’s developed a harsh rhythm, one that fills the dining room with the clap of skin against skin. he fills his lungs with air and delivers desperate thrusts that hit your sweet spot every single time—the twitchy squeezes of your cunt around him make his knees want to give out and buckle.

“you’re so good, kento,” you sob out a moan, body rocking with all of his movement. your tits have been bouncing so much that they’ve spilled out of your bra; if he were flexible enough to lean down, he’d start sucking on your hardened nipples. “oh my god, you’re so fucking deep.”

kento nods frantically, feeling the sweat gather at his brow. he’s breathing too hard to respond, all of his energy going into making you scream. he wants you to know how grateful he is to you for going to such lengths for his birthday, even with such short notice. “a-angel, i want you to know,” he grunts, pausing to inhale, “you’re so beautiful like this.”

an intoxicating medley of cologne, perfume, and sweat curls in the air between the two of you. there’s so much happening at once that you only catch the second half of his compliment, but you still smile at him, your face fraught with insatiable desire and some love. you’ve got those hearts in your eyes when you’re looking at him, and the sight makes his own skip a little faster.

“i want you to fill me up, ken,” your voice makes his name sound heavenly, like it’s some kind of sacred prayer. “please, i want you to make me yours.”

“you already are,” at this point, he can barely breathe anymore. kento put a ring on your finger and shares a joint bank account with you, and yet, you’re still begging him to make you his. everything so far isn’t enough, but with a swollen belly, everyone would know what you’d both gotten up to. gojo would finally stop with the play-flirting at get-togethers, and a kid equal parts you and kento would be toddling about the house.

“you know what i mean, ken,” the table’s rocking under all of the movement, but both of you are too wrapped up in one another to hear it. “show me how much starting a family means to you.”

when you’re talking to him like that, kento thinks he could do just about anything. feeling the frantic kick of his heart against his ribcage, he lets out a groan, feeling his orgasm creeping up on him. “it’s all i can think about,” he manages, chest heaving as it works to breathe, “hngh, fuck—fuck, i just want to make you mine forever, angel.”

you can barely answer him, your lips constantly rounding around either gasps or moans of his name. despite the overwhelming noise of your bodies, you can faintly hear yourself sobbing—in fact, you’re nodding too, spurring on his fantasies and daydreams.

there’s a seething pressure building up deep in your gut. desperate to get rid of it, your stomach twists; impending euphoria pounds through your body, steady like the crash of waves on the shore as the tide comes in.

“k-kento, there’s—i can’t hold it, fuck, ‘m gonna—”

you can’t even finish your sentence before you’re cumming hard, pussy abruptly squirting waterfalls all over your husband’s abs. with the extra slip and slide of your cum, it doesn’t take long for him to follow behind you. kento’s hands squeeze yours tight, and he’s gasping, babbling out unintelligible promises to breed you, or something along those lines.

you feel the throbbing of his aching cock against your cervix first—then you can feel the hot spurts of cum as he fills you up, groaning and crumpling on top of you like he’s just been sucker punched. beneath you, the table creaks unsteadily, warning you that it’s meant for sitting at, not sitting on.

it takes some time for kento to straighten up, his flushed face slick with sweat and dry at the corners of his mouth from having eaten you out earlier. he looks so dazed when his eyes meet yours, but he smiles, small and cute. he unfolds your legs from your chest and wraps them around his waist instead, so he can pull you into a hug.

“thank you, sweetheart. for planning so many things for my birthday. for being in my life. for being the person i have the privilege of waking up to every morning.”

your fingers trail lightly along his muscular back, descending down his spine. “happy birthday, kento. i love you, and i wish i could say more, but i’d be giving away everything i wrote in your card.”

he presses a kiss to your face, chuckling as he lifts you up. “we’ll take a shower first, then have dinner. i’ll read it afterward, when we’re having cake and—”

there’s a loud smash as the legs of the table give out from under it, and the whole thing falls onto itself in a pile of polished wood.

you burst into shared laughter, and kento corrects himself with a smile. “shower, then dinner on the couch and a movie. i’ll read your card while you feed me cake, sweetheart.”

#kurooh #nanami smut #nanami x reader #nanami x you #kento x reader #jjk nanami #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #smut #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic

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thenanamis · 2 days ago

Text

That Voice

his voice does something to me...

The lights were low. The sheets half-pulled back. You were lying there in one of his old button-downs, barely done up, thighs bare and skin warm from the shower. A book in your hand, but your attention had long since drifted—more to the sound of water still running in the bathroom and the knowledge that he’d be out any minute.

When Kento stepped into the room, toweling off his hands, his eyes caught yours and stayed there.

“You’re not reading,” he said quietly.

“I was,” you replied, lips twitching. “Then you walked in.”

He approached the bed, slow and deliberate. There was a towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water still rolling down his chest. Your gaze followed one, then flicked back up—just in time to catch the way he was looking at you.

Not rushed. Not playful.

Intentional.

“Do you want me to leave the light on?” he asked, voice quiet.

You shrugged, but it didn’t matter. He leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head. His breath ghosted your cheek.

“Or would you rather I keep speaking to you like this?”

His tone dipped—low, wreck-your-world low—so quiet it almost didn’t reach your ears, but somehow it settled there. Inside your chest. In your spine. Between your legs.

Your book slid from your hand.

“Kento…”

“Mmh.” His mouth brushed your jaw, voice still like silk wrapping around smoke. “That’s it. Say my name again.”

You did. Softer this time. A little breathless.

His fingers brushed the hem of the shirt—his shirt—lifting it just enough to skim your thigh. You felt his voice in your bones now, the low rumble against your skin.

He could’ve kept going. With words alone. He didn’t have to raise his voice. He never did. He could undo you with the way he said “lie back” or “look at me” like it was something sacred.

And when he finally kissed you—deep, slow, spine-melting—it wasn’t a beginning.

It was a response to everything your body had already said in silence.

#signed.mioni #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento x reader #nanami smut #nanami kento #kento nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami #jjk nanami #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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colouredbyd · 22 hours ago

Text

The Great Honey Heist

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: in which flicker (you) teams up with raccoon!barty for a midnight honey heist in the kitchens, only for things to spiral when barty becomes a walking sticky dessert tray, the great escape turns into honey-covered chaos, and both of you are caught red-pawed by the marauders—and a furious regulus with no patience.

warnings: racoon animagi barty, chaos, magical mischief, animagus shenanigans, food theft, excessive food, sticky situations (literally), bickering boys, lots of fluff, mild language, a very dramatic regulus black who did not sign up for this

w/c: 3k

part of my mini blurb series flicker & the marauders masterlist

"Shhh, Barty, they’ll hear us," you whisper, barely containing a laugh as the raccoon at your feet lets out an ecstatic little yippee and spins in a joyful circle, his striped tail flicking like a banner.

He’s practically vibrating with glee, his little raccoon body lit by the silver wash of moonlight pouring through the high castle windows. You crouch beside him, lips pressed tight to stifle a grin, and extend a hand toward the shimmer of fur twitching with excitement.

Barty nuzzles your fingers for half a second before bouncing back with an eager chirp that clearly means Hurry up! The biscuits won’t steal themselves.

With one last glance toward the Gryffindor portrait hole to ensure the coast is clear, you draw in a slow, steady breath. Magic pulses through your veins like a warm ripple—bones compress, limbs twist, your vision shifts and sharpens.

In a heartbeat, you fold into the form you know best: thick red fur wrapping you in warmth, rounded ears flicking toward every sound, paws soft and nimble against the stone, and that ever-rebellious russet tail that’s more trouble than it’s worth.

You are Flicker now.

Barty, already halfway down the corridor in a gleeful scuttle, pauses dramatically at the top of the moving staircase. His tiny paws tap against the stone with the impatience of someone who believes time is being gravely wasted. He glances back, eyes wide and expectant, waiting for you to catch up.

You dart after him, nimble and nearly silent, tail swaying with practiced precision—until, inevitably, it betrays you.

Your tail snags on the edge of a suit of armor.

Clang.

You both freeze. The armor groans under its own weight, metal trembling ominously. You yank your tail free and hurl yourself beneath a nearby tapestry, heart thudding like a war drum. Barty follows with a startled bleep, flinging himself in after you and landing in a graceless heap that tangles both your limbs in a furry mess of panic and poor decisions.

Smooth, you huff, flicking his ear with a paw, tail twitching in irritation.

He chirps back, entirely unfazed, and bolts off again—racing toward the staircases like a raccoon on a mission, tail high and limbs flying.

You sigh and follow, paws thudding softly as you weave between floating candles and shadowy corners, nearly colliding with a wall and skidding past a dozing portrait whose stack of books teeters dangerously.

Barty, of course, is in his element—letting out bursts of delighted chirps and squeaks, tail swishing behind him like the baton of a sugar-crazed conductor orchestrating pure mischief.

At last, you reach the portrait of the fruit bowl, breathless despite not needing lungs in this form. Barty rises on his hind legs and eagerly jabs the pear with both paws. It giggles, squirms, and swings open, revealing the warm, golden heart of the Hogwarts kitchens.

Light spills into the corridor, and with it drifts the heavenly scent of honey, melted butter, and fresh bread. You and Barty exchange one gleeful glance.

Then you’re inside.

The kitchen is quiet, save for the soft clink of cooling cookware and the gentle snore of a house-elf nestled in a bread basket. The hearth casts everything in a haze of honeyed gold, and for a fleeting second, it feels like you’ve stepped into a dream made of sugar and steam.

The plan is simple: quick, clean, quiet. Two jars of honey—three if the coast stays clear. Grab, vanish, leave no crumbs.

That’s the plan.

You head straight for the tall shelves at the back, where the honey sits tucked away like treasure. With a light leap onto the counter, you nose open the pantry door. Rows of golden jars gleam in the dim light. You choose two with swift, practiced precision and turn, tail flicking with quiet pride.

Only to see that Barty is absolutely not following the plan.

He’s across the kitchen, a raccoon-shaped embodiment of chaos. Perched on a top shelf, wobbling dangerously on the rim of a copper pot, he’s clutching at least four buttered biscuits, a wheel of cheese, and—somehow—a treacle tart balanced on his head. And still, impossibly, he’s reaching for more: a jar of something suspiciously syrupy and poorly secured.

You chirp sharply, whiskers twitching with alarm. Barty, you're going to fall.

He glances at you mid-stretch with a look that can only be described as smug, idiotic bravado—like a raccoon who believes, against all odds and evidence, that he was born to defy gravity.

And then he falls—spectacularly, catastrophically, like a raccoon-shaped meteor plummeting toward inevitable, sticky doom.

It is not a graceful tumble. It’s a full-bodied, limbs-splayed catastrophe of a plunge, right into the massive pot just below the shelf—filled, unfortunately, with something dark, viscous, and profoundly sticky.

The squelch of impact is so loud and so utterly grotesque that you physically recoil, ears flattening in secondhand embarrassment.

Barty surfaces a moment later, drenched in molasses and looking like someone tried to deep-fry a stuffed animal.

You scamper across the tiles and peer into the pot. You absolute menace, you squeak, swatting him on the head as he attempts—and fails—to scale the slick metal wall. He slips again with a pathetic slop, paws scrabbling helplessly like a greased-up goblin in a bucket.

With a resigned sigh, you grip the rim and lean in, latching your teeth onto the scruff of his neck. It takes all your strength to haul him upward.

He flops over the edge with all the grace of a dropped pudding, molasses oozing off him in slow, syrupy defeat. His biscuit collection is gone. His pride, probably too.

You open your mouth, ready to scold—because, frankly, he looks like a half-melted tart someone forgot in the sun—when your ears twitch at the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Someone’s coming.

Footsteps, loud and deliberate, echo through the corridor, nothing like the soft, scuffling tread of a house-elf. These are heavier, sharper.

Human.

You both freeze. From the other side of the kitchen, the door creaks open.

A voice, sharp and curious, cuts through the warmth like a knife. “Who's in here?”

The honey jars in your paws tremble. Barty lets out a betrayed little bleep. You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Only stare at the tall shadow spilling across the floor.

You are very much caught.

Barty doesn’t hesitate. The moment the voice echoes through the kitchen, he lunges upright with all the ungainly speed of a raccoon dipped in syrup and grabs your paw with a wild look in his eyes.

You both bolt, paws skidding on the tiles, jars sloshing wildly as you scramble for an escape—but in the chaos, Barty misjudges the corner of a low shelving rack. He crashes into it shoulder-first, sending the entire unit swaying ominously. You try to veer out of the way, but it's too late.

With a tremendous clatter, three heavy containers on the top shelf tip forward and crash down over your heads.

You are immediately and thoroughly buried—one with a collapsing stack of chocolate cake, another spilling a full basin of raspberry jam, and the third dumping a shocking amount of cold ham in wet, smacking slices.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. Jam oozes down your ears. A slice of ham slaps over your eyes like a greasy eye mask.

Barty doesn’t hesitate. The moment the voice echoes through the kitchen again, he lunges upright with all the ungainly speed of a raccoon dipped in syrup and grabs your paw with a wild look in his eyes.

He takes off like a shot, dragging you behind him.

You stumble after him, jars of honey clutched to your chest, paws thudding against the tiles as you scramble to keep up. The jars slosh dangerously with every step, threatening to slip from your grasp, but Barty doesn’t care.

As you both sprint through the kitchen, weaving around tables and swinging past spice racks, Barty begins his descent into further madness. Whatever it is, it sends him grabbing wildly at anything remotely edible within reach.

A baguette? He rolls against it and it sticks to his back.

A fistful of dried cranberries? He belly-flops into the bowl and comes out looking like a fruitcake. A slice of chocolate cake? He rams his shoulder into it like a battering ram, frosting now smeared across his cheek and clinging to his side like a battle wound.

Stop collecting food! you squeak in a desperate whisper, jars still clutched as you leap over a dropped spoon.

By the time you reach the kitchen exit, Barty is twice his normal size, lumpy with ill-gotten goods. Biscuits trail behind him like breadcrumbs. A sausage dangles from his tail. He looks less like a raccoon and more like a rejected dessert trolley on legs.

And that’s exactly the moment the door to the kitchen bursts open.

There’s a shriek. Not from you or Barty—yours is more of a strangled yelp, his is more of a delighted whee!—but from the figure now staring in horrified disbelief at the scene before them.

You don’t stop. You both dart past the intruder, who yells something vaguely accusatory and disgusted, and then you’re back in the corridors, paws pounding, the jars still somehow intact in your grip.

You bolt down one hallway, then another, dodging moving staircases, leaping over stairs, slipping around corners. Barty lags slightly behind now, not because he’s less determined, but because he’s carrying roughly the caloric content of a Christmas feast on his body. He pants heavily, legs wobbling, one eye squinting beneath a dollop of marmalade.

You’re almost at the portrait hole. Almost—

And then a hand shoots out of the shadows and snatches you mid-leap, plucking you clean out of the air like a misbehaving child.

You scream, high-pitched and startled, the jars of honey clutched like precious treasure against your furred chest. Barty slams into your side a second later, a sticky explosion of jam and cheese. He squeaks in protest and flails his sausage-covered tail.

“What the fuck, Flicker?” growls a voice that could only belong to one person on Earth.

You slowly turn your head, heart hammering.

Sirius Black looks murderous.

He’s got you by the scruff, eyes ablaze, one brow twitching dangerously. His hair’s a mess, his dressing gown is half-off one shoulder, and he’s barefoot, which somehow makes the fury worse.

His hand is sticky now from grabbing you, and he looks personally offended by it.

From the far end of the corridor, a voice yells, “BARTEMIUS CROUCH JUNIOR WHAT THE BLOODY HELL—”

You all turn just in time to see Regulus Black, storming toward the kitchen corridor from the dungeons, robes flapping dramatically behind him, wand half-raised. He freezes mid-step as he takes in the scene: his brother holding a honey-covered red panda by the collar, a raccoon with an abnormal amount of food fused to his side like armor, and what appears to be a pie slowly sliding off Barty’s head.

For one perfect, silent moment, he takes it all in.

And Barty—mid-gallop, absolutely covered in what looks like the full dessert table from dinner, a pie slowly sliding sideways off his head like an ill-fated hat.

Without a word, he steps forward, grabs the raccoon cleanly by the tail, lifts him up like he’s an old sock, and takes a long, horrified look at the molasses-glazed disaster in his hand. Jam, frosting, cheese, breadcrumbs, possibly ham—it's really hard to tell.

He drops Barty with absolute disgust immediately like a cursed object. Barty hits the stone floor with a grotesque squelch and lets out a high-pitched, deeply wounded raccoon yelp.

You blink from Sirius’s grip, where you’re dangling like a shameful sugar gremlin. Barty blinks up at you from his sticky puddle of defeat. You both flinch in unison, instinct kicking in.

You bolt left. Barty bolts right.

But Regulus moves like lightning.

His wand is pointed before your paws even leave the ground, voice sharp and cold as steel.

“If either of you,” he says, quiet and dangerous, “even thinks about running for a single bloody second—”

You both freeze.

He takes a step forward, slow, precise, the way predators move when they already know you won’t escape. His eyes, dark as ink and twice as cutting, pin you in place.

“—I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth. And I don’t care if you’re a raccoon, a red panda, or a flaming hippogriff!”

Regulus lunges forward and grabs both of you—one sticky raccoon by the scruff, one red panda by the tail—with the sheer fury of a man who’s done cleaning up other people’s messes and has reached the end of his perfectly pressed rope.

He lifts you both a few inches off the ground, arms locked, nostrils flaring.

“Shift. Back,” he growls, voice low and venom-laced.

Barty whimpers. You glance at him. He glances at you.

And with matching expressions of deep, tragic guilt—you both shift back.

A shimmer of fur becomes limbs, paws become fingers, ears fade, tails retract—and suddenly you’re just two sugar-coated disasters sitting on the cold stone floor, one of you clutching honey jars with sticky fingers, the other hunched under the weight of his biscuit-crusted shame.

Barty, panting, wheezes, “Hii, Reg!”

Sirius drops his head into one hand and sighs.

Before anyone can process that visual assault, two more figures appear from behind the nearest corridor, both out of breath, both armed with wands and worry.

James skids to a stop. “You found her?”

Remus slows behind him, eyeing the honey jars, your guilty face, and Barty’s war-ravaged state. “Is that… is that honey in his ear?”

Sirius sighs even louder. “Where else would she be except the bloody kitchen,” he snaps, voice thick with exasperation and something far too close to fondness.

You blink up at him, still holding the honey, and whisper, “Worth it?”

“If you think for one moment that you’re sleeping anywhere near me tonight,” Regulus hisses, voice razor-sharp, “you’re gravely mistaken.”

Barty, ever unbothered and absurdly pleased with himself, straightens up and winks. “You’ll miss me.”

“I’ll exorcise you,” Regulus deadpans, backing away as if Barty might fling jam in his direction.

You finally climb to your feet, still clutching your honey jars like cherished offspring. Barty dusts himself off, then slinks an arm around your shoulders like this has been a roaring success. The squelch is immediate.

You recoil. “Ewww, Barty, you’ve got jam on me!”

He grins, the picture of innocence beneath a frosting-smeared forehead. “Relax, Trouble. It’s raspberry. You love raspberries!”

You glare up at him, unimpressed, and swipe at your now-sticky arm. “I also love not smelling like an exploded dessert cart.”

Behind you, Remus steps closer, giving both you and Barty a long, exhausted once-over. His jumper is askew, his hair rumpled, and his face reads exactly what everyone else is too tired to say aloud: Why am I always cleaning up your messes?

“You need a shower,” he says flatly.

James, who’s just catching his breath, nods in agreement. “More like three.”

Sirius, still holding his sticky hand out like it personally offended him, chimes in with a grimace, “I’m going to bleach my skin.”

You step away from Barty, only for his jam-coated tail of crumbs to swish against your leg as he tries to look suave again. “You know, for two sneaky animagi, I think we did pretty well.”

“Pretty well?” you echo.

“You only got caught once.”

You scoff. “Barty, we almost got murdered by Regulus and disowned by Sirius.”

“Almost, Trouble.” He wiggles his brows. “It’s the almost that counts.”

Remus sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Come on, both of you. Showers. Now.”

You groan, trying to twist out of James’s grip, but he has you firmly by the wrist and is dragging you down the corridor like a grumpy older brother. “No arguments,” he says, eyes ahead.

“You’re going straight to the showers before you start attracting ants.”

Behind you, Barty is putting up a very different kind of fight.

Regulus has him by the back of his robes, hauling him like an unruly toddler while cursing furiously in French under his breath

Barty, unfazed and still somehow cheerful despite the fact that half a treacle tart is sliding down his back, twists around to wave at you with a jam-coated hand.

“Best honey heist ever!” he calls, grinning like he’s just won an award.

You grin back and wave with your free hand, the other still wrapped protectively around your precious jar of honey. “See you later, Junior!”

Regulus lets out a hiss of disgust and mutters, “Non, tu ne la reverras plus, elle mérite mieux—”

James snorts. “I think he just proposed murder,” he says to Sirius, who nods solemnly.

“Romantic,” Sirius deadpans. “In a Slytherin kind of way.”

At the end of the corridor, Remus waits, arms crossed, tired but patient. As James steers you in his direction, you slow, holding out one of the jars of honey. “Here,” you say, cheeks still warm from laughter. “For you.”

He blinks. “Me?”

You nod. “Yeah. I heard you saying last night that you ran out of honey for your tea. So… I got you some.”

Remus stares down at the jar in surprise, like it’s something precious. His lips part, clearly touched—but before he can form a response, Sirius howls with laughter behind you.

“You know,” he gasps, leaning against the wall for support, “there are easier ways to get Moony honey!”

James practically chokes.

You whip your head around. “Sirius!”

“What?” he grins. “I’m just saying, less trouble.”

You shake your head, cheeks flushed, and mumble, “I was trying to be sweet.”

Sirius wiggles his eyebrows. “Oh, love, you’re sweet. The method, though…”

You finally laugh, breathless and bright, as James pushes open the bathroom door and steers you inside.

Barty’s probably still arguing with Regulus in the Slytherin dorms, leaving sticky footprints for Regulus to clean up.

You try to dig your heels in at the threshold, making a noise of protest. “Do I have to shower? I’m already, like, seventy percent dessert. What’s the point?”

Sirius pokes his head in behind James, eyeing the jam in your hair with a smirk. “Because if we let you go to bed like this, you’ll wake up glued to the sheets.”

“You smell like a fruit basket, dovey,” Remus says gently, already turning the tap with a resigned smile. “And I say that with love.”

You pout, dramatically, arms still wrapped around your jar of honey like a child clutching a toy. “I risked my life for this.”

“And we adore you for it,” James says, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he tries to peel off a glob of frosting from your shoulder. “But we’re not sleeping next to this.”

Sirius grins, arms folded. “Speak for yourself. Personally, I think it’s kind of hot.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “You thought it was hot when she transfigured a spoon into a squirrel last week.”

Sirius shrugs. “What can I say? I have a type.”

You roll your eyes, heart warm despite the sugar-crusted state of your limbs.

Because even though you're stickier than you’ve ever been, molasses in your hair and your dignity somewhere between the chocolate cake and the raspberry jam, they’re all still looking at you like you hung the stars.

And they’ve never loved you more.

Laughter bubbles in the tiny bathroom, warm and alive and sweet as the sugar clinging to your skin.

And as you finally give in and step under the spray, their voices tangled in affection and teasing behind you, you can’t help but smile—because no matter what Regulus says, this will go down in Hogwarts history as The Great Honey Heist.

#flicker & the marauders #marauders era #marauders x reader #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x reader fluff #poly!marauders fluff #remus lupin angst #poly!marauders fic #dead gay wizards from the 70s #marauders fluff #remus lupin x reader fluff #sirius black x reader #james potter x reader #remus lupin fluff #james potter fluff #sirius black fluff #marauders drabble #sirius black x reader fluff #james potter x reader fluff

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wendichester · 2 days ago

Note

hello ! could you please do a hurt/comfort fic for Dean? I’m talking like gut wrenching. Him sobbing and the reader having to comfort him. ;)

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ what’s left when you're gone,

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. heartbreaking

wordcount. 567

notes / warnings. death of a loved one (sam), intense emotional breakdown, sobbing, grief, ptsd-level panic, dean being completely undone, reader comforting dean through physical/emotional collapse, canon-level pain (set during/after 2x21), soft intimacy amid devastation

It’s not the first time you’ve seen Dean hurt.

You’ve seen him bruised and bloody. Seen him drag himself out of burning buildings, adrenaline masking wounds that would’ve leveled most men. You’ve watched him stitch his own side shut in the back of a stolen car. You’ve watched him limp away from wreckage, lip split, breathing hard.

But this— This isn’t pain. It’s obliteration.

He’s on his knees, hands in his hair, and there’s blood on his shirt that isn’t his. It’s Sam’s. The collar’s soaked with it. It’s dried into his jacket now, dark and sticky. You don’t think he’s noticed.

You don’t think he’s noticed anything since the moment Sam stopped breathing.

He’d been screaming at first.

Begging. Cursing. Praying to nothing.

Now it’s gone quiet. But not calm.

There’s this raw, ragged sound tearing out of his chest—half-sob, half-animal noise—and he’s gasping like he can’t figure out how lungs are supposed to work anymore.

“Dean,” you whisper, kneeling beside him. Your voice is shaking. Your whole body is shaking. “Dean, he’s gone—”

“Don’t,” he snarls, suddenly, violently. His voice cracks on it. “Don’t say it like it’s done.”

You stop cold.

He curls over, fingers digging into the ground. “He was just here. I was—he looked at me. I was holding him and—fuck, I felt him go.”

You swallow back the sob building in your own throat. “I know.”

“You don’t.” Dean’s voice drops to something wrecked, too soft to withstand. “You don’t get it. He was my kid. He was everything. I kept him safe. I was supposed to—”

His breath catches.

And then he shatters.

You barely catch him in time—his weight slumping forward, head pressing into your shoulder, arms clinging to your sides like if he lets go, he’ll disappear too.

His whole body is wracked with sobs. Harsh, wet, gasping things. He’s not even trying to hold them back. And god, it’s louder than anything you’ve ever heard from him—like years of grief and guilt and pressure are breaking loose in one unbearable instant.

You cradle him to you like it’s instinct.

You hold the back of his neck. Card your fingers through his hair. Feel the way he buries his face into the crook of your shoulder and just weeps—shaking, choking, broken.

“I should’ve saved him,” he chokes out. “I should’ve—I promised him. I was supposed to die first.”

You close your eyes. It’s the only way to keep your own tears from spilling over.

You whisper, “You loved him more than your own life.”

“I still do,” he says. “I still do, and he’s gone.”

You sit there like that for god knows how long—on the floor of a dirty cabin, blood and salt and grief hanging in the air like smoke. And you hold Dean while he breaks into pieces.

Not gently. Not quietly. Messily. Loudly. Without shame.

And when he finally quiets, when the sobs fade into hiccuped breaths and bone-deep exhaustion, he’s still clinging to you.

“I don’t know how to do this without him,” he whispers.

You press your forehead to his temple. “You won’t have to. Not alone.”

Dean’s silent. Just nods, almost imperceptibly, like it’s all he can manage.

You don’t say it’ll be okay.

Because it won’t. Not for a long time.

But you stay there. Holding what’s left of him.

And for tonight, that’s all either of you can do.

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#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx #.req #d : what’s left when you're gone

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ladycharlottexoxo · 2 days ago

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3 WITH SEVIKA PLEASEEE

smut prompts · ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜᴇꜱ ⋆⋆⋆

depression sex, g!p sevika, praise kink, bulging, implication of round two and cowgirl position

⊹ ࣪ ˖ you'd been so down lately, every inch of your bone ached from the depressing thoughts that clouded your brain. sevika noticed, she always did whenever you were spiralling. this time however it was like no other time before— it was slowly starting to chip away at you: eyebags darker than before, face thinner and body weaker.

sevika tilted your head up today morning, it was a sunday morning and the birds were chirping outside the cramped apartment both of you shared. your eyes barely opened, groggy and swollen despite having slept over twelve fulfilling hours.

but then you felt it, her morning wood pressing against your thigh, you smiled at her lazily.

“are you gonna fuck the depression out of me?” you teased. sevika gulped, throat bobbing. her grey eyes flicked down to your frail frame before she grabbed the blankets a bit tighter and nodded silently.

“would you like that?” you gave her a nod back.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ her cock was harder than you'd ever seen it, your hand wrapped around the warm shaft and you swiped your thumb over the weeping tip of her cock, smiling so sweetly at her. “you wanna put it in my warm pussy?” you teased and sevika grunted in response. she shifted, leaning between your legs and holding your knees gently.

“tell me if you want me to stop,” sevika pushed the head of your cock against your pantie-covered pussy. you spread your legs further and sevika pushed your panties to the side— thrusting in all at once. you gasped and moaned as you felt the way her big dick stretched you out, your pussy tightened around her thick member.

“oh my god baby i forgot how big you were,” you moaned aloud, holding the sheets tighter with every thrust. sevika's brows were knitted together and sweat trickled down the middle of her bouncing breasts as she set a punishing pace, your hole feeling more full than ever.

“you like it when i stretch out this pretty cunt? you're soaking for me,” sevika pulled the hood of your pussy back, rubbing your clit making you see stars.

“yes i love it! nnngh!”

⊹ ࣪ ˖ pleasure coursed through your entire body, threatening to take over the entirety of your brain as her cock pounded your pussy raw. your legs were on her shoulders now and she was hitting deeper than ever before as she whispered in your ear about how pretty you looked— all ruined for her. “vika please!”

you screamed her name as your hips arched off the bed but sevika firmly held your lower abdomen where she could feel the bulging of her dick— pushing you down flat against the mattress as she ruined your cunt. “takin’ me so well, angel, this cunt was made for me,” she breathed out. “it feels so good, s-so— AHH!”

your pussy convulsed, squirting your release all over her cock and abs. sevika pulled out, hastily pulling your panties off which tore half way down and thrusted inside into your sensitive hole making you gasp and writhe. “vika! vika!” you squeaked out her name. she was relentless, making your clit throb in need.

“fuck,” sevikas deep voice sounded out and she pulled her thick member out, letting it slap against your abdomen, soaking your torso and face with thick ropes of semen.

you grinned lazily. “that was amazing...”

“fucked the sadness right outta ya’,” sevika pulled you in her lap and kissed you deeply, slowly inserting herself in again. “round two, ride it, cowgirl.”

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thatonegrimm · 4 hours ago

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Hi, do you take solo reqs for the boys? If so can I get a scenario of how would Jinu protect the reader from Gwi-ma? I got inspired by this one fanart where he just goes ABSOLUTELY FERAL in protecting Rumi from Gwi-ma and I want smth like that cause its hot lol, full fangs demon form and claws and all (Lets pretend that he didnt sacrifice himself and fought with the reader/rumi in the climax)

Yes, I absolutely take solo requests—and I love this one. 👀💥 Full feral Jinu? Fangs, claws, and no self-sacrificing in sight? Say less.

What is this “death” you speak of? Never heard of it. 😌 Let’s pretend he stayed and fought beside you and Rumi—because honestly? That’s hotter anyway.

When He Stops Holding Back

Summary: Jinu was always quiet. Always careful. Until the night you nearly died—when he stopped holding back. What he becomes to protect you is terrifying, beautiful, and something he never meant for you to see.

TW: light angst

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

You’d always known Jinu was powerful.

Not just from the way the others deferred to him, or how his gaze could silence a room when he chose to let it harden. But from something quieter. Something deeper. The stillness he carried, like a lake right before it cracked under ice.

But you had never seen him like this.

Not until tonight.

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

The battlefield is chaos.

Magic burns in the air, crackling wild and angry. The ground is a ruin of scorched stone and shattered barriers. Screams echo—some human, some not. And at the center of it all: Gwi-Ma.

He’s not just fire anymore.

He’s becoming—pulling solid mass out of flame, his body forging itself into jagged muscle and molten bone with every soul he devours. His core pulses orange-gold, rage and hunger made real.

You and Rumi move together, blades drawn, breath ragged. You’ve fought demons before—but this isn’t a battle. It’s a countdown.

And you’re running out of time.

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

You don’t see the blow coming.

One moment you’re moving—dodging, slashing, circling behind Rumi—and the next, the heat shifts. It changes direction.

You feel it before you hear it: a deep crackle, the air thickening into pressure so intense it sucks the breath from your lungs. And then you hear it—like a furnace detonating. A sound that comes with the gut-deep certainty that this one’s meant for you.

You turn—too slow.

Flames, not just heat, come screaming toward you, coiled into tendrils of living fire, spiraling like whips. You flinch back instinctively. There’s nowhere to go. Nothing to block it.

You see your death coming—sharp, searing, inevitable.

You hear Rumi scream your name.

And then

He’s there.

Jinu slams into you from the side like a meteor. His arm wraps around your waist, the momentum sending both of you flying out of the tendrils’ path. The world flips sideways, then crashes into stone. You hit the ground hard—your shoulder first, then your back, the impact ripping the air from your lungs.

You tumble once, twice, before slamming into a half-toppled pillar. Pain blooms white-hot across your ribs. Your weapon skids away, forgotten in the rubble. The stone beneath you radiates with leftover heat—Gwi-Ma’s fire still lingering in the cracks.

Your body screams. You can’t breathe. Smoke stings your eyes.

But you’re alive.

And when you blink—gasping, shaking, trying to remember how to exist—you see him.

Jinu.

He’s already standing between you and the flames, posture tense, head low, back rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths. The fire-light paints his figure in gold and violet. His control is gone.

And something inside him has snapped wide open.

Magic bleeds off him in thick pulses. His hands are claws now. His skin glows faint lilac, and just beneath the surface, markings twitch like they're coming alive. You can feel the air warping around him, not from Gwi-Ma—but from him.

And when he lifts his head, just slightly, you see the flash of his eyes—Molten gold. Slit. Feral.

You’ve never seen him like this.

You’ve never seen anyone like this.

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

He’s not hiding anymore.

Gone is the careful, controlled expression. Gone is the boy who laughed too softly and made finger hearts when he didn’t know what to say—the one who was all awkward charm and warm silences, who rarely asked for attention even when he deserved it.

Standing between you and Gwi-Ma now is something untamed.

Jinu’s demon form is fully unleashed.

His skin glows a low, shimmering lilac—lit from within, like starlight trapped under flesh. Deep violet markings fracture across him like lightning frozen in time, etched into his body like ancient scripture. The lines pulse with a rhythm that doesn’t feel human—alive, erratic, too vast to name.

They crawl up his throat, wrap around his neck like a collar of flame, fan across his shoulders and arms in jagged, brutal shapes. His chest rises and falls in heaving bursts, but he doesn’t falter. If anything, he looks more solid than you’ve ever seen him.

More real.

His hands are clawed—curved and gleaming, capable of tearing through steel. His fangs catch the firelight when he snarls, long and bone-white and meant to sink into something. Even the air around him changes, heavier, thrumming with power that buzzes in your bones.

And his eyes—Gods, his eyes—

They’re molten gold, split vertically down the center, shining with a fury so wild, so all-consuming, it doesn’t look like it belongs in this world. Those aren’t the eyes of someone protecting you.

Those are the eyes of someone who saw the thing that tried to take you—and decided to destroy it.

For a second, you can’t breathe.

Because it’s not just rage written across his face—it’s something deeper. Possession. Loyalty. A kind of terrifying, unshakable devotion. He’s not just standing in front of you.

He’s drawing a line in the battlefield.

And everything on the wrong side of it is about to burn.

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

You barely register the way Gwi-Ma falters at the sight of him.

But you feel it.

A shift in the air—sharp, almost electric. The fire demon’s body hiccups mid-formation, flames crackling unevenly along his shoulders, one molten arm stuttering as it tries to reform. His golden core pulses too fast, like it’s bracing for impact.

For the first time since the battle began, Gwi-Ma hesitates.

Not because of some clever strategy.

Because of Jinu.

Because whatever he sees standing across from him—lilac skin glowing with ancient markings, golden eyes burning with wrath so focused it borders on divine—it’s enough to make even a creature born of fire and death reconsider.

Jinu doesn’t give him the chance.

He lunges.

No war cry. No warning. Just movement—impossibly fast, like he was launched from the earth itself. One second he's standing; the next, he's a blur of claws and glowing lines, carving through flame like it’s mist.

He crashes into Gwi-Ma with enough force to rupture the stone beneath their feet, claws slamming into molten skin. There’s a flash—fire and magic colliding—a crackling roar as demon meets demon in raw, brutal chaos.

Gwi-Ma howls, staggered.

But Jinu doesn’t stop.

He drives him back with relentless precision—strike after strike, claw after claw, tearing through Gwi-Ma’s forming limbs before they can stabilize. It’s not clean. It’s not elegant.

It’s furious.

It’s the kind of fighting born not from discipline—but from refusal. Refusal to let this thing touch you again. Refusal to let it exist.

And gods, it's working.

For the first time, the fire recoils.

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

The fight is brutal.

Not fast. Not cinematic. Not the kind of battle you can watch and cheer for.

It’s the kind of violence that silences even the wind.

Jinu doesn’t shout commands or call for backup. He doesn’t bark warnings to the others, doesn’t signal to regroup. He doesn’t speak at all.

He just moves—with unrelenting purpose.

He tears through Gwi-Ma’s fire-hardened body like it’s made of wet paper—still flickering, still fusing itself from the souls it devoured, trying desperately to become solid enough to fight back.

But Jinu doesn’t give it time.

Each strike is fast, deliberate, devastating. His claws don’t just cut—they rend, breaking through half-formed limbs before they can anchor. One swipe splits open Gwi-Ma’s chest in a burst of sparks. Another severs a flaming tendril before it can strike a second time. Every motion is exact. Like he’s not reacting—he’s calculating. Like he's memorized every weak point and is now dismantling the demon piece by piece.

And all the while, the heat doesn’t touch him.

The flames lick at his skin and recoil. They part around him like he’s something older than fire—something it remembers, and fears. The battlefield bends to him, just slightly, like even the broken ground recognizes what’s been unleashed.

You’ve seen the others fight before. You’ve even seen Jinu spar—measured, graceful, held together by discipline.

But this… This is something else.

This isn’t practice. This isn’t strategy. This is personal.

He’s not holding back. Not his strength. Not his speed. Not his rage.

And not the part of himself he’s always kept tucked behind awkward silences, downcast eyes, quiet jokes that barely landed. The part of him that flinched when others flinched at demons. The part he never wanted you to see.

He’s unmade every mask.

And he’s doing it for you.

Not because he wants to be seen. But because you almost died.

And now he’s making sure nothing touches you again.

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

You watch, helpless and awed, as the fury unfolds before you—violent, beautiful, and burning itself alive. You try to stand, legs trembling, but your knees nearly give. The air still tastes like smoke and magic—thick and electric—and you can’t stop shaking.

Rumi appears beside you, slipping an arm around your waist before you can fall again. She’s bruised, bleeding from a cut along her jaw, but her grip is steady. Her eyes, though—they’re locked on Jinu.

And for the first time all night, they’re afraid.

“He’s burning himself out,” she says, voice low but urgent. “Look at him.”

You do.

He’s a silhouette of fury—claws flashing, markings flaring bright enough to cast long shadows across the scorched ground. The heat warps the air around him. Every strike comes with a low thunderclap, like his power is cracking against the edges of his own body. Like he doesn’t care if it breaks him.

“He’s not pacing himself,” Rumi mutters. “Not pulling back. Not leaving room to recover.”

She swallows hard.

“He’s not going to stop until Gwi-Ma’s ash.”

You watch as Jinu lands another hit, driving Gwi-Ma backward with a force that rattles through the stone. But his breath stutters. His shoulders hitch.

And suddenly it hits you.

He’s not fighting to survive this.

He’s fighting like you dying would’ve been the end of him.

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

The final blow isn’t flashy.

It’s personal.

There’s no spell. No triumphant cry. Just the sound of something ancient being done holding back.

Jinu grabs Gwi-Ma by what remains of his solidifying torso, claws digging past searing flame and cracked bone. The demon writhes, howling as molten limbs twist and reform, trying to survive, trying to claw one more breath out of the ashes.

But Jinu doesn't let go.

He lifts him—his entire body illuminated from within, markings pulsing like a heartbeat—and slams Gwi-Ma into the ground so hard that the cracked stone beneath them splits with a deafening crack. The battlefield shakes. The sky responds with thunder.

And before the demon can pull itself back together—before it can even fully scream—

Jinu drives his claws straight into Gwi-Ma’s core.

Not just into the chest. Into the heart of the thing. The golden flicker at the center of its being—the fire that was never just fire, but every soul it had stolen, every scream it had hoarded.

His claws sink into that light.

And rip.

The fire sputters.

Shudders.

And then—shrinks.

It doesn’t explode. It folds in on itself, like a flame starving for oxygen, collapsing with a desperate, high-pitched whine.

The moment it dies, a pulse of force rolls outward in a perfect ring soft and silent, like the world letting out a breath it had been holding since this all began.

And then—

Gwi-Ma crumbles.

His limbs turn to ash. His twisted face dissolves. The molten veins running through the earth dim, then vanish.

The fire dies.

The air stills.

And the battlefield, for the first time in hours, falls quiet.

It’s over.

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

The fire dies.

The air stills.

And the battlefield, for the first time in hours, falls quiet.

You don’t move. No one does.

For a moment, all you can hear is the hush of ash settling.

Somewhere in the distance, someone sobs. A weapon clatters to the ground. The sky—blackened by fire—begins to clear, just slightly.

But your eyes stay fixed on the center of it all.

Jinu is on his knees in the center of the wreckage, shoulders hunched, claws still buried in scorched earth. His chest rises and falls in shallow, ragged breaths. The markings on his body are glitching—bright, then dim, like a light trying to go out but refusing to die.

You move to him slowly.

“Jinu,” you whisper, kneeling in front of him.

He doesn’t lift his head.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice rough and low. “Don’t—don’t look at me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m still worth trusting.”

His golden eyes flicker up to meet yours, and your chest aches.

You don’t see a monster. You don’t even see the demon.

You see the boy who makes you soup when you’re sick. Who covers your eyes during gory movies even though he’s the one who’s squeamish. Who texts you updates on your favorite shows just so you won’t fall behind.

“I saw what you did,” you say softly. “And all I feel is lucky.”

He flinches at that. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this. I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his jaw. “You saved me. That’s all I saw.”

He trembles.

And then—you lean in.

You kiss him.

It’s not frantic. Not rushed or desperate.

It’s grounding. Honest. Your lips meet his slowly, carefully, with the same patience he’s always given you. His claws twitch, then still. His breath catches. And the glow in his eyes softens.

When you pull back, he looks wrecked.

“Why?” he whispers.

You brush your thumb along the line of his jaw, where his markings pulse just faintly beneath the skin.

“Because you didn’t scare me,” you say again. “You’ve never scared me, Jinu.”

You pause, then add:

“But if anyone else had gotten between us tonight—I think you would’ve scared them.”

A slow, broken laugh escapes him.

And then, finally, he exhales.

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

The fire’s gone. The night is still.

But in the center of the battlefield—surrounded by ash and ruin and moonlight—Jinu lets himself be held.

His claws don’t pull away. His body doesn’t tense. He leans into your arms like he’s never done before, like he doesn’t care who sees the glow beneath his skin, or the jagged markings, or the boy beneath all of it who’s still learning how to be loved.

And for the first time, he lets himself be seen—All of him.

And you don’t look away.

You never would.

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

M-List

#jinu x reader #kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #kpop demon hunters #kpdh

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sharieb · 2 days ago

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Fragments of Her Light 1: A Cup Beyond the Fog

Synopsis: In the aftermath of a soul-shattering loss, he can no longer dream of her, only remember. Haunted by grief and consumed by obsession, he throws himself into a desperate search across rifts, ruins, and cosmic impossibilities to find the one he lost to the Overseer. With each dead end, his sanity frays, yet he refuses to stop. But just as all hope begins to feel hollow, a strange café begins to surface in whispers, its name echoing something once sacred. Drawn in without understanding why, he unknowingly takes the first true step toward her, a step that will change everything.

Pairing: LADS x Non-MC! reader

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort Content warning: Angst, mention of implied death, obsession, cosmic/divine interference

Music for the chapter: On the Nature of Daylight by Max Richter

youtube

Word count: + 1.1K Writer's notes: Hello, my lovelies. I'm so sorry for the delay. Many things have been going on all day today that I didn't get to post this as soon as I promised 🙇🏾‍♀️. For new readers who just stumbled upon this fic first, I would highly recommend that you read my Held in the Hollowed Fragments series first and then come back and read this sequel. But here it is. What you all been waiting for. I hope you all enjoy the first chapter of Fragments of Her Light.

He hadn’t slept in days. Not properly, not since the last time he held her body in the fog, still and cold in his arms. The scent of her still lingered in his chest, the memory of her warmth burned into his hands, and the silence she left behind had carved itself into the marrow of his bones.

He, who had once held her gaze and carried a piece of her soul, were unraveling in their own ways. Grief seeped into his days, etched into every hour, until the ache of her absence became indistinguishable from breath.

He searched.

But no dream had come since. Only fragments. Static. A chasm where her soul once tethered his to the other side. He keeps searching.

He had redirected nearly half of Skyhaven’s surveillance satellites to monitor dimensional rift activity. He analyzed cross-dimensional energy pulses, tracing the faintest disruptions in gravity wells and cosmic distortions for any sign of where she might have been taken. The data was inconsistent, barely coherent, but he refused to stop. He combed through thousands of archived dream recordings, fed them into predictive AIs, and layered every possible reading onto the orbital patterns around known and unknown rifts. Nothing concrete emerged.

He burned through every coded evolutionary theorem on soul resonance, refusing sleep even as his body shut down around him. He had taken over the quietest wing of Akso Hospital’s upper labs, surrounding himself with data filters, spiritual scanning drones, and discarded prototypes of resonance amplifiers. He mapped forgotten metaphysical equations into evolving spirals, trying to replicate the way her presence had once affected his vitals. It was madness disguised as science.

He tirelessly roamed the ocean’s deepest trenches and silenced ruins, scouring coral-encrusted temples and forgotten sanctuaries for any ancient relics or soul-bound artefacts that might guide him to her. When the currents quieted and the ruins offered nothing, he would surface and paint. Again and again. Sketches lined his walls: portraits of her in different lights, moods, and fragments of memory. He refused to forget her face.

He salvaged rusted circuits and shattered stabilizers from the broken remains of his old spaceship tech. He began rebuilding by hand. He reignited dormant starfield scanners, rewired faulty dream-broadcast modules, and manually recalibrated prototype signal receivers to tune into frequencies that defied regulation. Night after night, he tested each array against the backdrop of space.

He stopped being strategic. He was desperate now. Silent, sharp, volatile. He hunted down every lead with reckless determination, pulling favours, calling in old debts, and bartering both legally and illegally for anything that might help him locate her across the universe. Every black market relic or discarded wormhole theory was another shot in the dark he refused to ignore. He didn’t care about danger or cost; only the results. And if tearing through the underworld of space-time gave him one inch closer to her, he’d keep going until the universe bled.

She was gone. But not erased.

Taken by no other than:

The Supreme Cosmic Overseer.

Unlike Astra, the Overseer did not play games. They were not a trickster or a gambler of souls. They were something far older. A sovereign of balance and cosmic order. They had governed the rise and fall of galaxies without cruelty, but with unwavering precision. They did not toy with fate. They enforced it.

And when they took her, it wasn’t with malice. It was with purpose.

That was what made it worse.

So he continued to search blindly. Untethered. Grasping only at echoes. And with each dead end, each echo that dissolved into silence, each path that led nowhere, he became more and more frustrated and desperate. The calm resolve that once guided him gave way to a gnawing obsession; his thoughts looped endlessly around her, every moment without a lead like static screaming through his skull. His temper shortened. His sleep vanished. He snapped at those who tried to help, rejected rest like it was betrayal, and chased after even the faintest whispers of her with feral desperation. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Not until something, anything, led him back to her.

Then the rumor came.

It started small.

A passing comment. “There’s this weird new café downtown. No one saw it being built, but it’s... there. Like it always existed.”

Destiny Café

It had become something of a phenomenon.

At first, it appeared quietly, just another quaint little shop tucked between two buildings in a side street no one remembered existing before. But now? Everyone was talking about it. Review boards were flooded with glowing praise. Influencers posted aesthetic shots of shimmering drinks that changed color in different light. Every drink tasted exactly the way you needed. Every dish warmed something beyond the stomach. There was something timeless in its charm.

It wasn’t just the ambience, the low lighting, the scent of cinnamon and something sweeter, but the sense of comfort that settled deep in your bones the moment you stepped inside. The café made you feel... remembered. Known.

Most thought it was just a cozy refuge.

But it got under their skin. Friends started suggesting it, innocently, offhandedly, as if the universe was nudging him toward something he couldn't see yet.

Thomas had begged him to go.

"Sir, you haven’t been out of the studio in days. You’re twitching over paint thinner fumes. Go. Drink a tea. Find your soul or whatever."

His colleagues at the hospital brought it up during a rare lunch break.

"They’ve got a lavender honey espresso that’s been driving the nurses wild. It even helped Dr. Greyson sleep through a full night for once. You should try it."

He received three independent recommendations in one day. From his lieutenant. From Gideon. And, surprisingly, from one of his AI units, which had spontaneously updated its destination preferences to mark the café as a: ‘Mental Recovery Priority Site.’

He heard it from the twins.

"Boss, I swear if you don’t get out of this bunker for an hour, we’re staging a rebellion. People keep saying that this place is magic. You like creepy things. Go blend into the velvet wallpaper or something."

His field agent group chat wouldn’t shut up about it. One of them sent a picture of a menu item that simply read: For the Forgotten One A dessert that shimmered between shapes, never looking the same twice.

He unknowingly had the same thought as he stared at the café’s name, echoing back from messages, overheard conversations, and the subtle pull that had drawn him here:

Why that name?

Why now?

And why did it sound so much like her?

When he finally stood outside the doorway, alone, unaware of the others, he barely thought about it. To him, it was just an ordinary café, tucked away like hundreds of others, a small curiosity on a grey day.

He didn’t question the name this time. Or the timing. Or the warmth that radiated from the door as his hand hovered over the handle. Not yet.

He didn’t know this would be the first real step.

The first solid, undeniable step back to her.

#love and deepspace reactions #lads x non mc #lad x non mc #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #caleb love and deepspace #zayne x non mc! reader #xavier x non mc! reader #caleb x non mc! reader #rafayel x non mc! reader #sylus x non mc! reader #lads angst #lads hurt/comfort #Youtube

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gurugirl · 22 hours ago

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mean king sneaky

1.5k word mean king!harry chapter 6 sneak peek.

enjoy!

When she sighed into the kiss, he took it as permission, slipping a hand to the curve of her waist, guiding her closer. Her thigh brushed his, and he felt the hitch in her breath at the contact.

“You needn’t be afraid,” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers as he broke the kiss only long enough to see her eyes. “We shall take our time.”

“I’m not afraid of the kiss,” she said. “Only the bit that comes next.”

He smiled. “We'll only get to that bit when you're ready. And when you are, I'll make certain you find it as sweet as you need.”

He kissed her again, deeper. His hand slipped behind her, tracing the gentle arch of her back, encouraging her to lean into him. And she did, cautiously at first, until her chest pressed to his, and her hands clutched his arms for balance.

She could feel the heat of him through her thin chemise, the strength of him, solid and broad, yet somehow still tender. His touch remained patient, adoring, but each movement was deliberate, as though mapping her with his fingers and lips.

She startled a little when his palm swept over her hip and down to the back of her thigh. He paused, pulling back just enough to look her over. He needed to calm himself before he wound up devouring every inch of her like he wanted. Looking at her face, he saw only a beautiful woman, clinging to him, wanting… But he had to keep gentle with her. For now.

“Is this too much?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. I'm trying to settle myself.”

“Shall we stop?”

“No,” she whispered, her cheeks blooming with heat. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened, and he leaned in again, placing a kiss beneath her ear. “As you wish.”

He'd imagined the filthiest things with her earlier in the day. Stroked his cock to an image he'd conjured of her, spread out on his velvet blanket, hips jerking and writhing for him as he teased her slowly. He'd released the moment he imagined himself within her. He couldn't even begin to know how soft and wet she'd be, how she'd feel encasing him…

With great care, he guided her onto her back along the divan, the velvet cushions yielding beneath her. He followed, half atop her, propped on one elbow so as not to press his full weight against her. His other hand drifted slowly along the line of her hip, then upward, tracing the side of her ribcage through the soft fabric of her shift.

She arched faintly beneath him, startled by her body’s yearning. It was automatic. His mouth never left her skin. He kissed the slope of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the edge of her collarbone as she moaned quietly.

Her fingers found their way into his curls, tugging gently as he grazed the peak of her breast with the back of his hand. Even that small contact had her gasping, her legs shifting restlessly beneath her.

“Already trembling,” he said, his breath jagged. “You are so sensitive, little mouse."

“I feel it,” she whispered. “It's...” she trailed off, unable to finish any thoughts she had conjured.

He chuckled low against her chest, nose swiping against the material that clung to her bosom. “It's natural to feel it. You're so good… perfect," his words were mumbled against the material. "I, too, feel it. It's in my bones…" He dotted kisses softly over her chemise. "… it's in my chest. And we’ve scarcely begun.”

He brought his mouth upward to hers again, his tongue brushing her lips in a way that made her back arch and her thighs clench beneath her clothing. She slowly poked her tongue out to feel his lips and then his tongue, and then the rattle of the moan that he pushed from his mouth into hers.

Between the steady flicker of firelight and the warmth of his hands, Y/n could no longer recall what fear had once lived in her. He made her forget everything but his breath, his touch, the way his voice dropped when he praised her.

She could feel the hard ridge of him against her hip, unmistakable even through layers of linen and cotton. The knowledge of it made her dizzy.

“Let me unlace this,” he murmured, tugging gently at the top of her chemise. “You are far too beautiful to be hidden behind cloth.”

She nodded, lifting her arms for him to assist. He had tried to hold himself back and not rush, but she was so pliant, so open already. Her panted breaths and gasps, the way she scratched at his scalp and kissed him with her wet tongue… the way she rocked up against him. All invitations.

And when the garment came loose, baring her to the warm air and his hungry eyes, the king did not reach for her as some men might have, greedy and rough. He merely looked. Admired. Swallowed hard as if astonished.

He wanted to touch. Wanted to grab her flesh and squeeze at every inch of her that was laid before him. Wanted to dig his fingers into her hips and breasts and spread her thighs open so he could look upon all of her.

“God help me,” he said softly, his voice nearly breaking. “You’re exquisite.”

He wasn't a man who believed in God. But right then, he could kneel in surrender to any deity who had brought her to him. He wanted to nose at her opening, to pry her apart and watch her face as he plunged into her depths.

She reached for him then, bolder than she’d ever been before, and pulled him down into her embrace, and perhaps for a break in the way his eyes were wandering over her peaked breasts and the stretch of her body where his fingers had once touched. She'd never been gazed upon like that before.

His mouth met hers again, slow and indulgent. He kissed her not as a king, but as a starving man at last allowed to feast. Her arms wrapped round his neck, drawing him nearer as his hand roamed down the soft plane of her side, over the tender rise of her hip. His palm, wide and warm, settled low, gripping just above her bottom as he deepened their kiss. She whimpered into his mouth, fingers slipping into his curls again, pulling at them with a desperation she scarcely understood.

Harry shifted atop her, careful not to rest too heavily on her frame, but eager for more of her body pressed against his. Her bare breasts, rising and falling in uneven rhythm, brushed against the linen of his shirt. The sensation tore another moan from her throat.

“There now,” he said between kisses. “D’you feel it, little mouse? What you’ve done to me?”

He took her hand and guided it downward, resting her palm over the thick, straining shape beneath his breeches. She gasped softly, her eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat.

He closed his hand over hers, encouraging her to press gently.

“That is what your sighs have made of me,” he whispered. “A beast of a man, barely leashed.”

Her skin burned hot. Still, she did not pull her hand away as she looked into his eyes.

“It feels so…” she trailed off, lashes fluttering as she dared another tentative touch.

“So alive?” he offered, his voice dark with pleasure.

She nodded, lips parted. “Yes.”

He smiled, then kissed her again, hungrier, less restrained. His hands returned to her body, roaming more freely. He cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over the pebbled peak, drawing a startled sound from her mouth. Her hips lifted slightly off the divan in response, instinctive and needy.

“May I touch you lower?” he asked against her neck, his breath scorching. “Properly?”

She hesitated, not out of fear, but from sheer wonder at the question. That he would ask at all. That he would wait. That a man known to be cruel in court would kiss her so sweetly and speak to her as though she were sacred.

“Yes,” she said, her voice small but clear. “Please.”

His fingers dipped downward, over the warm skin of her abdomen. She squirmed at the sensation, but he hushed her with a kiss to her cheek, trailing his mouth to her temple, her hairline, her ear.

When his hand finally slipped between her thighs, she gasped, her knees parting slightly of their own accord. He grazed her lightly at first with just a brush of knuckles over the soft curls between her legs.

“You’re already damp for me,” he whispered, sounding almost pained. “Oh, my love…”

Her heart was nearly bursting. She arched into him at the sound of that word.

Love.

Whether he meant it or not, it echoed through her like the strike of a bell.

mean king!harry tags: @matildasatellite @stylesftcher @hinnyrx @eversincehs1 @sunshinemoonsposts

@archerxnn @daphnesutton @spinninc @haliastyless @multiplefandomstan

@bruhk @sassamanda77 @cherryshouse @montgomery-929496 @cherriesncupcakes

@practistyles @matildalittlefreak @imaginexxharry @oifukinloser @hoolabalooba

@jaebeomsblackgf @wildcstdrexms @gilwm @rimaruu

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prickleestull · 2 days ago

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I love one piece because they refuse to let any character be genuinely dumb

Nami? Full on meteorologist and cartographer. Could probably be an electrician if she cared about that sort of thing, but she’s too busy knowing way too much about security and by extension the weaknesses of everyone around her,, yk just in case she has to rob them lol.

Robin? Archeologist. Anthropologist. Is A Freak About Literature. See this random shit in my hands ? How does she know about this ? Who knows! Anyway, she’s got its full history, use, importance, and power already diagramed in six different ways. She could boil down all of warhammer 40k in a sentence or two because she’s just Like That.

Franky? Engineer as fuck, which means math, which means inventor, plus I guarantee he’s got some sort of baseline knowledge about a shitload of everything else which doesn’t sound huge but his Water 7 Baseline Knowledge™ is still several leaps and bounds above everyone else’s Baseline Knowledge™.

Sanji? Low key a chemist. Culinary king. Understands the this and that of pretty much whatever is put in front of him and could make a dish out of it. Survivalist. Horny.

Chopper is Chopper. we don’t see him do much and its only because of hippa. Even the camera respects hippa. But he’s working his ass off and is single-handedly the only reason sanji hasn’t given up on the whole damn crew. They’ve bonded over medicinal recipes before. Luffy still managed to achieve scurvy twice.

Usopp? Botany. Or something. those two years away from everyone threw him back into the fray with a better fit and an arsenal full of plants. He’s more chaotic than he lets on — pre timeskip Usopp was an artist. A pyro. A shameless abuser of Home Alone style bullshit, complete with the kitchen cabinet tucked into his bag.

Zoro was reading the art of war morning noon and night growing up. This boy had zero hobbies outside of Getting Better, and it followed him all the way into adulthood. He can’t count higher than twelve, but he can strategically dismantle half of the world government in an evening if he had enough booze and reason to do it. Likes strategizing with Nami cause she’s deranged in a subtle way.

Brook is Brook. Philosopher. Musician. Died once fifty years ago and made it everyone else’s problem. If his brain hadn’t decomposed alongside his body, then his bones would explain to you the universe before cutting you open and making you one with it.

Luffy is.. an interesting case. I’m not sure how to quantify his intelligence, because while I know for a fact it’s there, but he’s also really good at playing dumb. Thing is, we can’t blame all his success on mere instincts. He can befriend everyone he meets, but a friend to all is a friend to none. He never loses (except that one time which shall not be mentioned). If he can fix the bad guy, he will — and if he can’t, he will put them down like a sick dog. he subscribes to no particular set of morals. how is it that the easiest one to see is the hardest to read? No one has noticed? What even is Luffy at this point? Hungry, I guess.

#one piece #i have a healthy fear of monkey d Luffy #straw hat pirates #cat burglar nami #nico robin #franky #Franky my boy #one piece sanji #tony tony chopper #tiny tiny chopper #ussop #roronoa zoro #brook one piece #monkey d. luffy #finally rewatching this mess #punk hazard thoughts

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palevcr · 10 hours ago

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─── BAKING HOUR

SUMMARY: When Rafe stumbles downstairs still tangled in sleep and mischief, he finds her exactly where he likes her best — barefoot in his kitchen, wearing too little and humming to herself like she owns the place. She’s trying to bake brownies; he’s trying to get under her skin (and her apron). Between stolen kisses, crude jokes, and a mess of chocolate batter, they bicker and banter their way through a morning that’s half domestic bliss, half delicious chaos. He’s impossible, infuriating, and never keeps his hands where they belong — but she wouldn’t have him any other way.

genre: fluffy domestic smut-adjacent, soft teasing, playful bickering, kitchen morning routine

pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader

tw: MDNI +18-ish, suggestive content, domestic fluff, sleepy kisses, kitchen banter, teasing possessiveness, morning laziness, soft praise, “can’t keep his hands off her” energy, apron kink undertones, affectionate insults, stolen kisses between mixing batter, boy is annoying but sweet, warm post-sleep tenderness, emotional intimacy in quiet domestic moments, slight size/praise kink teased but wrapped in softness

authors note: another draft left unfinished so I decided to finish. First fluff, kinda nervy😓

Rafe descended the staircase still half-cocooned in the heavy haze of sleep, each step groaning beneath the unhurried, bone-deep weight of him. He looked, in that hour between dawn and waking, like a sin that had rolled out of tangled sheets and decided to masquerade as carelessness: the languid sprawl of broad shoulders swallowed by an unbuttoned shirt, its thin cotton rumpled and slipping down one arm, revealing the lithe musculature sculpted beneath. His boxer shorts rode low on lean hips, the elastic band clinging in lazy defiance of gravity, and golden hair—still mussed from the night before—fell across his brow in careless, boyish disarray. At the bottom step, he paused, blinking away the crusted grit of sleep when a faint, meandering melody unfurled through the quiet house: the soft, thoughtless humming that meant only one thing — she was up to something, and it was never anything that left his morning dull.

Compelled by the promise of sweetness and warmth, he padded barefoot over the cool kiss of tiled floors, following the scent of cocoa and sugar until he found her exactly as he had imagined — or maybe hoped — he would. She stood at the kitchen counter in a delicate blush-pink babydoll, the satin clinging to the gentle dip of her waist and the soft round of her hips, its hem dancing scandalously close to the curve of her thighs. Over it, she had tied a white apron already betraying the evidence of her morning mission: streaks of flour, smudges of chocolate, and the faintest print of a fingertip she must have wiped across her cheek. Her bare feet traced out a quiet rhythm against the floor, each subtle sway of her body turning the act of stirring batter into something that felt intimate, almost sacred. In the gentle hush of morning light filtering through the window, catching in her hair and turning it to molten gold, she looked less like a girl and more like a daydream the universe had carelessly forgotten to wake.

“What are you doing?” Rafe’s voice rasped through the lingering sleep, the words slurred around the edges, softened by the fond laziness only she could draw out of him. He stepped in behind her, arms looping around her waist with proprietary ease, the solid weight of his hips settling against the curve of her backside. His face buried in the delicate slope of her neck, lips brushing lazy, half-awake kisses against warm skin, as though he meant to steal her heartbeat and swallow it whole.

“Baking brownies,” she answered, the corners of her mouth lifting into a small, knowing smile he couldn’t see but felt in the way her shoulder relaxed beneath his hold. “Wanna help me?”

“I can’t bake,” Rafe murmured without a trace of shame, the admission almost a dare.

“I had a hunch.”

“The fuck does that mean?” he shot back, though his voice was colored by amusement rather than offense, the words softened by another yawn that shuddered through him.

“Nothing,” she said, slipping from his grasp with a quiet grace that always left him reaching for her, even if only in thought. “You’re still helping me.” She turned to fetch another apron, holding it out toward him.

“I don’t want to,” he protested, words muffled as he reached for a mug and poured himself coffee, steam curling around his knuckles.

“But you owe me,” she replied, her voice dipping into something softer, conspiratorial, threaded with a teasing gravity that caught his attention. “I helped you and Topper hide your drugs the other night. And on top of that, you… made my legs weird.”

“What?” he laughed, the sound husky from sleep and edged with delight.

“You… you know.” Her gaze dropped, words shrinking to a shy whisper. “You fucked me and I couldn’t move for a while.”

A crooked, wolfish grin tugged at his lips as he lifted the mug to his mouth, dark lashes dipping over blue eyes turned mischievous. “Pretty sure we both liked that,” he murmured around the rim. “You blacked out on my cock, baby.”

She huffed — half mortified, half exasperated — and shoved the apron toward him until he had no choice but to set down his coffee and take it. “Just... put this on,” she demanded, voice straining to sound firm despite the heat blooming across her cheeks. “And stop talking. Please.”

“Thought you liked my voice,” he teased, lips parting in a pout that looked far too practiced, tugging at her restraint.

She shot him a deadpan stare sharp enough to slice through the haze of morning, but before her frown could deepen, Rafe closed the distance again. Big, calloused hands cupped her face with a tenderness that belied the crude things they’d done only nights before. He kissed her slowly, unhurriedly, letting his thumbs brush over her flushed skin, catching her breath between his. “You’re so adorable when you’re angry,” he whispered against her lips, the words trailing into a low, intimate chuckle. “Like an angry bunny.”

And just like that, in the warm hush of morning and the scent of chocolate hanging thick in the air, the kitchen felt less like a room and more like the entire world built just for them — messy, teasing, and sweet as sin.

“Baby,” she murmured against his mouth, the word caught somewhere between a plea and a scold as she pressed her palms to his chest in a vain attempt to push him off. But Rafe only tightened his hold, one large hand splayed warm and possessive at the small of her back while the other slipped up to cradle her jaw. “One more,” he rasped, the syllables melting into her lips as he angled her head and stole another kiss — deeper, slower, tasting of sleep and the faint bitterness of his half-finished coffee. She sighed into him, every protest dissolving on her tongue as she kissed him back despite herself, her fingers curling uselessly into the soft cotton of his shirt.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t so much from mercy as from breathlessness — his grin lazy and smug, lips pink and parted, pupils blown wide like he’d forgotten there was an entire world outside the two of them. But she slipped from his arms the moment she felt the slack, ducking out of his reach with a quick, breathless huff that might’ve been a laugh if she weren’t so determined to stay annoyed.

“We’re baking,” she said, voice pointed but thin with the remnants of that stolen warmth. She tugged the apron tighter around her waist as if it were armor. “Keep it in your pants for ten minutes, Cameron.”

“You’re boring,” Rafe shot back, though the grin he flashed her over the rim of his mug said he’d never found her boring a day in his life. If anything, the word was a placeholder for the wicked thoughts clawing behind his eyes — things that had nothing to do with flour and brownie batter.

“Whatever,” she muttered under her breath, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the smallest twitch of a smile as she turned back to the counter.

They found their uneasy rhythm then — standing shoulder to shoulder at the old butcher block, an absurd picture of domesticity that felt too fragile to look at directly for fear it might vanish like sugar dust in a breeze. She moved with effortless precision, measuring out sugar and cocoa powder with an absent grace, while Rafe hovered at her side, all restless energy in a space meant for gentle hands and patient hearts. The last time he’d pretended to bake anything was when he’d half-heartedly helped Topper and Kelce make edibles in a frat house kitchen — he’d measured a bag of questionable weed and dumped brownie mix into a bowl while the other two did the real work, and still they’d nearly burned the whole place down.

She cracked another egg against the rim of the bowl with a quick flick of her wrist, yolk slipping in neat and golden. Without looking at him, she fished another from the carton and held it out, her arm brushing his as she offered it like a challenge. “Do you even know how to crack an egg?”

Rafe recoiled with mock offense, his shoulders drawing back as though she’d struck some hidden chord of manly pride. “What kind of disrespectful question is that?” he scoffed, voice pitched high with faux indignation.

She turned to him then, one brow arched in delicate defiance, mouth pursed around a smirk that made his chest feel unreasonably tight. “You can’t bake,” she reminded him pointedly, as if she needed to. She lifted the egg a fraction higher, dangling it between two fingers. “So I figured maybe you don’t know how to crack an egg either. Come on, Mr. Domestic. Impress me.”

“I feel bullied,” he grumbled, but his hand closed around hers anyway, stealing the egg with exaggerated care as though he were handling something precious and breakable — which, to be fair, he was. He rolled it once between his fingers, casting her a sidelong glance just to see the way she tried and failed not to look entertained. He tapped it on the edge of the bowl — a little too hard, a hairline fracture snaking around the shell — but to her reluctant surprise, he managed to pry it open without sending shards of shell into the batter. The yolk slid out whole, landing with a quiet plop among the swirl of sugar and cocoa. Rafe tossed the empty shell into the compost bowl with the air of a man who’d just performed some grand feat of masculine competence.

“You’re welcome,” he declared, chin lifting, eyes gleaming with that reckless, boyish pride that made him impossible to hate for long.

She fixed him with a look that was all sharp edges and grudging amusement, stirring the egg into the thick batter with brisk, practiced swirls. “Congratulations,” she deadpanned, lips twitching at the corners despite her best efforts to appear unimpressed. “You’re officially useful for the next thirty seconds.”

Rafe’s grin curved slow and wicked, a low hum rumbling in his chest as he stepped closer, crowding her against the counter until the heat of him bled through the thin cotton of her apron. He caught her wrist in his broad palm, halting the rhythmic scrape of the wooden spoon. He leaned down, his breath warm against the shell of her ear, the tip of his nose skimming her hairline as he murmured, “Thirty seconds, huh? Think I can make you come in less than that.”

She jerked back on instinct, her elbow driving into the hard plane of his ribs just sharply enough to punch a startled grunt out of him — though the laugh that followed made it clear the warning shot had only emboldened him. She fixed him with a look that could curdle milk. “Hands off, Cameron,” she snapped, though the edge of her mouth betrayed her with a small, traitorous quirk. “Or so help me, you’re eating raw batter for breakfast.”

Rafe only chuckled, rubbing a palm over the spot where her elbow had landed as if he’d wear the bruise like a badge of honor. He leaned in again, slower this time, eyes flicking down to her lips then back up to hers, lazy and dangerous. “Still worth it, bunny,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement — and promise — before pressing an unapologetic kiss to her temple, all heat and sugar.

“You’re annoying,” she muttered, though the words came out soft and half-laughing, robbed of any real venom by the warmth that lingered in the kitchen air — and in the way he was looking at her now, like she was equal parts trouble and salvation.

“You love me,” Rafe countered, the grin curling at his lips entirely too self-assured for someone who’d just taken an elbow to the ribs. He leaned in again, the weight of his chest brushing her shoulder as he reached past her, his hand slipping bold and thoughtless straight into the mixing bowl. His fingers dipped into the dark swirl of batter, dragging through it with no regard for the wooden spoon she still clutched like a weapon.

“Rafe!” she yelped, smacking his wrist so hard a fleck of chocolate flung against his bare forearm. “I don’t even know if you washed your hands, you feral boy!”

He only laughed, low and unrepentant, and lifted his chocolate-slick fingers to his mouth without breaking her gaze — the wet click of his tongue obscene in the hush of morning. “You’ve had my dick in your m—”

She rounded on him so fast her hair brushed against his chest, spoon brandished like a dagger as she cut him off with a glare sharp enough to slice him in half. “And I’ll cut it off if you finish that sentence, Rafe Cameron.”

For half a heartbeat, the kitchen held its breath — quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the rapid little thrum of her pulse betraying her composure. Then he snorted, shoulders shaking as he sucked the last smear of batter from his fingertip, eyes glinting with the kind of reckless mischief that made saints run and girls ruin themselves.

“Fair enough,” he drawled, dropping his hand but stepping closer anyway, crowding her back until her hips nudged the edge of the counter. “You’re cute when you’re mad. But you’re even cuter when you try to boss me around. Makes me wanna misbehave.”

“God, you are impossible,” she sighed, but her voice wavered at the edges, softening in spite of herself. She tried to push past him but his arms caged her in, palms flat on either side of the counter. His scent — sleep-warm skin and a faint whiff of coffee and sugar — curled around her like a net she didn’t really want to escape.

He dipped his head low, nose brushing her temple, voice a molten whisper that slid between her ribs and settled somewhere reckless in her chest. “Lucky for you, baby, you like me impossible.”

She let out a quiet scoff, trying to twist away but only managing to bump her shoulder into the solid line of his chest. “I like you useful. Which means hands out of the batter and no more dick jokes before breakfast.”

Rafe laughed, that deep, boyish rumble that always managed to crack her open in places she wished she could keep hard. “No promises,” he murmured, planting a fleeting kiss just beneath her ear before straightening up again — his hands reluctantly peeling away from the counter as if the effort to behave might kill him on the spot.

He grabbed a spatula from the dish rack, brandishing it like a sword with mock solemnity. “Alright, boss. Tell me what to do next.”

She eyed him warily, her lips betraying her with the smallest traitorous curve — because no matter how exasperating he was, no matter how much he filled the house with chaos and crude jokes and that raw, magnetic heat — she loved him exactly like this: messy, shameless, and hers.

#˙ . ꒷ emmy writes. 𖦹˙—#﹒⌗﹒fluff﹒౨ৎ˚₊‧#rafe cameron x y/n #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x smut

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