#he needs to be tucked into bed and allowed to rest for a week

[undercvrfan444]

Satoru Gojo with his…slightly, depressed wife who has episodes!

Satoru adored his wife, in every way possible and more. You were the center of his world, and everything he did revolved around you. In his eyes there was nothing wrong with the beautiful woman who he had fallen in love with.

Except you knew better.

You hid them well in the beginning. Only allowing your mind and body the space to process emotions when Satoru would be away from home for long periods of time. Depression dwelled in the lowest pits of your body and consumed your being more often than you’d care to admit. Episodes would come every now and then, but never as hard as they did in the winter.

Satoru slowly became aware of the increasingly complex situations. How your mind would cultivate cruel thoughts targeted at yourself and whether or not you were worthy of the things you had around you. It broke his heart into a million pieces to see his sweetheart’s smile dwindle away until ultimately disappearing for days on end.

So when your husband came home from a long working day, he’d creep into the dark bedroom you share—to hold you.

To prove that he loved you.

Chasing away any terrifying thoughts that might offer a window of opportunity to doubt yourself. To chase away the fear of his vows being some empty promise he never intended to keep.

He’d ease down into the bed carefully as not to startle you. “I’m home sweetheart.” Gingerly sweeping wild hair from your forehead to peck at the soft skin.

Tears would run down your face at the slightest touch. Warm, crystal-clear trails that warmed your cold exterior. “Hi.”

“How was your day?” Satoru’s voice soothed the ache within your chest, swimming into your throat. His hand swiped flat warm stripes down your side offering a silent invitation to sink into him. And you take it.

In the stillness of your bedroom, the rustling of sheets sounds louder than you wanted it too. In a short few moves, you’re tucked tightly into Satoru’s chest with his shirt balled loosely within your hands. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m like this.” The words are painful coming out. They’re horribly scratchy with a tinge of insanity hidden behind the syllables.

Two solid. Strong. Reliable arms are tied around your waist. His lips kiss away every tear they can while his fingers smooth the tense muscles of your back. “No, no. You don’t ever need to be sorry for anything. I love you with my entire heart baby, nothing will change that.” You shook under his touch despite the ginger nature of the situation.

“But-“

A firm but still sweet kiss was planted against your lips. “No buts. You are my wife, and I will spend the rest of my life showing you what that means.”

And he followed through with that promise.

Satoru took days off from work, refused to work late more than two nights a week, and any business trips would be done with haste. Hell he even began bringing you to the highschool with him! “My students would love you, not more than me of course.” His voice always held a mischievous tone but the sugary sweet smile never once faltered.

Afterall, you were the one woman in his life who held the very key to his heart. He’d be damned if he didn’t protect yours in return.

[iydiamartinx]

HOME IS IN YOUR ARMS

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @omi-resources word count: 456 synopsis: After a long day, jason comes home to your arms a/n: I don't usually write one-shots but I've been trying to dabble, it's short but i hope its good!

The apartment was dark when he finally made it home—barely a sliver of moonlight filtered through the blinds, tracing pale lines across the floor. Jason didn’t bother flipping on a light. He didn’t need to see. He knew every inch of this place like the back of his scarred hand. Knew the creak in the floorboard just before the hallway. Knew the smell of your lavender shampoo clinging to the pillows. Knew where you’d be.

He dropped his helmet by the door with a soft thud, the weight of it making the wood groan. The rest followed in pieces—jacket, boots, the bloodied shirt. It felt like he was peeling off armor that no longer worked. Every joint in his body ached. His knuckles were swollen, his ribs bruised. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder that whispered dislocated, but he didn’t have the energy to check.

The bedroom door was cracked open, and inside, you stirred.

You didn’t ask what time it was, or why he was late, or what kind of night he had. You just shifted under the blankets and held your arms open.

That was all it took.

Jason exhaled like the air had been trapped in his lungs all day. He climbed into the bed—slowly, carefully, like a wounded animal—and collapsed into you. His head found your chest, his arms wrapped weakly around your waist, and he let out a noise that wasn’t quite a sigh and not quite a sob.

You tucked him close without a word. Fingers sliding into his hair, stroking through the dark, sweat-damp strands with a tenderness that made his throat tighten.

“I’m here,” you murmured against his forehead.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His whole body sagged into yours, tension leaking out of him one breath at a time as you kept combing through his hair, slow and rhythmic.

And for the first time that night, maybe even the first time in weeks, Jason Todd allowed himself to rest. Not just sleep—but rest. The world faded at the edges, dulled by the softness of your touch, wrapped in your arms, he was finally home.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Oml 😭 you’re stories continue to make my day, thank you so much! I was wondering if I can just get some domestic fluff with the task force 141

You're so sweet! Thank you!! I can absolutely write some domestic fluff. I've been working on Dog with No Teeth and some more suggestive prompts, and this is such a great break from it. Expect softness and gentle!141.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, married life, softness, kissing

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

John wakes before you. He always does. It’s engrained in him—like clockwork.

In the soft rays of the early morning sun, John drinks his tea while reading over the weekend chore list you’ve made. It hangs on the fridge, clipped to the metal by a homemade magnet your youngest made in primary school. You have it in your head that you’re going to get up at a decent time and knock it all out.

It’s cute that you think so.

Especially since you’ve run yourself ragged all week, falling into bed completely knackered that you’re snoring in your sleep.

What you need is some rest, not an early morning full of activity. It’s the weekend. You belong on the porch with a blanket and book. With you in his lap, using him as a bed.

John finishes his tea and rinses out the mug, placing it in the dishwasher. He’ll make himself another once he wakes the children. Slipping into the bedroom, John goes for your alarm clock, turning it off. You deserve to sleep in. John can handle the work while you have some peace.

The littles won’t bother you. He’ll make sure you get some needed rest.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Can you try this?”

Johnny comes around the kitchen island, leaning against the countertop as you scoop up some of the fluffy whipped cream. You present the spoon, an eager excitement glittering in your gaze.

Johnny opens his mouth, allowing you to guide the spoon inside. The tips of your fingers gently brush the underside of his chin. Closing his lips around it, you drag the spoon out slowly. The whipped cream melts on his tongue. It’s perfectly sweet.

“How is it?” you ask. “I’m a little worried it’s too sweet. Might overpower the lemon curd.”

“It’s perfect,” he purrs.

“Really?”

Johnny scrapes a bit of whipped cream off the top of the mixing bowl. Popping his finger into his mouth, Johnny sighs with contentment. Your smile grows, and Johnny can’t help but adore just how beautiful you are like this. It’s his favorite version of you.

As you reach for the lemon curd, Johnny grabs your hips, pulling you against him. A small giggle escapes you and Johnny loves the sound. Lowering his head, he teases the tip of your nose with his own until you’re flustered and wiggling. Only then does he close the distance for a kiss.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

It’s a Sunday afternoon. You and Simon have nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Peace and rest and simple pleasures only.

You’re snuggled up on the sofa, sinking against the cushions with a book in your hand. On the television, a trashy reality show plays at low volume. You’re not watching it, but it’s not for you.

Simon is curled up next to you, sprawled out and using your thigh as a pillow. A blanket is draped over him and covering your legs. He has one arm tucked behind your back and the other is resting across you, his large hand gently massaging the thigh he’s not resting his head on.

He’s watching the television, but his eyelids are heavy, chest moving in slow, shallow breaths. Sleep is creeping up on him.

Reaching out with one hand, you thread your fingers through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp. Simon sighs, snuggling a bit closer. Switching from his scalp, you move to his neck, and then his upper back, using your nails to tease his skin. You keep a languid place, moving back and forth across his skin.

There’s nothing better than this quiet moment with your husband. Shared. Simple. Perfect.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Do you want some music?”

“I’d love that.”

Kyle walks over to the record player, fingers skimming over the collection of vinyl records. He reaches out to select one, and pauses.

“Just pick something,” you laugh, grabbing the dish soap.

“I will,” he chuckles softly, drumming his fingers against his bottom lip as he decides on which.

You roll your eyes, putting the stopper in the skin.

“Here we are,” says Kyle. As you start filling the sink with hot water, a jazzy number fills the room. Kyle grooves over to the vacuum, and you realize you’re grinning. Bopping his head and shaking his shoulders, Kyle switches on the hoover.

It’s routine then, the two of you moving around each other as you do your weekly cleaning. When you start dusting the ceiling fan, Kyle creeps up on you, hands falling on your waist.

“What?” you laugh, turning toward him, only to laugh harder as Kyle starts dancing up on you. “Stop,” you snort, playfully smacking at him.

“Dance with me,” he smiles, wiggling his eyebrows. Kyle offers you his hand, and you take it, the two of you coming together into a slow sway that makes you tingle everywhere.

[lostinlovingrevery]

Crumbling Desperation

70s Logan X F! Reader

Logan wants you pliant for him

A/N: Based off some feral conversations between me and @cruel-as-sin today. DOFP has my heart and my pussy. Also this maybe a lil rough as I get back into fic writing after being sick for a week!

Warning: SMUT MDNI, mean! Logan, rough sex, unprotected PiV, multi creampies, teasing, fingering, blowjob, very very rough, some light pussy and thigh smacking lol, a little degradation (but not super mean), taunting, begging, uuuuuuh this is just a nasty fic in general

The only light that filled the darkness of the apartment bedroom was the street lamps.

Light pouring through the windows. Shadowing two figures that were rocking softly in the dark. 

Logan's arms kept you pressed against his body. His broad chest against you, his hips rocked with yours. He rested his chin atop your head, his hands resting on your hips, slowly brushing up and down your curves. 

Your eyes closed, as you leaned into him. A faint smile on your face as you felt his hands squeeze you a little tighter. He tipped his head lazily, his lips brushing over your ear, along your jawline. You hummed happily, tipping your head back, giving him purchase to kiss your neck. 

His arm wrapped around your waist, his other hand sliding up, gently cupping one of your breasts, before tracing along the collar of your dress, his fingers tucking underneath the sleeve and pulling it down your shoulder. He leaned down, pressing several kisses to your neck and shoulder. You exhaled softly, eyes fluttering open as Logan sucked and nipped at your skin.

“You looked good tonight baby.” He hums, his lips brushing over your jawline. “Luckiest guy in the world to have a pretty girl like you by my side.”

You giggle, biting your lip as his hand continues brushing over your curves. “I’m the lucky one.” 

“Mmm.” His hand brushed down your body, finding the slit of your dress that exposed your thighs. His hand dipped underneath the satin cloth, brushing over the lace panties you put on for him. “Feeling needy darling?” 

“Mhm.” You nodded, a subtle movement of your hips into his touch. “You were playing with me all night Lo.” Your hand stretched up, curling into his hair. “I need you.” 

“You got me.” He says with a lighthearted tone- but the way he touched you, told you had had ulterior motives. His hand moving to tracing along your inner thigh instead, not touching you where you really needed him. Your bodies still rocking back and forth together.

“I need more.” You brought your other hand to where he was touching your thighs, grabbing his wrist to move him towards your needy cunt. 

You were soaked, and it was almost painful how badly you needed his touch. He kept messing with you all night. Stroking your thighs, cupping your ass everywhere you walked, his fingers tracing up and down your arm. He’d lean in and press kisses to the back of your neck and ear- his breath hot on your skin and sending you goosebumps. He kept teasing you, working you up so much you asked him multiple times to take you home, or even go into the bathroom just for him to give you some relief. 

Then he’d give you that cocky smile, and ask you what the rush was for. He was enjoying the night out, he didn’t want to go home yet. 

“More?” He asks, not doing anything to stimulate you, only allowing you to move his hand as you attempt to get stimulation from him. He suddenly ripped it away from you, turning you around and shoving you onto the bed. You gasped, shuffling to push yourself up.

He walked over, shoving your legs open and pushing himself between them. “More what?”

“Lo…” You whined, a small pout of your lip. “I want more of you.” 

He raised a brow. “I’m right here sweetheart. All of me.” He shrugged. He brought his hands down over your hips, adjusting you on the bed, pulling your closer to him- so the tent in his pants pressed teasingly against your panties. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Heat bloomed in your face as you considered what he was implying. 

“I…” You stammered. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” He leaned down over you. “Can’t talk? You were quick to ask me to take care of you earlier when we were having a good time. ” His tone became annoyed.

“Logan-” You pouted. He slid a hand over your belly, the valley of your breasts, coming over to squeeze your neck. He tipped his chin up, looking down at you with an unamused expression. 

“What do you want?” He asks. 

“I…I want you to touch me. To take off my dress.” You reply, your voice barely a whisper. He smirked, leaning forward to press a kiss to your nose before he brought his hands to the collar of your dress.

You gasped as he ripped it apart from the middle. The tear sounded through the room. 

I actually liked that dress….

You thought to yourself but didn’t voice it. That would only mean he’d stop playing with you.

Logan's hand came up to cup your breasts, his thumbs rubbing circles over your peaked nipples. You arched your back, lifting towards his touch, his calloused thumb stimulating your breasts and creating a warm honey feeling that pooled in your lacey lingerie. 

A soft moan escaped you, your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks, amused by your reaction. You tipped your head to the side. 

“Getting off just from me playing with your tits?” 

“Mm…” You nodded, your hands gripping the sheets. He leaned down, swirling his tongue over a nipple and you gasped. “Oh-” You bit your bottom lip. His tongue continued playing with your peaked buds, as he nipped and sucked on your tits. “Logan- I need you- down there.” You gasped.

He parted from your nipple with a pop. “Down where sweetheart? Australia?”

You couldn’t help but giggle, shaking your head. He grinned, pressing a kiss to the valley of your breasts, but then bit at your skin and you yelped.  He chuckled. 

“That hurt?” He asks, you shake your head, and lowers himself down to your belly, biting you again, making you flinch. “Knock it off.” He says with fake annoyance, pressing kisses over your belly, before biting the fat of your hip, once again making you jump. He sat up harshly, scowling down at you. “What did I say?”

“Sorry I-” 

He delivered a smack to your thigh, making you yelp. “You want me to make you feel good sweetheart?”

You nodded, pressing your lips together. 

“Then stop fucking moving.” He growls. You sighed in frustration, wanting to wiggle and get him to move on with it- he was going purposely slow, doing everything he could to avoid giving you what you wanted from him. The same thing he’d been doing all night.

“Can you just… Touch me?” You ask desperately. He raised a brow.

“Touch you?” He says. “What’s the magic word?” 

Your eyes filled with tears. “Please, Logan, please touch me!” 

His eyes turned dark, a quirk of his lips as he leaned down over you. His hand swiped up over your panties, making your legs twitch from his touch, he slid his back down underneath your panties. “Touch you?” He tilts his head, a click of his tongue. “How? Like this?” 

His fingers found your swollen clit, and he flicked it with two fingers. You gasped, nodding. He smirked, flicking it again. You tilted your head to the side, spreading your legs farther open. Other than flicking occasionally though, he didn’t touch you, didn’t stroke or rub circles. 

“I need more…” You whined, lifting your hips up to him. He chuckled. He pulled his hand away. 

“Can’t do much with this thing in the way.” He mumbles, pointing to the panties before glancing back up at you. Then he delivers a smack to your cunt. You yelped, tears stinging your eyes. “Take em off.” He orders. 

You took a deep breath, sitting up, pulling off the rest of your torn dress, he stepped back from you. Watching as you slid off your panties, pushing them past your ankles. He walked back over- snatching them from your hand- stuffing them into his back pocket. 

You leaned back onto the bed, spreading your legs open again, giving him a view of your weeping pussy, soaked, and swollen from no relief. He smirked.

“You opened your legs for me without even asking. Good girl.” He mumbles stepping forward. “You that desperate?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, pouting. “Can you touch me again?” 

His hand came down, brushing over your folds, and you could barely feel him. You whined, lifting your hips up again. He pressed one finger against your burd. “How about that?” He asks.

You shook your head, so he removed it- making you nod desperately. “No- Keep it there!” You looked up at him begging. “Just move! Please?”

He placed his finger over your bud again, slowly swirling your clit in circles. It provided relief- but not enough. Your entire cunt felt like it was throbbing, your hole clenching over nothing over and over again. 

“Another-” You begged. “More?” 

He added another finger, still rubbing you slowly, becoming torturous as your pussy leaked arousal, begging to be stimulated. 

“Logan-”

He smacked your cunt, making you yelp.

“Logan-” He mocked your voice. “You’re so whiny.” He taunts. Your lip quivered as frustration bubbled in you, a tightness in your chest for some relief in your body. Logan was playing with you, and he was drawing it out as long as possible. What his game was with you, you didn’t know- but you could barely take it anymore. 

He stepped back from you and you let out a small sob. “Quiet down.” He orders, and you opened your eyes to see him unbuttoning his shirt, staring down at you with that cocky smile. You tipped your head back and sighed, your hands gripping the sheets so tight you thought they would rip.

His clothes were abandoned to the floor and you looked back up at him.

The sight of him could have made you cum right then.

He towered over you. You admired his broad frame, the veins that popped out through his arms and belly. The tone muscles of his abs, his biceps, and his thighs. Your eyes landed on his thick girth, erected, with a red swollen tip and pre-cum beading out of his slip. 

At least I’m not the only one feeling this way…

You bit your lip, looking up at him with a pleading look in your eyes. He smirked, walking over to you, his cock bouncing with every step making you part your lips as you watched it. You thought he’d climb between your legs- give you the relief you so badly needed, and fuck you within an inch of your life. 

Instead he pushed your legs shut, reaching over to grab your arm and pull you up, pulling you to the ground on your knees. 

“You think you’re the only one needing some relief sweetheart?” He looks down at you, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. You swallowed. “Open up.” 

You obliged, and he slipped his tip between your lips. You moaned at his heady taste, dripping onto your tongue. His hand slipped from your jaw into your hair- a tight grip on it, as he pulled you farther down over him. 

A small gag escaped you and you heard him chuckle. “Can’t take it? Too much for you baby?”

You moaned, and he pushed himself farther down your throat, choking you. Tears finally broke through, rolling down your cheek. He looked down at you, arrogance across his face. 

“Crybaby.” 

He smirks, and you shut your eyes. Your hand slipping down between your legs, attempting to give yourself much-needed relief as his cock filled your mouth. 

“Uh uh-” He kicked your hand away, his cock choking your further. “No touching. You take care of me first, sweetheart.” 

A small sob escaped you, but you kept your hands off yourself, bringing them up to his thighs. You looked back up at him, pleading eyes for him to hurry up and use you, so that he’ll finally give you your reward. The throbbing between your legs was begging for your attention, and you couldn’t ignore it even with Logan choking you with his cock. 

His hand curled in your hair kept you in place, as he began slowly thrusting in and out of your mouth. Spit and drool rolled down your chin, and his cock reached the back of your throat over and over- so much your gag relax disappeared, becoming used to his intrusion. 

He tipped his head back, a moan escaping him as he thrusts faster. 

“Fuck, you got a sweet mouth baby.” He moaned. He looked down at you, mouth parted, his ears and cheeks flushed. “You like this?”

You closed your eyes, nodding as best as you could as he face-fucked you. He let out a weak chuckle. He brought his other hand into your hair, holding you tight as he went faster. Tears continued streaming down your face. Logan's jaw tightened, pushing your head onto his cock, bending over as he came to his finish- his cum shooting down your throat, filling your mouth. He planted his face into the mattress behind you, grunting and groaning like an animal as he rode out his seemingly neverending coitus. 

He straightened back up, pulling out of you and stepping back. You gasped, panting for air as his cum, your spit, and your tears stained your face. He reached down cupping your jaw, making you look up at him- with your dazed eyes. 

“You look real pretty like this.” He taunts, his thumb catching a dribble of cum, sticking it back onto your tongue. You wrapped your lips around him, sucking on it and closing your eyes- as if you hadn’t gotten enough of him already. “C’mon. Up.” He ordered pulling his thumb from your lips, before he became hypnotized by you.

You stood up and he shoved you onto the bed, spreading your thighs. “Think you deserve this?” He asks, lowering his face over your pussy, noting how soaked your thighs were now. 

“I-” Your voice was raspy, “I don’t know.” 

He hummed. “Maybe you don’t then-” 

“Wait wait! Yes, I do, I deserve this.” You whimpered, your hands reaching out to cup his face. “Please Logan-” 

He smiled, lowering back down. He took a deep inhale, his eyes nearly rolling back as he let out a groan. “God you smell fucking incredible…”

His hands came up, spreading your folds open, examining your cunt, his thumb brushing over your pussy teasingly, making your thighs tremble. You were so worked up, that any stimulation felt like too much. You whined, shaking your head as another sob broke through you. 

“Quiet it down.” He says. “I got mine sweetheart, we can do this all fucking night.” 

You bit your lip, tears streaming down as he continued messing with you, but never fully giving in to your pleasure. Your body trembled, his touch, his breath blowing over you. 

You gave in, body relaxing, shutting your eyes as your breathing calmed. 

Logan looked up at your now weak and pliant figure. He grinned. 

“There we go.” He cooed, standing up as he climbed between your legs. He pressed his lips to yours, savoring the taste of himself on you. “Good girl.” He purred, pressing more kisses along your jawline. You opened your eyes, looking up at him dreamily. 

He pushed his cock through your folds, hard again already. A small breath escaped you as your eyes rolled back. He rutted gently into you, leaning down to capture your lips again. You kissed him back weakly. 

“You still want me sweetheart?” He mumbles against your lips. “Or are you too tired now?”

You nodded. 

“Use your words. Too tired?” He grinned lifting himself off of you.

“No- No I want you.” You spoke up, your hands reaching to grab his shoulders and pull him back down. “Please.”

“Mm.” He angled himself at your clenching hole, pushing his tip inside. Your mouth flew open, head falling back. “Damn, just slid right in darling.” He groaned, nuzzling his face into your neck. “Real needy aren’t ya?”

You nodded, your arms wrapping around his neck. He slowly pushed in and out of you, but never fully, only his tip.

“Lo…” You whined. 

“What darling, aren’t I giving you what you wanted?”

“I- Yes…” You nodded. “I want more.”

“Greedy, aren’t you?” 

You let out a small cry. “Please? Please baby?” You begged. “I want all of you.”

“I don’t know sweetheart, seemed like all of me was too much for you earlier.”

“It’s not, it's not! I can take it, please, please, please!” You began to sob, turning your head to the side. You wrapped your legs around his waist so he couldn’t pull out. He smirked, watching you beg for a moment.

Without warning he thrusts into you up to the hilt. You moaned, eyes shooting up to look up at him. 

“What? You wanted it.” He grins. His hand braced against your headboard, his other arm wrapped around your waist. He began thrusting into you at an inhuman pace, his hips slamming into yours. Your eyes rolled back, your pliant body fitting into him as he shook the whole bed fucking into you.

He sat up and grabbed your hips with both hands slamming into you with a fury. He watched your tits bounce with every thrust, the way your greedy cunt sucked him in eagerly, soaking his cock with you creamy arousal. Your arms fell to either side of your head, melting into the mattress as Logan finally gave you your reward.

You lost track of time as he fucked you, pushing you into different positions, and making you cum over and over. You turned into a ragdoll that he used at will- and you loved it. Even in your semi-conscious state. 

Your legs on his shoulders, pushed down to your chest as he buried himself balls-deep, spilling himself inside you for the second time, his cum overflowing around his cock and leaking out of you, ruining your sheets more than they already were.

He had you on your side, mouth hung open and eyes rolled back as he thrusts into and out, arm wrapped around your chest, a handful of your tit, his other hand supporting your thigh, the bedframe shaking and creaking- threatening to break underneath you both. 

His hand buried into your hair, forcing your face into the mattress while he slammed into you from behind. Your ass up, your legs trembling while his, and your fluids mixed streamed down your thighs. Your throat is hoarse, and you stopped crying a long time ago- no more tears left to shed;

But there was much more pleasure to revel in.

[rootedinrevisions]

Too Late

SUMMARY: Tyler is forced to choose between the career he loves and the woman he loves. After leaving for a chase after a fight with his girlfriend, Tyler's world spirals into chaos. He struggles to balance is job with the life he wants. Both you and Tyler are forced to confront what you're willing to sacrifice for love and whether there's still time to fix what's been damaged.

A/N: Thank you to the person who sent this request in! I apologize that it's taken me so long to get it written. Work kept getting in the way and then I was struggling with writer's block. And then I started writing again but it was mostly Glen himself and I was struggling to finish this. I hope it's worth the wait! I'm working to get requests done as I have time and the inspiration is flowing! Hope you enjoy! xx

THERE WILL BE A PART 2 COMING TO THIS! because for some reason it's impossible for me to write angst and leave it at that.

WARNINGS: None, just a lot of heart-shattering angst. This one made me cry while writing it, so be prepared!

WORD COUNT: 5.8k

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

The hum of the television filled the living room, a soft background noise to the steady rhythm of Tyler’s breathing. His arm draped lazily over your shoulders, his hand resting against your collarbone, warm and reassuring. You leaned into him, your legs tucked under you, savoring the rare stillness of the moment.

Tyler had been home for twelve hours, and for ten of them, he’d been passed out in your bed, utterly spent after a grueling two-week storm chase. You’d stayed up waiting for him to walk through the door last night, running on caffeine and the sheer anticipation of seeing him again. When he finally stumbled in, soaked to the bone and bone-tired, you didn’t mind his muttered apologies for being late or the faint smell of rain that clung to him. You were just happy he was home.

Now, as he held you on the couch, his thumb absentmindedly tracing patterns against your skin, you allowed yourself to breathe. It was these quiet moments that made all the waiting, all the worry, worth it.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Tyler murmured, his voice husky from sleep. He shifted slightly, his head tilting toward you, those familiar brown eyes heavy-lidded but focused entirely on you.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” you admitted softly, your fingers toying with the hem of his T-shirt. “Two weeks felt like forever.”

“I know,” he said, his voice tinged with guilt. “I didn’t think it would take that long. Storms were... unpredictable this time.”

You reached up, brushing a stray lock of his wavy brown hair off his forehead. “It’s okay. I get it. You’re home now—that’s what matters.”

He let out a long breath, leaning his head back against the couch. “Home,” he echoed, almost as if the word was foreign to him. But the way his arm tightened around you, pulling you closer, made it clear that he understood exactly what it meant.

“Hungry?” you asked after a beat, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Starving,” he admitted, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, you’re in luck. I made lasagna last night. Figured you’d need something hearty after living off gas station snacks and fast food.”

Tyler chuckled, his voice rumbling against you. “Have I mentioned lately how lucky I am to have you?”

You tilted your head to look at him, your smile mirroring his. “Not today. But you can start now.”

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

“I’ll do better,” he promised, and in that moment, with his warmth surrounding you and the steady beat of his heart under your ear, you believed him.

The oven beeped softly as you set the timer, the warm smell of lasagna already starting to fill the kitchen. It wouldn’t be as good as it was fresh last night, but Tyler wouldn’t care. He’d scarf it down and tell you it was the best meal he’d had in weeks, and you’d believe him because that’s just who he was—always grateful, always sincere.

You were rinsing a glass in the sink when you heard the faint buzz of Tyler’s phone vibrating against the coffee table in the living room. His deep voice carried over the quiet hum of the house as he answered. You couldn’t make out the words, but you had a pretty good guess who it was. Boone or Dani, maybe both. You leaned against the counter, straining to catch fragments of the conversation. Tyler’s voice was calm but firm, his words clipped in the way they always were when he was focused on a problem.

The sound of his footsteps moving toward the stairs made your stomach twist. You turned just in time to see him disappear up to the second floor, the weight of dread settling over you like a heavy blanket. You didn’t need to ask what was happening; you already knew.

Still, you found yourself following him, your bare feet padding softly on the stairs. By the time you reached the doorway to your bedroom, Tyler was pulling clothes from the dresser, a duffel bag already lying open on the bed. He didn’t notice you at first, too preoccupied with finding what he needed. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms as you watched him.

“How bad is it?” you asked finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

Tyler glanced over his shoulder, startled by your presence, but he didn’t stop packing. 

“Really bad,” he admitted, shoving a few shirts into the bag. “There’s a cell headed straight for Oklahoma City. Boone says it’s one of the nastiest cells he’s seen in a while.”

“How long will you be gone this time?” you asked, already bracing yourself for the answer.

He sighed, pausing as he reached for a pair of jeans. “I don’t know. Hopefully just a few nights.”

You nodded, though the lump in your throat made it hard to swallow. “Do you really need to go? You just got back, Ty. Can’t you sit this one out? Just once?”

Tyler turned to face you, his expression conflicted. “I wish I could, but this one’s bad. Towns are gonna need us. Javi and Kate are already on their way, and Dani’s meeting us there.”

You flinched at the mention of her name. Kate. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Tyler—you did, completely. He was a good man, loyal to a fault. But lately, it felt like every story he told, every update he gave, involved her. Kate this, Kate that. The team. Always the team.

The crack in your voice surprised even you when you finally spoke. “Just go. Go hang out with Kate. You’ve gotten pretty good at that.”

The words hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and electric. Tyler froze, the shirt in his hand forgotten as he turned to look at you. His face fell, hurt flickering in his eyes before he sighed and set the shirt down on the bed.

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, his tone even but weighted. “You know that’s not what this is about.”

“I know,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes as you looked away. “I just... I don’t want you to go, Tyler.”

“I don’t want to go either,” he said, stepping toward you. His voice was softer now, but there was still a hint of frustration. “But this is what I do. What we do. You knew that when you moved in.”

“And what about what I need?” you countered, your arms tightening across your chest. “You’ve been gone for two weeks, Ty. Two weeks. I barely got you back, and now you’re leaving again.”

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw tightening as he searched for the right words. Instead of answering, he reached for you, his hand brushing against your arm. But you pulled back, shaking your head as a tear slipped down your cheek.

“Don’t,” you murmured. “Just… pack your bag.”

You turned sharply on your heel, heading back downstairs before the tears welling in your eyes could spill over. Tyler’s sigh was heavy, cutting through the thick silence of the house. You heard his footsteps following you, faster now, as he called after you.

“Darlin’,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “C’mon, wait.”

You didn’t stop. You didn’t want to have this conversation, not when your emotions were this raw, but he caught up to you at the bottom of the stairs, his hand reaching gently for your arm.

“Sweetheart, please,” he tried again, stepping in front of you to block your retreat. His green eyes searched yours, filled with concern and something you couldn’t quite place. “I don’t want to leave like this.”

You scoffed, pulling your arm free and folding it across your chest. “Funny, that. You seem to have no problem leaving any other time.”

He winced at the jab, but his expression softened as he tried to explain. “It’s not what you think. I know you’re upset about Kate, but—”

“This isn’t about her, Ty,” you interrupted, shaking your head as you turned away from him.

The frustration in his face shifted to confusion. “Then what is it? Why are you so upset?”

Your hands clenched at your sides as you looked at him, trying to find the words that would make him understand. “I’m upset because you’re leaving. Again. Because every time you walk out that door, I don’t know how long it’ll be until I see you again. And I’m supposed to just… deal with it. Like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t matter.”

“Darlin’…” he started, but you cut him off again.

“My birthday party is on Saturday, Ty,” you said, your voice cracking as you met his gaze. “In two days. You knew that, right?”

His face told you everything you needed to know before he said a word. He’d either forgotten or hadn’t thought about it when he’d agreed to meet up with the team. The guilt in his eyes was enough to send a fresh wave of hurt through you.

“I’ll try to be back for it,” he said finally, but you could hear the hollowness in the promise. You both knew it wasn’t likely.

You felt your heart ache, the words barely leaving your lips. “Do you even realize what that does to me? The hoping, the waiting—knowing you probably won’t be there?”

He stepped closer, reaching for your hand, but you pulled away. “I want to stay,” he said earnestly, his voice breaking ever so slightly. “I do. But I can’t. I’m needed out there. These storms, they—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Don’t say it.”

“Darlin’, just let it go,” he pleaded, his voice desperate now. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I swear. And when I get back, we’ll have a date night. Whatever you want. You plan it, I’ll make it happen. Just... let me go, okay?”

The tears you’d been holding back slipped free, rolling down your cheeks as you finally broke. “I can’t just let you go,” you said, your voice trembling. “Not this time, Ty. Please. Don’t make me try to make you stay.”

He reached for you again, but this time, you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let him take your hands in his, his warmth grounding you even as your heart shattered.

“I just…” Your voice cracked as you looked up at him, the tears blurring your vision. “I just want to be enough. Just once, I want to be enough for you to stay.”

The words hung in the air, raw and aching, as Tyler’s grip on your hands tightened. He opened his mouth to respond, but for the first time, he seemed at a loss. His eyes searched yours, the storm inside him almost as intense as the one he was chasing.

Before Tyler could say anything else, his phone buzzed, the sound sharp and intrusive in the quiet tension between you. He pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. His jaw tightened as he sighed, the weight of the message clearly written in his expression.

“Boone’ll be here in about fifteen minutes,” he said softly, sliding the phone back into his pocket. “I need to finish packing.”

You didn’t respond, only nodding as you reached up to swipe at the tears still slipping down your cheeks. His words, as well-intentioned as they might have been, were a knife to the heart. He wasn’t saying, I’ll stay, or even, Let’s finish talking. He was saying, I’ve already made my choice.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Tyler said, his voice heavy with something that might have been regret. “We can keep talking then.”

But you both knew the truth. He might want to come back to this conversation, but the fact that he was finishing packing first told you everything you needed to know. Nothing you could say would make him stay.

When he returned downstairs, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, you heard Boone’s old beat up van pulling into the driveway. The headlights briefly lit up the kitchen window before Tyler opened the door and called out to his friend, “I’ll be right there.”

Then he turned back to you. You were still at the counter, picking absently at your lasagna, the fork dragging across your plate. The second plate—the one you’d made for him—sat untouched, cooling and forgotten.

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer. “Darlin’,” he said softly, his voice full of unspoken apologies. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You didn’t look up, but you felt him lean in to press a kiss to your lips. You turned away at the last second, and his kiss landed awkwardly on your cheek. He sighed and shifted, settling instead for a kiss on the crown of your head.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice almost breaking.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words past it. “I love you, too.”

And you did. God, you did. You loved him to a fault, even when it felt like your love wasn’t enough to make him stay.

“Be safe,” you whispered.

“I will,” he promised, his words like a balm to a wound that wouldn’t heal.

You watched him walk out the door, your eyes stinging with fresh tears as Tyler’s truck rumbled to life. You watched through the kitchen window as Tyler threw his bag into the back and climbed into the driver’s seat, his figure silhouetted in the dim glow of the driveway lights. Boone threw his own bag into the backseat and then climbed into the passenger seat.

And then they were gone. Tailights headed up the driveway and then disappearing as Tyler turned onto the highway.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty driveway, wondering—When will he be done with this? With chasing every storm, every call for adventure? You blinked, and the tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting.

You made your way back to the living room, the familiar comfort of the worn couch doing little to ease the ache in your chest. Your mind wandered as you sank into the cushions, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the fabric.

You thought back to a conversation you and Tyler had a few weeks ago, one of those late-night talks where the future seemed so bright and full of possibility. He’d talked about marriage, about having kids. About building a life together.

But now, as you sat there in the quiet, the weight of his absence pressing down on you, a painful thought crept in. How could he ever be a husband or a father when he barely had time to be a boyfriend?

The realization broke something in you. You wanted that life with Tyler more than anything. You wanted to be his wife, to see him become a father. You wanted to build a family with him, to share those moments of joy and chaos and love.

But you didn’t want him to be a part-time dad. You didn’t want a husband who was always somewhere else, chasing storms and leaving you behind.

And for the first time, you wondered if the life you wanted was even possible with the man you loved.

* * * *

TYLER’S P.O.V.

The rhythmic hum of Tyler’s truck tires against the highway should have been soothing, but to Tyler, it felt like nails on a chalkboard. He stared out the window, his elbow propped on the door, fingers pressed against his temple. The world outside was dark, illuminated only by the truck’s headlights and the occasional glow of a passing sign.

Boone cast a sideways glance at him for what had to be the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes. Tyler knew it was only a matter of time before he spoke up, but he wasn’t ready to talk. Not yet.

“You gonna tell me what’s eatin’ at you, or do I have to drag it outta you?” Boone finally asked, breaking the silence.

Tyler didn’t respond at first, just shifted in his seat and rubbed the back of his neck.

“C’mon, man,” Boone continued. “We’ve been friends too long for me not to know when somethin’s wrong. You’ve barely said a word since we left, haven’t turned on the music, and you’re starin’ out the window like the answer to life’s problems is out there somewhere.”

Tyler sighed, long and heavy, before leaning back in his seat. “It’s nothin’, Boone. Just tired.”

Boone snorted, unimpressed. “Bull. You’ve pulled all-nighters before and still wouldn’t shut up the whole ride. Don’t make me guess, Ty. Just spit it out.”

Tyler let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re like a damn bloodhound, you know that?”

“Yup. Now spill.”

Tyler hesitated, but finally gave in. “We had a fight,” he admitted quietly.

Boone glanced at him again, his brows furrowing. “You and her?”

Tyler nodded. “Yeah. Right before I left.”

“What about?” Boone asked, his tone softening.

Tyler hesitated again, struggling to find the right words. “I dunno, man. Not really Kate, but…I guess kinda about Kate?” He let out another sigh. “She’s not mad about her, though. She’s mad about me leavin’. Again.”

Boone didn’t say anything at first, just let Tyler talk.

“She told me she needed me to stay,” Tyler continued, his voice quieter now. “For her. For once, she needed me to stay, and I still…I didn’t.” He swallowed hard, the weight of his own words settling heavily on his chest.

Boone nodded slowly. “And you think you messed up bad this time?”

Tyler’s laugh was humorless, almost bitter. “Yeah, Boone. I think I really screwed up. She turned away when I tried to kiss her goodbye, man. That’s never happened before. And the look on her face…” His voice cracked, and he paused, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

Boone glanced at him again, concern etched across his face. “She loves you, Ty. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Tyler said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But what if…what if it’s not enough anymore? What if I’m not enough anymore?” He shook his head, his voice breaking again. “I can’t lose her, Boone. I can’t.”

Boone tightened his grip on the wheel, his jaw set. “Then don’t. You’re stubborn as hell when it comes to everything else, so don’t give up on this either. You’ll figure it out, Ty.”

Tyler nodded, running a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

The two fell into silence again, but this time it wasn’t quite as heavy. Boone reached over and turned on the radio, keeping the volume low. Tyler leaned his head back against the seat, staring at the roof of the truck and trying to figure out how the hell he was going to fix this.

* * * *

TWO DAYS LATER, YOUR BIRTHDAY

The sun streamed through your bedroom window as you sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at your phone. A single missed call and a few unread texts from Tyler stared back at you. You hadn’t opened the messages, too stubborn—or maybe too hurt—to even look at them. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You cared too much, and that was the problem.

You opened the Life360 app for what had to be the hundredth time in the last two days, watching Tyler’s little icon blink on the map. Still in Oklahoma. Still chasing storms. Still too far away to make it home.

Even if he left right now, you calculated bitterly, it’d be three, maybe four in the morning before he walked through the door. But he wasn’t leaving. You knew that. The tracker told you everything you needed to know—Tyler Owens wasn’t coming home for your birthday.

You locked your phone and tossed it onto the bed, your chest tightening with the familiar ache of disappointment. It wasn’t anger. No, anger would have been easier. Anger would have been a quick burn, a flash of heat that you could let out and be done with. This was worse. This was the cold, dull ache of hurt.

You stood and moved to the mirror, staring at your reflection as you got ready for the party. You’d spent weeks planning this, excited to celebrate with the people you loved most. Now, the thought of facing them felt almost unbearable. Everyone would ask about Tyler, and you’d have to put on a brave face, smile through the questions, and pretend like you weren’t holding your breath every time your phone buzzed, hoping it’d be him telling you he was on his way.

But you knew better. He wasn’t coming.

As you brushed a stray tear from your cheek, your mind wandered back to the conversation you’d had with Tyler a few weeks ago. He’d talked about your future together, about getting married and having kids, painting a picture of a life you’d always dreamed of. But now, the cracks in that picture seemed impossible to ignore. How could you build a life with someone who was always halfway out the door?

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply as you fought to push those thoughts aside. Not today. You wouldn’t let them ruin today. This was your birthday, and you deserved to enjoy it, even if he wasn’t there.

Straightening your shoulders, you turned back to the mirror and gave yourself a firm nod. You’d put on your best dress, your brightest smile, and celebrate with the people who were here. But as you stepped away from the mirror and picked up your phone again, that stubborn, nagging ache in your chest reminded you that no matter how hard you tried, a part of you would always be waiting for him.

The party was in full swing by the time you arrived, the sound of laughter and conversation filling the air. String lights hung from the trees, casting a warm glow over the backyard, and the scent of barbecue wafted through the cool evening breeze. Everyone had shown up—friends, family, even a few coworkers. It should’ve felt perfect.

But as you smiled and greeted everyone, it felt like you were moving through a haze. The excitement and joy on everyone else’s faces only seemed to amplify the emptiness you felt inside. You plastered on a smile, accepting hugs and well-wishes, thanking people for coming, but the effort was exhausting.

A couple of hours in, you found yourself standing near the drink table, sipping from a plastic cup of wine and watching the crowd. Your mom made her way over, a warm smile on her face, but the moment she reached you, her brow furrowed slightly.

“Honey, where’s Tyler?” she asked, her voice gentle but laced with curiosity.

You froze for a moment, gripping the cup a little tighter. “Oh, he’s, um, he’s on a chase,” you said, forcing the words out. “It came up last minute.”

Her expression softened with understanding, but you could see the concern flicker in her eyes. “I’m sure he wishes he could be here,” she said, reaching out to touch your arm.

You nodded quickly, blinking back the sting of tears. “Yeah, of course. He’s been texting me. He feels awful about it.” The lie slipped out so easily, you almost believed it yourself.

Your mom gave you a small squeeze before drifting back into the crowd, but the interaction left you rattled. You tried to shake it off, turning to join a group of friends by the fire pit, laughing at their stories and pretending like everything was fine.

But as the hours dragged on, the weight of Tyler’s absence pressed heavier on your chest. Every time someone asked about him or mentioned how great the party was, it felt like a reminder of what was missing. You glanced at your watch—10:03. The party was supposed to go until one, but you couldn’t stay another minute.

You slipped away quietly, grabbing your purse and coat from the entryway. A few people called out goodbyes as you left, and you forced a smile, waving over your shoulder as you made your way to the car.

The drive home was a blur. By the time you walked through the front door, the tears you’d been holding back all evening finally broke free. You kicked off your heels and sank onto the couch, burying your face in your hands as sobs wracked your body.

You’d wanted so badly to enjoy tonight, to celebrate with the people who loved you. But the one person you needed most wasn’t there, and no amount of pretending could fill that void.

You thought about all the times you’d told yourself it was okay, that Tyler’s work was important, that you understood why he couldn’t always be there. But tonight, it didn’t feel okay. Tonight, you just felt… alone.

And as you curled up on the couch, clutching a throw pillow to your chest, a single thought echoed in your mind: How much longer can I keep doing this?

* * * *

The soft light of dawn filtered through the curtains as Tyler stepped through the front door. Exhaustion pulled at him, but it wasn’t what he noticed. What stopped him cold was the sight of you curled up on the couch, a pillow clutched to your chest, tear tracks staining your cheeks. His heart sank.

He set his bag down quietly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He knew he’d hurt you—he always knew—but seeing it like this, seeing you broken because of him, twisted the knife in his chest.

Carefully, he walked over and crouched beside the couch. For a moment, he just looked at you, the rise and fall of your chest as you slept. The way your fingers clung to the pillow as if it could offer some comfort.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick.

Tyler leaned down and slid his arms under you, lifting you gently. You stirred slightly, murmuring in your sleep, but you didn’t wake. He carried you upstairs, careful not to bump into anything, and laid you down on the bed. He pulled the blankets up to your shoulders, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face before leaving quietly.

A few hours later, you made your way downstairs, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Your body felt heavy, your chest tight. The events of last night still hung over you like a storm cloud.

As you reached the living room, you noticed him sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. A bouquet of wildflowers sat on the coffee table in front of him, their bright colors almost mocking in the dull atmosphere.

He heard your steps and looked up, his face lighting up with a hopeful smile. “Morning,” he said softly, standing and walking toward you.

You stopped at the base of the stairs, arms crossed, as he closed the distance. He reached out, pulling you into his arms. 

“You look pretty,” he said, his voice warm and tender.

You huffed, pulling back just enough to look at him. “I cried myself to sleep last night, so I’m sure I look like a supermodel,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm.

His smile faltered, and his brow furrowed. “You cried yourself to sleep?” he repeated, his voice dropping with guilt. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You pulled away, shaking your head, and walked past him into the living room. His gaze followed you, the weight of your silence pressing down on him.

“I missed you,” he said softly, his voice tentative.

You didn’t respond. You sat down on the armrest of the chair, staring at the flowers but refusing to acknowledge him.

Tyler sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, silent treatment. Got it.” He stepped closer, his tone pleading now. “What’s it gonna take to make this up to you?”

You looked up at him then, your eyes sharp and filled with hurt. “It’s too late for that.”

His face fell, and for a moment, he just stared at you, as if the words hadn’t fully sunk in. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice cracking.

You took a deep breath, the words tasting bitter as you forced them out. “I mean I’m done, Tyler. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep having you miss things—important things—for the job.”

He staggered back a step, as if the words had physically struck him. “No, no, don’t say that,” he said, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t say that.”

His knees hit the floor in front of you, his hands reaching for yours. “I can’t lose you. I’ll do better, I promise. I’ll talk to the team—I already did. I told them I’d cut back on the days I’m on the road. I swear to you, it’ll be different.”

You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. “It’s too late, Tyler. You should’ve done that months ago. I begged you to.”

His hands gripped yours tighter, desperation pouring out of him. “I know. I know I screwed up. I know I’ve hurt you. But I love you. I need you. Please… just give me one more chance.”

You looked away, your heart-shattering at the sight of him, broken and pleading. You wanted so badly to believe him, to believe that things could change. But deep down, you knew the cycle would continue.

The finality in your voice broke him. He leaned his forehead against your knees, his shoulders shaking as he choked back a sob. You reached down, your fingers threading through his hair one last time, and then you stood, walking away before you could change your mind.

* * * *

A WEEK LATER

The house was eerily quiet, save for the faint creak of the floorboards as Tyler shuffled aimlessly from room to room. He hadn’t left in days, couldn’t bring himself to. The walls seemed to press in around him, suffocating and empty. The coffee table still held the dead bouquet of wildflowers he’d bought for you, their once-vivid colors now dulled to brown. Next to them sat the small red box, untouched, its contents a painful reminder of what he’d lost.

He sank onto the couch, rubbing his hands over his face. His eyes burned, swollen from too many sleepless nights and too many tears. He hadn’t eaten much. He hadn’t showered. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Every corner of the house was haunted by you—your laughter, your smile, the faint scent of your perfume still lingering in the air.

A sharp knock at the door startled him. He ignored it, hoping whoever it was would go away. But the knocking came again, louder this time, and then he heard Boone’s voice calling out.

“Tyler! Open the damn door!”

Tyler groaned, dragging himself off the couch. He unlocked the door and swung it open, only to find Boone, Lilly, Dexter, and Dani standing on his porch. They took one look at him, and their faces fell.

“Jesus, man,” Boone said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. The others followed, their expressions a mix of concern and shock.

“You look like hell,” Lilly said softly, her hand brushing his arm.

Tyler let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, it feels about right.”

They gathered in the living room, their eyes flicking to the dead flowers and the mess of empty coffee cups and takeout containers scattered on the table. Boone cleared his throat, leaning forward.

“All right, spill. What the hell happened?”

Tyler sank back onto the couch, his head in his hands. He took a shaky breath before finally speaking. “She’s gone,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The room fell silent. Boone exchanged a confused look with Dexter, while Dani’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Gone?” Lilly asked. “What do you mean, gone? We knew you two fought, but… Tyler, we thought you’d work it out.”

Tyler shook his head, his voice breaking. “She’s done. She walked out, and I don’t blame her. I couldn’t—” He stopped, his throat tightening. “I couldn’t give her what she needed. I wasn’t there for her. She deserved better, and I couldn’t be that for her.”

Boone leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “Tyler, man, you’ve gotta talk to her. Fix this.”

“It’s too late,” Tyler said, his voice hollow. “She’s made up her mind.”

The group exchanged glances, unsure of what to say. Boone’s gaze drifted to the coffee table, where the small red box caught his attention. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the worn velvet.

Tyler’s head snapped up. “Boone, don’t—”

But it was too late. Boone flipped the lid open, his eyes widening as he took in the ring inside. The room went still.

“Tyler,” Boone said, his voice low. “What is this?”

Tyler’s jaw clenched, and he looked away, unable to meet his friend’s gaze. “It’s… it was supposed to be hers,” he said quietly. “I was going to ask her that night we got back. I was going to tell her I was ready to change, ready to be better for her. Ask her to give me one more chance. But it didn’t matter. I waited too long.”

The weight of his confession hung in the air, pressing down on everyone in the room. Lilly’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and Dani reached over to place a comforting hand on Tyler’s arm.

“Tyler,” Dexter said gently, “it’s not too late. If you love her, you fight for her. You show her you’re serious. You don’t give up now.”

Tyler shook his head. “She’s better off without me,” he muttered.

“No,” Boone said firmly, closing the ring box and setting it back on the table. “She’s not. She loves you, Tyler.”

Tyler didn’t respond. He just stared at the floor, the weight of their words battling with the doubt and regret that consumed him.

The room fell silent again, each of them searching for the right thing to say. Finally, Lilly spoke up, her voice soft but determined.

“Tyler, you don’t have to do this alone. We’ll help you figure it out.”

Tyler’s shoulders sagged, and for the first time in days, a flicker of hope pierced through the darkness. “I don’t know if she’ll even listen,” he said quietly.

“You don’t know unless you try,” Boone said.

Tyler stands up abruptly, grabbing his keys, his mind set on finding you. But Boone, ever the realist, steps in his path. He holds up a hand, a half-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Ty, you’re not going anywhere like that," Boone says, looking him up and down. "You’ve been living like a hermit for a week. You smell like you’ve slept in a barn, and I’m pretty sure your hair has its own ecosystem. Go take a shower, put on some clean clothes, and then we’ll talk about how you’re gonna win her back. You can’t even look at her like this."

Tyler stares at Boone, then looks down at his own disheveled appearance, realizing his friend might have a point. With a sigh, he drops the keys onto the counter. “Fine.

Boone watches him with a knowing look as Tyler trudges upstairs, and the team remains silent for a moment.

Boone sighs and heads toward the door, turning back once to glance at Tyler’s room. He knows his friend isn’t ready to give up, and neither is he. Tyler had made his mistake, but it wasn’t too late to change. They just had to get him there first...and then hope by some miracle that you'd listen to what Tyler had to say.

[vamplvs]

soft john thought: helping him maintain his beard! (he gave you beard burn once and that was far too many times) while he doesn't need you to do it, it's kind of nice to be taken care of in this way. washing it, trimming it, buying him fancy beard oils to try, etc etc. i need to scratch under his chin like he's a dog

TWO BITS

INCLUDES -> john walker x reader WARNINGS -> like 65% john character study and the rest is fluff! WORD COUNT -> 1.6k

NOTES -> honestly, this was supposed to be a cute little "taking care of john" kind of blurb, and then it ran away from me. idk what happened. idk how i wrote over 1k words about BEARD CARE of all things. but the first part is like almost exclusively a character study LMAO. he's just so fascinating to me i fear

after long missions, john gets neurotic about his beard. it's not like he has the time to maintain it between getting shot at, trying to keep the team alive, and arguing with them on top of it all. sometimes things aren't quite in that order. the day yelena learned just how quickly he could move with the shield is one he will forever rue.

but it's safe to say that he simply doesn't have the chance to even try. even when there is some downtime, he can't be careful in the way he likes to be. it isn't part of his routine in the way that he's used to at home. his entire system falls out of wack on the days—or sometimes weeks—spent on missions.

so when he's finally home, when he gets to collapse into bed next to you and fall back into that same daily rhythm that keeps him going? yeah, his beard is one of the first things to get taken care of.

maybe it's that old military training kicking in. the requirement to be well-groomed at all times. only, he wasn't allowed to have a beard then. as a captain, he conformed to that sameness demanded of him and every other soldier and officer around him. it gave him a routine to stick to when he woke up.

up at 5:30 sharp, regardless of whether there was morning training or not—he'd do it on his own if he had to—a quick shower, the same breakfast every morning, and brushing his teeth and shaving to top it all off. he made quick work of it all, back when that was required of him.

now, he wakes up at 7:30—sometimes even 8:00 on a slow, lazy day, since he's allowed to have those now—with you tucked into his side. he lets himself have more variety with his breakfast options, lets his showers become something more than simply a mechanical cleaning.

he has a beard, too, and that's different. it was something that just happened after his discharge. he got sucked out of that routine for months, trapped in a cycle of reading through every inflammatory article about him, getting talked down from anxiety driven spirals by olivia, and miraculously finding a way out of bed and into his uniform to work for valentina of all people.

but after the thunderbolts, after you, it stuck. it's him now, or at least that's what you say. he likes the way you care about it, how adamant you are that it's good he has a preference for it—getting rid of all that "military bullshit," as you put it.

he doesn't tell you he mostly maintains it because you seem to like it. he keeps that to himself when you buy him some new product—maybe it's a fancy shaving cream, or a beard oil—but it matters to him all the same. because you're the one getting it for him.

so now, he adds beard care onto his new and improved routine.

when he's not strung along on a mission, that is.

after a week of being in some dusty old hydra base, doing a frankly miserable amount of recon, and uncovering nothing that gives the team any actual leads, john is more than ready to go home to you. and his beard is getting out of hand.

the new growth is stubble down his neck and scratchy against his chinstrap. it's irritating, grating in a way he's itching to fix. it's starting to climb up his cheeks, too, and that's what drives him up the wall the most. he can't run an exasperated hand down his own face without stubble scratching at his palms like some incessant reminder of his long forsaken routine whose loss he mourns every waking minute he has to spend on this mission and away from you.

or maybe he's just being dramatic.

once they finally land back in the watchtower, john makes a beeline for your shared room. he's covered in mission-related grime, and the thought of a warm, relaxing shower is more than enough to put a hop in his step. that, and it's one more step in the right direction to seeing you again.

hot water is beating down on him in no time, easing the aches buried deep in the muscles of his back. the mission sloughs off him in weighty chunks and swirls down the drain. he's so caught up in scrubbing everything away—all the dirt, the aches, the exhaustion—that he nearly misses you knocking on the door in that old “shave and a haircut” pattern.

you never come in without knocking first, especially after a mission. he gets twitchy and irritable after bad ones and needs the time to decompress, something you'd unfortunately learned the hard way a month or two ago. he hadn't meant to snap at you, but-

"hey, john?" your voice rings through the door clear. "can i grab something real quick?"

"sure, honey," he fires back, and he hears the telltale sound of the rustling of products as you search for something in the cabinet.

"did the mission go okay?" he hears a little "a-ha!" a moment after, and the cabinets shut softly.

"it went fine, nothing crazy."

"shave after the shower, then?" you ask, but he's sure you already know the answer. john is a creature of habit first and foremost.

"you want to do it?"

and that's how you find yourself perched on the bathroom sink in front of him, clippers in hand and an eyebrow raised. he stands in front of you wearing a well-worn west point shirt, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your knee.

"you ready?" you always ask, and he always is.

john rolls his eyes anyway. "you say that like this is some kind of mission."

"it is! a mission to make my wonderful boyfriend even prettier." you wield the clippers like they're a weapon and waste no time getting to cutting through his overgrown beard. your hands are unimaginably soft against his chin. fingers gently direct him as you trim.

once you're satisfied, you pick up the shaving cream and work it into a lather. it's one of the new ones you bought for him a little while ago. it came wrapped neatly in a little care package you put together for him. since then, it sits in the top drawer of the sink, alongside the rest of his favorites.

"ready for the scary part?"

"honey, i fight supervillains every other week."

"scary for me, john," you say with a cheeky smile, "what if i ruin all this?"

"you won't. i trust you." his eyes are intent upon yours, solid as stone.

it makes you suck in a sharp breath.

and then the razor is against his skin, gliding smooth on his cheek. john relishes in the feather-light touch of your fingertips guiding his face. it's a wonder your hands are so steady. his never are when he shaves—and he's been doing it for much longer than you have.

there's something that blooms quiet in his chest when you direct his head upward so you can clean up his jaw and neck. you're impossibly delicate, cradling him with little more than a few fingers as you drag the razor against his pulse point. it's overwhelming, the urge to kiss you. it's like his chest is too tight, and he can't quite get enough air in his lungs. but you pay it no mind, simply focused on the task at hand.

if anyone else were doing this, he'd have surely flinched back by now. that thought swims sluggishly through his mind—that no one else would be this safe—until he feels a sudden sting at the corner of his jaw.

"shit, sorry," you say hurriedly, voice low as if to keep from disturbing the careful peace in the room. your hands work quickly at dabbing away the blood from the nick with a tissue.

"it's fine," he replies, "i've seen worse."

"at least that was the end of it, right?" you're still focused on his jaw, tongue poking out between your lips as you patch him up to the best of your ability—not that there's much to patch up. it's hardly even a scratch, but still, you press a soothing kiss to his jaw.

he hums, missing the warmth of your touch even as you pull away. you give him a pat on the shoulder as a signal for him to step back, and he does it without a further thought.

“none of the fancy stuff this time?”

"i thought you said it was silly," you tease, prodding a gentle finger into his shoulder as you pack away the shaving kit, but you leave out the beard oil anyways.

he waits for you to finish up, itching to wrap his arms around you. he's missed you more than he's willing to admit out loud. it's different somehow when he can just hold you, when he doesn't have to say a thing and you know. you always know, somehow.

and your hands are back on his face, fingers scratching through his beard. he hears himself let out a long breath—almost a sigh—and you grin up at him. you take your time, like you always do, with the oil. it's soothing and slow, and he's almost sure that he could fall asleep standing upright like this.

"there," you mutter, and turn to pack away the oil along with everything else.

his hands wrap themselves around your waist as he watches over your shoulder. "thank you."

"anytime." you turn to face him, arms over his shoulders. your eyes flit across his face for a moment, satisfied with your work. he is too. "bed?"

"please," john's voice is all rasp and gravel. he follows after you like a lost puppy and nearly collapses into the bed. you, of course, are pulled close the minute you lay down next to him.

bad missions leave john on edge, but slow ones? the ones that drag on with no end in sight? they leave him clingy and exhausted to his core. they leave him missing you above all else.

so it's no surprise when the next morning is decidedly a lazy one.

[fastandcarlos]

Sleepy Bug : ̗̀➛ Carlos Sainz

summary: it's the surprise of a lifetime for carlos as you flew halfway around the world for him, and as jetlag greets you, carlos is determined to see you getting the rest you deserve

A heavy sigh escaped from you as your hands brushed over your face, dancing lazily through your strands of hair. Your eyes were heavy as you struggled to keep them open, the effects of many busy days at work, coupled with your last minute to fly halfway around the world to support Carlos for the weekend were taking their toll. 

You barely had the strength to carry yourself around the bathroom as you finished your night routine, stretching your fingertips out to turn the light off so you didn’t have to take any more steps than you needed to.  

“Come here you,” Carlos smiled, extending his arm out across the bed, inviting you to fill the space that was beside him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so tired in my life.” 

You hummed in response as you placed your phone down, tossing the clothes you’d taken off into your suitcase. “As much as I love coming to support you, jetlag is my worst enemy right now, I can’t begin to tell you how much I hate it.” 

Once you were sorted, you threw yourself down onto the bed and rested your head against Carlos' arm, feeling him drape the duvet over your frame so that you could get as much warmth from it as possible. 

“How’s that now?” 

“It’s almost perfect.” 

“Only almost perfect?” Carlos chuckled. 

You hummed as you rolled further into Carlos' side, tucking yourself into him as tightly as you possibly could. Carlos' hand moved from the top of your shoulder to your waist, allowing his head to rest down against the top of yours with a kiss against it for extra comfort. 

“Now it’s perfect,” you whispered, resting your hand against Carlos' chest. “I think I could stay here forever with how sleepy I feel right now.” 

“I just can’t believe you’re here,” Carlos chuckled, keeping his eyes on you, watching you closely. “I was all prepared to fall asleep in this big bed all by myself tonight, wishing that you were here with me. And now here you are, as if you knew just how much I wanted to have you here.” 

It was the surprise of a lifetime for Carlos never expecting you to be there. The excitement he felt when he opened his hotel room door to see you stood before him was a feeling that he knew would not be matched for some time. 

Carlos never took for granted the sacrifices that you made for him, for most of the week you’d called him and told him about how tired and stressed work had left you, yet you still found the energy to fly out and make sure that you were there for him. 

“I don’t have to be at the track until lunch tomorrow, so we’ve got plenty of time to lay here and make sure that you catch up on all your sleep too,” Carlos informed you, keeping his fingers tracing along your skin. 

You nodded in response, too tired to muster up a proper reply. However as you began to think about tomorrow, you couldn’t help but begin to worry about all the logistics that came with being a driver’s girlfriend. 

“Will they let me in tomorrow? We haven’t organised a pass or anything,” you reminded Carlos , your voice a faint whisper that he could only just understand. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all under control,” Carlos assured you, “whilst you were in the bathroom, I made all the necessary calls and made sure you have access for everywhere for the whole weekend.” 

There was nowhere else that Carlos wanted you than by his side now that you were there. As soon as he saw you, he knew what he had to do, and luckily for him, Ferrari was always incredibly accommodating to you.  

The longer that time passed, Carlos could see you struggling to stay awake more and more. “Rest, sleepy bug,” Carlos told you, not wanting you to stay awake just for him. 

“That’s a new one,” you chuckled at the surprise new nickname that came from Carlos . He was forever creating new names for you, toying with finding ones that he knew would stick. 

The smile on your face was everything that Carlos needed to know that this was yet another nickname that he could add to his least of ones to use and surprise you with when you least expected them. They were nicknames that he would never share with anyone else, keeping them safe between just the two of you, not quite wanting to show that side of him to the rest of the world. 

“You need to sleep,” Carlos smirked as your voice perked up once again, “I can’t begin to imagine how tired you must be after all the work and travelling you’ve done over the past few days, you must be insane.” 

“It’s worth it,” you assured him, “being here to cheer you on is always my favourite thing to do.” 

Yet another kiss was planted to the top of your head as Carlos spoke, “I don’t think I’ve really told you yet just how much it means to me to have you here, I can’t believe you came here for me, no one’s done anything like this for me before.” 

“I’m your biggest fan, I’ve got to be here,” you reminded him, pressing gently against his toned chest. “It’s worth it for all these moments anyway, when I get to have you all to myself.” 

Carlos hummed in agreement with you, “these are the moments that mean the most, like it’s only the two of us who exist in this crazy world.” 

“That would be nice,” you laughed, “but unfortunately I have to share you with thousands of fans.” 

“None of them compare to you though.” 

“So cheesy,” you teased, feeling Carlos jab in against your side. “I wonder how you do it sometimes.” 

Carlos' eyes rolled at your remark, knowing exactly what you were like. You loved to make fun of him, tease him, but he would never want for it to be any other way. As silence descended once again, Carlos felt your body relax in his hold, the sign he needed to know that you were feeling sleepy once again.  

“Close your eyes,” Carlos instructed, tilting his head to make sure that he could see you doing so. “As much as I love you, I don’t want to talk to you anymore, I just want to make sure that you’re finally getting the rest that you deserve.” 

Your head shook against Carlos' chest, “that’s rude,” you teased, hearing him scoff above you. 

“I said I love you,” he laughed, “but you’re so sleepy, it’s what you need.” 

“I’ll sleep if you sleep,” you suggested, “you’ve got a pole position to achieve tomorrow, it’s the least you could do considering I’ve flown all the way out here for you.” 

“I’ll make sure that I’m pole just for you,” Carlos whispered, making his promise to you, “knowing you’re cheering me on in the garage will be the boost I’ll need to get it too.” 

You never doubted Carlos' ability, knowing just how capable he was to get his car at the front of the grid. 

“Come on sleepy bug,” Carlos smiled, “goodnight my love.” 

“Goodnight Carlos.” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌���𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[ponderingmoonlight]

jjk men comforting you after a rough day

Pairings: Megumi x reader; Yuji x reader; Gojo x reader; Choso x reader; Sukuna x reader

Word Count:3,7k

Warnings: none of those scenarios is specific, just reader having a rough day, fluff in every part hehe

Megumi Fushiguro

The world seems extra heavy today, each step on your way home slower than the last. By the time you finally open the door to Megumi’s dorm like you’re used to, your shoulders ache with the weight of it all. But there, waiting in the soft, golden light of his room, is Megumi. He stands in his usual way, casual but attentive, eyes soft as he takes you in as if he’s been waiting for your arrival.

There’s no need to say a single word; he reads everything in the slump of your posture, the tired line of your mouth, your already glossy eyes. He’s always had a way of seeing beyond the surface when it came to you, and tonight is no different.

“Long day?” he asks gently, voice so quiet it feels like a balm against the noise in your mind.

His eyes search yours before he reaches to take your bag from your shoulder, placing it carefully by the door. You nod, the exhaustion catching up with you as the reality of being home, of being with him, finally settles in. What a hell of a day or rather week this was.

Without saying another word, he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours as warm and grounding as ever. There’s comfort in his touch, in the solid warmth of his palm against yours, that makes you feel more at ease than you have all day. He doesn’t press you to talk, doesn’t ask for more than you’re ready to give. Instead, he simply guides you to his bed and settles down beside you, close enough that you can feel his presence like a protective shield.

As you sink into the cushions, he drapes a blanket over your legs, tucking it around you in his careful, unhurried way. He shifts beside you, pulling you gently to rest against his shoulder. The gesture is so familiar, so subtly caring, that you feel a pang in your chest - a reminder that here, with him, you’re safe. You close your eyes for a brief, letting the silence stretch between you, and just breathe in the quiet assurance of his presence. To be honest, this is what you’ve been longing for all day.

Megumi’s hand finds yours again, his fingers tracing gentle circles against the palm of your hand. It’s a small gesture, one that could go unnoticed, but it feels like he’s saying everything while not using a single word.

You let out a deep sigh, allow yourself to sink into him, feeling the weight of the day slowly but surely melt away, bit by bit with each stroke of his thumb against your hand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks eventually, his voice low and calm.

There’s no pressure in his tone, just an open invitation, one you know he’d withdraw just as easily if you weren’t ready. You shake your head, feeling that threatful lump aching inside your throat. No, you’re absolutely not in the mood to cry right now. Megumi seems to understand though, his gaze softening as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

For a while, you simply sit together, the silence like a healing balm, soothing in its simplicity. When he feels you start to relax, Megumi shifts slightly, freeing his arm so he can wrap it around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss at the top of your head, a rare display of affection that you feel down to your bones.

The minutes pass in comfortable silence, the kind that only exists with someone like him. Every once in a while, he glances down at you, his gaze gentle and steady, as if checking to make sure you’re still okay. His other hand traces slow, soothing patterns on your arm, the rhythmic motion calming the last lingering traces of stress from the day.

Eventually, he shifts again, adjusting so you’re resting more comfortably against him, his fingers threading through your hair in a slow, steady motion. The tenderness in his movements is so gentle, so completely at odds with his usual stoic demeanor, that you feel your heart ache in the best way. With Megumi, you don’t need to pretend. He sees you as you are, accepts every part of you, even on the days when you feel worn down to nothing.

The evening stretches on, peaceful and calm, until you find yourself dozing off against him, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest. His hand stays in your hair, his fingers moving with a slow, practiced ease, as if he’s done this a thousand times before.

And in that moment, as the world fades into soft shadows, you know that with Megumi, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Yuji Itadori

You don’t just feel tired tonight. No, you feel like the world is pressing down on you, relentless and merciless. It’s the kind of day that pulls at every thread holding you together, and by the time you reach home, it’s as if all the carefully managed fragments of yourself threaten to break loose.

You push open the door, and Yuji is there, his smile lighting up the moment he sees you. But as soon as he registers your stoic expression, the smile fades into something softer, more tentative.

"Hey," he greets you with warm and concerned-filled voice.

You okay?"

The question, such a damn simple question, breaks something in you. The day’s weight crashes down on you like a tsunami. And before you can stop it, the tears spill over. You try to brush them away, shaking your head as you choke on a frustrated, angry sob. Are you really standing in front of your boyfriend while crying over something like a rough day?  

Yuji’s eyes widen for a moment out of visibly surprise, but then he’s right there, a grounding presence in the storm of your emotions.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, moving closer, his arms wrapping around you in a hug so warm and secure it feels like it could hold the world together.

"Let it out. I’m right here, okay? Let’s get you inside."

You press your face into his chest, the tears streaming freely now, and your hands clutch at his shirt, desperate for something solid. Every frustration, every stress, every hurt you’ve kept inside spills over uncontrollably. Why has all of this have to be so damn hard?

 “I… I just can’t… I tried so hard today, but it didn’t matter, and… everything’s just too much…”

Yuji’s hand strokes gently along your back, his touch steady and unwavering.

“I get it. I know it’s hard sometimes. I know it can all feel like too much. But you don’t have to handle it alone, yeah?”

His words are simple but hit deep, and you let out a shaky exhale as you lean into him, allowing yourself to be held. Yuji’s warmth radiates through you, steady and grounding, a stark contrast to the chaos in your mind. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to fix anything. He just stays, solid and unwavering, letting you release every emotion without a single spark of judgment in his eyes.

After a while, when the tears have slowed and the storm inside you has begun to calm, Yuji pulls back just enough to look at you. He reaches up, brushing away the lingering tears with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“You know,” he begins, his voice soft and genuine, “you’re allowed to feel this way. You don’t always have to be okay.”

A small, shaky laugh escapes you, the weight easing just a little.

“That’s good to hear…”

Yuji smiles back, a glimmer of that familiar brightness returning to his face.

“Hey, let’s do something fun. Just you and me. We’ll get ice cream or watch the silliest movie we can find. I bet we can make this day end on a good note.”

You nod, a small smile breaking through, and let him lead you into the living room, his arm still around your shoulders, grounding you with each step.

“I don’t want to watch the one with the worms, though.”

“WHY NOT?”

Satoru Gojo

The day has left you in pieces, each moment sharp and overwhelming, until you can barely stand the pressure building inside you. As you step into the apartment, every sensation - light, sound, touch - feels too much. You shut the door behind you, your breath coming in shallow, unsteady gasps, and it’s as if all the emotions have reached their breaking point. Fuck, don’t start crying right here on the spot, don’t let it all out, get yourself together-

A whimper escapes your lips and before you’re able to comprehend it, Satoru is already there, crossing the room in two easy strides. He reads the distress in your eyes instantly, the usual teasing gleam in his gaze replaced by genuine concern.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice unusually soft.

Honestly, it’s the last question you want to hear right now. Especially when he looks at you all serious.

“I can’t—” you start, your voice choked with frustration and exhaustion.

“Everything is just… too much, Satoru. I can’t handle it right now.”

Your words come out in a tangle, each one louder than the last, until you’re practically shouting, your hands shaking as you try to articulate the chaos inside you.

Instead of stepping back, Satoru stays close, his expression calm and grounded, giving you a safe space to release it all.

“Let it out,” he says quietly, and something in his voice unlocks the dam inside you.

 The anger, the sadness, the frustration. All of it pours out in a torrent of words and tears, your hands clenched in fists at your sides as you struggle to contain it.

When the words finally run dry, when you’re left feeling like absolute shit, Satoru reaches out, pulling you into a tight hug.

“You don’t have to handle it alone,” he murmurs, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles on your back.

“Sometimes, you just need to let it out. I’ll be here for all of it, not only the fun stuff.”

You bury your face against his chest, your fingers clinging to his shirt for dear life as he holds you, steady and comforting. There’s something supporting in his embrace, something that reminds you that he’s there, a steady presence in the storm of your emotions. Have you ever seen your boyfriend with something like worry filling his eyes, with that glint of seriousness you’ve never seen before in his gaze?

 His hand strokes your hair, slow and reassuring, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

"I know it’s hard, and I know it’s not fair. But I promise, you don’t have to go through it alone."

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you pull back just enough to look up at him, your breath still shaky but the tension easing slightly. He gives you a reassuring smile, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Hey. I know the best treatment for a day like this: a midnight snack. Something sweet, maybe? How about…mochi from that one street?”

“That’s your favorite treat, Satoru.”

“And you’ve mine. So I guess that’s the perfect solution, right?”

His words pull a reluctant laugh from you, and he grins, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he leads you toward the kitchen.

“Come on, let’s make some memories that’ll drown out the bad ones.”

With Satoru, there’s always a way forward, always a spark of light, even in the darkest moments. Even if it’s a mochi from across the street.

Choso Kamo

The day has left you feeling frayed, worn down to your very core. As you trudge through the door, your gaze drops to the floor, too tired to muster a smile, let alone look at your boyfriend. There’s no need to drag Choso down with you, right?

But before you can even think, he’s right there on his own, his quiet presence filling the room like a comforting warmth. He tilts your head up and meets your gaze, understanding in an instant that you’re feeling down.

Without a word, he steps forward, his hands reaching out in that cautious, careful way of his. He’s always so gentle with you, as if afraid he might break something fragile while touching you. His hands cup your face, his thumbs tracing a feather-light path along your cheekbones as he studies you, his gaze searching and full of an unspoken concern that tugs at your heart.

“You look tired,” he says softly, the rough edge of his voice softened by a tenderness that surprises you every time.

His words hold no judgment, only a quiet understanding that makes you feel seen, truly seen, in a way few people ever manage. His thumb brushes along your cheek, slow and soothing, and it’s enough to make your shoulders relax, the tension melting away beneath his touch.

Choso steps back just slightly, his gaze never leaving yours, and then he gently pulls you toward the living room. His movements are slow, deliberate, as if he’s giving you time to catch up, to let go of the day’s weight at your own pace. He guides you to the couch, his hand steady and warm in yours, and you sink into the cushions with a heavy sigh, grateful for the comforting presence beside you.

As you lean back, Choso sits down next to you, close but not crowding. He’s quiet, as he often is, letting the stillness speak for him. It’s a silence that feels like home, that wraps around you like a familiar embrace, offering comfort without demanding anything in return. You close your eyes, leaning your head back against a cushion and just exist, the steady rhythm of his breathing next to you lulling your brain in.

After a few moments, you feel his hand reach for yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a gentle hold that feels both protective and grounding. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in slow, deliberate circles, a silent reminder that he’s here, that you’re not alone. You feel the tension in your chest begin to ease, the weight of the day slipping away, bit by bit, with each slow, soothing motion.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

His tone is careful, as if he’s afraid to intrude, to push too hard. What if you don’t want to talk? What if he’s done something wrong?

You shake your head, feeling the words catch in your throat, and he nods, as if he expected nothing more.

For a while, the two of you sit in silence, the room filled with a peaceful calm that only Choso seems to create. His hand remains in yours, his grip steady and reassuring, as if securing you to the present, to the here and now. Every once in a while, he glances over at you, his gaze soft and full of an unspoken care that leaves you feeling both vulnerable and comforted. Oh, how lucky you are to call him yours.

Sukuna

The day has worn you down to the point of raw nerves, every small inconvenience piling up, every task feeling like an impossible problem. By the time you make it home, every sight, every sound feels like it’s pushing you closer to the edge. You step through the door, exhausted and on the brink.

And there he is, lounging on the couch with his usual air of dominance and confidence. His crimson eyes flick up as you enter, taking in the tension in your posture and the clenched fists at your sides.

“Finally home,” he drawls, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Took you long enough.”

Something inside you snaps. After all the shit you’ve been through this week, those countless working hours, this is what he has to say while lounging around all week? It’s too much, too much for you to hold back any longer.

“Do you ever stop?” you shout, the words tearing out of you before you can stop them.

“Do you ever just let me be for one moment? I’m exhausted, Sukuna! I can’t keep going like this!”

Your voice rings through the room, raw and sharp, and you feel your chest tighten as the tears begin to burn behind your eyes. Fuck, what the hell was that? Every emotion you’ve tried to hold in comes crashing out, your voice rising as you vent your frustration, no longer caring if he’s listening, no longer caring if he even understands.

Sukuna’s smirk fades as he watches you, his gaze narrowing. For a moment, he just stares at you, unreadable and quiet, and you’re ready for some biting retort, ready for him to say something that will only make the anger worse.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts forward, unfolding himself from the couch in one smooth, measured movement, his expression turning serious.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice low and calm, an unexpected contrast to the storm of emotions raging inside you.

His gaze sharpens as he takes a step closer, his presence like a dark cloud filling the room.

"Do you think I don’t see you, tearing yourself apart for things that don’t matter?"

You shake your head, the frustration still twisting inside your chest.

“You wouldn’t understand. You never have to deal with… with any of this.”

Your voice cracks, and you can’t stop the way your hands press to your temples, every sound, every light feeling like it’s pressing in on you, swelling the ache in your head.

“Everything feels too loud, too much… I can’t think. Fuck, I can’t even breathe.”

The admission comes out in a broken whisper, and suddenly, all the fight leaves you, your shoulders slumping as the first tears start to fall. You try to hold them back, but it’s no use -the exhaustion and frustration come pouring out like rain after a sunny day, leaving you standing there, shattered and vulnerable, feeling raw in a way that makes your skin prickle.

Sukuna’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing, and for a brief moment, something softer flickers in his gaze, an emotion you can’t name. He closes the distance between you, stopping just close enough that his presence grounds you, but not touching, not crowding you in the way he often does. It’s a small gesture, but you feel the shift in the air, an acknowledgment of your boundaries that surprises you.

He waits, watching you with a calm intensity, and then he speaks, his voice firm but oddly gentle.

“Enough of that,” he says, his tone carrying a command you can’t help but obey.

“Let it out. Whatever’s holding you down, get rid of it.”

His words hang heavy in the air. You can’t explain yourself why, but the permission, the demand even, to let yourself break in front of him makes something in you finally give in.

The tears come faster now, unchecked, and before you know it, you’re sobbing like a baby with your hands covering your face as you let go of everything you’ve been holding back for way too long. Those countless shitty conversations, all that fighting, the long appointments, the invoices…

Sukuna’s hand finds its way to your shoulder, his touch solid while being the tiniest bit rough.

“Is that all?” he murmurs, his voice so close it sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand slides down your arm, fingers curling around your wrist as he pulls your hand gently from your face, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek in a gesture that’s surprisingly tender for him.

“Look at me.”

You lift your head, your vision blurred while trying to meet his gaze. His expression is intense, but there’s no mockery there, no hint of the usual smirk that taunts you. Instead, he holds your gaze, letting you see that he’s truly there, that he’s not going to dismiss your pain.

“Whatever broke you today,” he says slowly, “it’s nothing. Nothing compared to you, nothing compared to what you can handle.”

His fingers trace your cheek, his thumb lingering just below your eye, wiping away the last traces of your tears.

“You don’t have to keep it together all the time. But don’t let this-” he gestures around as if encompassing all the stress that brought you here, “- consume you. You’re stronger than that, brat.”

There’s a powerful certainty in his words, a certainty that almost makes you believe it too. And as the last of your tears dry, you feel a strange sense of relief, as if the storm inside you has finally quieted. Maybe…he’s right. Maybe you did worry too much…

For a moment, neither of you moves, the silence stretching between you. Then, he steps back, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his gaze softening as he watches you.

“Next time you’re this worked up, come to me. I’ll remind you of your strength if you forget again.”

Tags:

@arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld

@hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen

@magalimachete @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut 

@mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0

@ynackerman9499 @keepghostly  @froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso @gojosrealwife 

@coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain 

@risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny

@ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr

@sugu-love @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world

@oikawarz @darkstarlight82 @satoreo @kentocalls @cheesemachine44

@ryva @kenjakusconcubine @baku2345 @komelrebi-san @deezy12299

@okay-it-is-ivy @paridoliaaa @cupcaketeddybehr

[cxffecoupx]

sundays

choi seungcheol x reader pure fluff, very domestic allowing their partner to sleep in because they were overworked anyway and need the rest with scoups wc: 995 warnings: mentions of food author's notes: first request from the prompt list. thank you so much anon! most of the feelings i wrote this with comes from all the stress last week, so this was pretty healing for me to write. also i tried a different style in this, not sure i liked it at first, but do lemme know what you guys think. also, i love domestic, boyfriend seungcheol, if it wasnt already obvious.

saturday; 8:26 p.m.

the soft vibrations startle you in the quiet hum of the library. people look towards you, some annoyed, some with no particular expression on their faces. dead inside.

somewhat like you.

you mutter apologies as you rush out with your phone. seungcheol's name lights up the screen. you pick up the call.

"hey baby."

"hey, cheollie."

"have you eaten yet?"

"no; i still have a little to finish the chapter. so maybe after that..."

"baby..." you swear you could see the pout on his face when you hear his voice. "how many times have i asked you not to starve yourself?"

"cheol, i'm not starving, i promise to eat after this chapter."

"you want me to order something for you?"

"no no, i'm good. i'll grab something from the cafe. i gotta go, i'll call you when i reach room, okay?"

after a hum, you end the call and go back to your table.

-----

saturday; 11:52 p.m.

you were writing notes - two three textbooks open on the desk, along with your laptop, and notebook on your lap, your pen tucked above your lips as you ponder something. the weighted blanket covers the chair and your figure, and although sleep is fluttering in your eyes, the thought of having to physically get up and out of this cozy comfortable cocoon makes you wanna sleep in the chair itself.

your phone buzzes with a text, making you groan because you'd have to pull yourself out of the position you're currently in. you do it anyways, and see that seungcheol had sent you a text.

big baby🍒: you up for a walk? me: i have to study me: :( big baby🍒: who are you kidding? big baby🍒: we both know youre falling asleep rn me: >:( me: but you make a good point me: when are you leaving? i'll get ready big baby🍒: already in front of your door

you get ready quickly and open the door to find seungcheol waiting out, cheeks red and lips shivering. you smile as you pull his face to yours to kiss his lips, mumbling a weak excuse that it's to warm them up. he wraps his scarf round your neck and interlinks your hands as you head for the walk.

when you return an hour later, it's with much reluctance that seungcheol says he should leave. but then he pouts every half minute after muttering his decision.

"do you wanna stay over tonight?" you offer, knowing fully well he would never reject. he doesnt even hear the whole question before he's kicking off his shoes and entering your room. you head over to your wardrobe to take out some of his clothes he'd left behind at various points of your relationship and bring it to him. when he's done freshening up, he comes out to see you settling back into your cocoon, head deep in the books. he decides to keep company as he lays on the bed, scrolling through his phone.

-----

sunday; 2:57 p.m.

seungcheol had fallen asleep some multiple times in between keeping you silent company, but when he wakes up now, he's full awake and shocked to see you still sitting at your desk, now with some snack packets littering around. he decides to walk over and call you to bed, but that's when he notices that your eyes are half-closed and your head hanging in a way that makes him wince. drool almost makes its way down your chin before he takes a tissue and wipes it off. he gently nudges you awake.

"yn, baby. you need to get to bed. come on now."

he's honestly surprised when you easily comply, maybe because of your half-asleep state, because usually you'd reject and sit for some time more. the walk that he'd planned to tire you out had worked, he thinks to himself, as he supports your asleep body to your bed and lays you down, tucking you in the soft, weighted blanket - your favourite - before settling in beside you.

as he drifts back to sleep, he hears you murmur to him.

"seungie, wake me up early tomorrow, okay?"

it's only after he reassures you that he will that you finally wrap your arms around his torso and settle into the warmth of his chest before falling asleep.

-----

sunday; 11:17 a.m.

seungcheol is awakened by you snuggling closer to him. it's way past the time he was asked to wake you up at, but he wouldn't dare wake you up when you seemed to sleep so peacefully. that too on an off day? he could never.

he takes his sweet time admiring your features during this moment of calm: your eyelids that are open in the slightest, the little sniffs with each breath you take because winters meant you're cold at every passing moment, the hair that fell out of the neat bun you made before going to bed, puffy cheeks that seem to move as you chew on something in your dream (he guesses). his urge to touch your face overpowers every other thought as he lightly traces his finger along the line of your brow. this seemed to have woken you up because you sigh before opening your eyes; the first thing you see in the morning being his handsome, bed-face that's smiling towards you.

a view you could never get tired of.

you press the lightest of kisses on his lips and turn to check your phone. panic seeps into your brain within a millisecond when you realize its way past your wake-up time. you sit up in a swift motion.

"cheol, i asked you to wake me up at 7!"

"relax baby, it's a sunday."

"but-"

before you could argue back, he sits up and places a smooch on your lips.

"no buts. you don't have to rush every time; it's alright to take breaks."

another kiss.

"good morning, baby. let's go make some pancakes."

[twistedsistas-stuff]

Pregame Jitters

Request from: @blowmymbackout

Oj Haywood x Reader

It started off sweet. You on top of him, grindin’ slow, lettin’ your hands trail up under his shirt like you been wantin’ to do for weeks now. He was breathin’ hard, eyes hooded, lips parted just so—lookin’ at you like you were a dream he ain’t think he was allowed to have.

You kissed him again, deeper this time. Your fingers brushed down his chest, over the ridges of muscle that came from throwin’ hay bales and mendin’ fences. He smelled like sun and sweat and saddle oil. Felt like home.

But then you paused.

Somethin’ was off. His hands weren’t movin’. His breath was shallow—not from want, but from thinkin’. And when you shifted against him, lookin’ for that telltale pressure—you didn’t feel nothin’.

You leaned back a little, blinkin’ down at him.

“OJ?”

He turned his face away just a bit, jaw tight, eyes stuck on the ceiling like maybe it’d offer an excuse for him. But he didn’t speak.

You sat up straighter, slid off his lap real gentle-like. Not accusin’, not shamed. Just tryin’ to understand.

“It’s alright,” you said, voice soft. “You don’t gotta… we don’t gotta do nothin’ you ain’t ready for.”

OJ finally looked at you, eyes wide and a little panicked—like he hated he’d let you down. Like he was scared you’d get up and leave.

“It ain’t you,” he muttered, sittin’ up with a sigh, rubbin’ at his jaw with one hand, the other clenchin’ the sheet beside him. “It damn sure ain’t you.”

You just waited. Didn’t rush him. That’s one thing you learned about OJ—silence was part of his speakin’.

He swallowed hard, voice like gravel when he finally found it again. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. I mean… not with somebody like you. You so soft, so fine, got me feelin’ like I’m messin it up before I even start.”

You smiled, just barely, touched his arm. “You ain’t messin’ up nothin’, baby.”

“I ain’t—” He looked down at his lap, clearly frustrated. “I ain’t used to… folk wantin’ me like that. Like this.”

You scooted closer, slid your hand up his back, felt the tightness in his shoulders.

“I know,” you whispered. “You been out here on this ranch, workin’ yourself to the bone, barely talkin’ to folks outside your sister and them horses. You don’t think I see that? I know you don’t do this often. Or maybe ever.”

He gave a dry little laugh. “Ain’t had time for it. Or the words.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Don’t need words right now. Just you. However you come.”

OJ stayed quiet a minute, just breathin’. Then finally, he spoke again, voice so low you almost missed it:

“Felt like I had to get it right. Make it perfect. Show you I could be what you wanted.”

You tilted your head, made him look at you. “I ain’t here for perfect. I’m here for you.”

His throat worked as he swallowed that. “What if I don’t know how to let go?”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once.” You kissed the edge of his jaw, soft and slow. “We got time. You ain’t gotta prove nothin’. Just let me be here with you.”

He nodded, real slow. Eyes wet, but he blinked it back.

And you didn’t try again. Didn’t push nothin’.

You just curled up with him on that bed—limbs tangled, the window fan hummin’, moonlight spillin’ over the two of you like some kind of quiet grace.

And OJ—he held you tight. Tighter than before. Like he was finally lettin’ himself believe you wanted to stay.

And Lord, you did

You must’ve both drifted off sometime after that—his arm curled around your waist, your face tucked up under his chin. The fan hummed lazy over y’all, the world outside quiet ‘cept for the distant whine of crickets and the creak of the barn settling into night.

OJ slept hard, breathin’ slow and deep, one hand still resting gentle on your hip like he didn’t wanna lose hold even in his dreams. And you—your nerves had finally settled. You wasn’t mad. Wasn’t even disappointed. Just… a little confused. A little unsure.

But not cold.

You felt him stir after what must’ve been an hour, maybe two. Sun was slidin’ down behind the hills now, turnin’ the room amber gold. He blinked slow, then looked down at you like he was still tryin’ to figure out if this was real.

“I gotta get you home,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

“You sure?” you asked, thumb brushing across his chest.

He gave a little nod, kissed your temple with a featherlight press. “Yeah. Let’s get you back.”

Y’all didn’t say much on the walk out. Just quiet smiles, little glances, the kind that hold too much to put into words yet. He helped you up in the truck, hand warm at your back like always, then walked around slow, slid behind the wheel, and turned the key.

The engine rumbled to life, and so did your phone.

Group Chat: 🐍Snakes & Saints🐍

Keke 🖤: 👀 well???

Raye 💅🏾: don’t play w me girl what happened

Mel 😭: did he flip you like a bale of hay or nah??

You smiled, thumbs tappin’ as you snuck a glance at OJ—his hand firm on the wheel, eyes on the dirt road stretchin’ out ahead.

You: y’all… he couldn’t get up 😩

You: said I was too fine

You: like… literally

They lit up like fireworks.

Raye 💅🏾: GIRL BYE 😭😭😭

Mel 😭: i KNOW you lyin. not mr horse whisperer foldin over a lil booty

Keke 🖤: nah he on B.S. lmao “too fine” ?? he too scared

Raye 💅🏾: he said “you beautiful” and his dick said “nope”

You bit your lip trying not to laugh, phone buzzin’ nonstop in your lap.

You: what i do?? 😭

Mel 😭: nothingggg boo

Keke 🖤: just let him be nervous. maybe he ain’t used to women like you.

Raye 💅🏾: mmhmm he been on that dusty ranch too long

Raye 💅🏾: you prolly the first soft thang he seen that ain’t got hooves

You: y’all ain’t right 😭

Keke 🖤: but fr? just keep being you. he’ll come around. probably when you not tryna jump him 😭😭😭

You smiled, heart warm now. They were right. You didn’t need to push nothin’. OJ was quiet, raised up on that land with barely anyone but his sister and the horses. You? You was a lot. Beautiful, bold, soft in all the places life hadn’t hardened.

Maybe you really did make him nervous.

Good.

You slipped your phone back in your bag and looked over at him. He caught your gaze for half a second, a little smile tuggin’ at the corner of his mouth like he knew you’d been textin’ about him.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low and smooth like molasses.

“I’m good,” you said, leaning back in the seat, eyes soft. “You?”

OJ kept his eyes on the road. But he nodded, hand flexin’ once on the wheel.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… gon’ take my time with you.”

That right there? It was more than enough.

You wasn’t sure what to expect the next time you saw him.

OJ had texted the next morning just a simple, “You sleep okay?” Nothing big, nothing flashy. But it meant somethin’. Meant he was still thinkin’ about you. Still wanted to know how you was after everything. And when he asked if you wanted to come by the next weekend, just hang out—ride if the weather was good—you said yes without even thinkin’.

You pulled up late afternoon, sun sittin’ low and fat in the sky, the kind of heat that clings to your skin but don’t quite burn. OJ was already outside, leaned against the fence, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, lookin’ like that same quiet dream you’d first seen out by the stables.

But this time, when he saw you, somethin’ passed over his face.

Not nerves.

Hunger.

“You look good,” he said, eyes runnin’ down your frame slow like syrup.

You raised a brow. “Just good?”

He gave that little side-smile of his. “I’m bein’ polite.”

You laughed, walked over to him, and he met you halfway. Didn’t rush. But his hand found your lower back this time. Real firm. Stayed there a second longer than it needed to.

Y’all rode a while, easy conversation, horses trottin’ gentle under y’all. But even then, he was different. His gaze stuck to you longer. His voice dropped lower when he spoke your name. When you leaned forward in the saddle to adjust the stirrups, you caught him starin’, jaw set like he was tryin’ not to react.

You ain’t say nothin’. You just smiled.

Back at the barn, you helped him unsaddle Lucky. OJ moved close behind you, reaching past to grab a brush from the shelf. His chest brushed your back—on accident, maybe. But he didn’t move away right after. Just lingered. Let the heat of him settle into your skin.

“You always get this close to folks when you brush a horse?” you asked, lookin’ back at him over your shoulder.

His voice was damn near a murmur. “Only when I want to.”

You turned around real slow, still holdin’ the reins in one hand. “You flirtin’ with me, OJ?”

He didn’t blink. Just looked you dead in the eye, voice steady as a stone. “I’m tryin’ to.”

That was new.

No hesitation. No nerves.

By the time y’all got back inside, dusk was spillin’ through the windows, pink and lavender paintin’ the walls. He poured y’all some water, handed you a glass, his fingers brushing yours on purpose this time. You sat on the couch, sipped slow, tryin’ to pretend your pulse wasn’t jumpin’.

He sat beside you. Not across the room. Not in the chair like last time.

Right next to you. Close enough that his knee bumped yours.

Y’all talked a little—about work, your friends clownin’, the horses. But then that quiet settled again. The kind that buzzed with every breath. You felt it in your chest, in your thighs, in your fingertips.

He set his cup down.

Turned toward you.

“You still thinkin’ ‘bout what happened last time?” he asked, low and real.

You hesitated. “A little.”

He nodded, eyes dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes. “I been thinkin’ ‘bout it too.”

You tilted your head. “You still nervous?”

OJ let out a breath, leaned in a little closer. “Not nervous. Just don’t wanna mess up. But I… I want you, girl.”

That did somethin’ to you. The way he said it—I want you, girl—like it’d been sittin’ in his chest for days.

You reached out, slid your hand across his thigh. “Then show me.”

And he did.

First with his hands—warm and steady on your hips, your waist, your face. Then with his mouth—kissin’ you slow, deep, confident now, like he was finally lettin’ that quiet fire out. His hands didn’t tremble. His lips didn’t hesitate. He kissed you like he meant it.

Like he knew what he was doin’ this time.

You didn’t even make it to the bed at first. Just the couch, bodies pressed together, breaths tangled, heat risin’ between y’all like a storm about to break.

And when you finally did start headin’ toward the bedroom, he stopped you at the door, pressed you up against the frame, kissed you again like he’d been waitin’ his whole life.

This time—he was ready.

Y’all were halfway to the bedroom—him kissin’ you like he meant to carve your name in his breath—when your phone lit up on the couch.

Buzzin’ loud against the cushion.

You didn’t pay it no mind. Not at first. But it kept goin’.

And OJ… he noticed.

He pulled back just a little, chest still pressin’ against yours, breath warm on your neck. His brow furrowed, gaze flickin’ to the source of the noise. He leaned back, one arm still around your waist, and reached for the phone with two fingers.

Screen lit up bright in his palm.

And there it was.

🐍Snakes & Saints🐍

Keke 🖤: he couldn’t get up cause she was too fine 😭😭😭

Mel 😭: LAWD his dick said “nope”

Raye 💅🏾: 😭 don’t roast him too bad y’all

Keke 🖤: i bet he scared now. poor lil horseboy

Raye 💅🏾: girl don’t do too much he still cute. he just folded

Mel 😭: she gon have to carry this one sexually

OJ’s jaw locked.

Eyes shifted slow from the screen… to you.

That stoic glare settlin’ in. That unreadable stillness—like the kind the horses get when they sense a storm comin’. He didn’t speak for a beat. Just held the phone out so you could see it, the light from the screen flickerin’ in his dark eyes.

Then—real calm. Too calm.

“Oh. So you think I can’t get up?”

Your mouth opened. “OJ, no, I ain’t—”

He dropped the phone back on the couch with a thud. Stepped closer. His whole energy changed—still quiet, but with a weight behind it now. His voice low and even, but laced with somethin’ sharp. Somethin’ personal.

“You tellin’ your little friends I folded?” he said, eyes boring into yours.

You blinked, caught between flustered and frozen. “It wasn’t like that. I—”

He cut you off with a kiss.

Not like before. This wasn’t soft. This was declaration.

He grabbed your thighs, hoisted you clean off the floor like you weighed nothin’, and your breath hitched. He carried you down the hall, mouth never leavin’ yours, teeth grazin’ your bottom lip like a promise.

Dropped you onto the bed. Climbed over you, slow and sure.

“You so sure I can’t handle you?” he asked, voice like thunder rollin’ under his breath. “That what you think?”

Your lips parted, but nothin’ came out. All you could do was look up at him, heat floodin’ every inch of you.

OJ smirked.

“That’s alright.”

He slid his hand down your leg, lifted it over his shoulder, leaned in so close his words hit your neck.

“I’ma show you.”

He didn’t break eye contact as he lifted your leg higher on his shoulder, hand sliding beneath your thigh, thumb pressin’ slow circles into your skin. You felt the muscles in his forearm flex as he leaned in, weight sinking down over you inch by inch, until your hips dipped into the mattress, caught underneath the full heat of him.

That quiet, heavy air between y’all buzzed now—electric.

“You feel that?” he murmured, lips barely brushing your cheek, his breath thick and warm as molasses.

His hips pressed against yours, real slow, just enough friction to make your eyes flutter, your breath catch. The firmness of him against your core—still clothed but insistent—made your whole body ache. It wasn’t even him movin’, not yet. Just pressure. A slow, deep grind that pulled a gasp from your throat.

“Mhm,” you managed, hand clutchin’ at the back of his neck, the other slidin’ across his back like you could anchor yourself to the moment.

OJ kissed you again.

But this one wasn’t sweet.

It was deep. Hungry.

His tongue met yours with purpose now, his lips partin’ yours like he’d been studyin’ your mouth, waitin’ for this. That hand on your thigh slid down slow to grip the back of your knee, pressin’ it just a little further up so your hips tilted—givin’ him that perfect angle to lean his weight into the seam of you again.

You moaned into his mouth, hips twitchin’ against his.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, your eyes half-lidded, mouth glossy from his kiss.

“Still think I was nervous?”

“No,” you whispered, voice all shaky and sweet.

OJ smirked—just a little. His mouth dipped to your neck, tongue draggin’ slow along your pulse before his teeth grazed your skin, settin’ your whole body on fire.

“You gon’ stop tellin’ folks I folded now?”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft, breathless sound when he rolled his hips forward again, the drag of his length through your soaked panties makin’ your thighs clench.

“That’s what I thought,” he said low, that Southern grit in his voice rumblin’ through your chest like a second heartbeat.

He kissed down your throat, across your collarbone, takin’ his time like he had somethin’ to prove with every inch of skin he claimed.

And you knew—this was just the beginning.

That slow grind?

Just a glimpse of what was comin’.

Because OJ Haywood didn’t need to talk big.

He just needed to show you.

His mouth was still on you when those big hands of his started movin’, one trailin’ up the soft of your thigh, rough calloused fingers draggin’ slow across skin that’d never been touched like this. The pads of his fingers were dry, textured from years on reins, rope, and rust—each pass up your leg makin’ your breath hitch, makin’ your core tighten with every inch he climbed.

His other hand cupped your lower back, slidin’ upward in a firm, possessive stroke that made you arch into him, chest pressin’ to his with a gasp. He was holdin’ you close like you was delicate—but you felt how strong he was. How easy it’d be for him to pick you up and walk through fire if you asked him to.

He leaned back, just enough to get a good look at you, and you saw it—that look like he was starin’ at something he couldn’t believe he got to keep.

Then he reached down and kicked off those beat-up boots, one at a time, heel to toe, not lookin’ away from you even once. He wasn’t movin’ fast—but he wasn’t lettin’ go of you, either. Just keepin’ one hand on your thigh, thumb circlin’ slow, steady. That pressure did somethin’—your hips rolled into his, just a little, and you felt him press back, thick and heavy through his jeans.

Your pulse fluttered hard.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, chest vibratin’ against yours like a second heartbeat.

You nodded, tryin’ to catch your breath. “I’m sure.”

“Say it.”

“I’m sure, OJ.”

He grunted real quiet, almost to himself. Like maybe he’d been needin’ that.

Then those hands got to work.

He slipped your shirt up inch by inch, fingertips brushing the skin underneath, and God, you felt them like fire—like your whole body was waiting for this. The way his knuckles brushed your ribs, the drag of his palms across your back as he raised the fabric, not just takin’ it off but learnin’ you as he did it.

When the shirt hit the floor, his fingers found your bra strap. Didn’t rush. He slid it down your shoulder slow, lips followin’ the trail like it was a path only he got to walk. His mouth was warm and steady on your skin, open and reverent. When he unhooked your bra, he didn’t stare—he just leaned in and pressed his face between your breasts like he was home.

Then his hands found yours.

Placed them right at the hem of his shirt.

Didn’t have to say nothin’.

You looked up at him, breath tremblin’, and pulled it off.

OJ was solid. Thick across the chest, arms coiled tight with muscle that meant somethin’. Ain’t no gym-built show pony—he was a worker. You could see the strength in his forearms, the way they bulged slightly even when relaxed, veins prominent, hands so damn big they made you feel small just bein’ near ‘em. His chest was broad and warm, the lightest smatterin’ of hair across it, and when your fingers ran over his pecs, down that line between his abs—he shuddered.

Like your touch surprised him.

Like he wasn’t used to bein’ handled soft.

You kissed down his chest, lips skimmin’ his skin, and he let out a sound low in his throat. You could feel him twitch against you, hard and pulsin’ through his jeans now, nothin’ shy about it.

But he wasn’t about to let you take the lead just yet.

He caught your hand again—guidin’ it to the button of his jeans.

“Take ‘em off,” he said, rough now, his voice scratchin’ the base of your spine.

You popped that button, slid the zipper down slow, and he watched you the whole time. Eyes dark. Unblinking. When your hand brushed the outline of him through his boxers, he exhaled hard, jaw clenching just once.

You pushed his jeans down and he stepped out of ‘em, then tugged his boxers low enough to let it all fall free.

And Lord.

He was built like the rest of him—thick, heavy, real. Not just big but right, perfectly matched to that solid frame, hangin’ with weight and heat that made your thighs press together.

OJ didn’t gloat.

Didn’t smirk.

Just let you look—silent, grounded, present.

Then he stepped in close, pressed you back onto the bed like he was settin’ you down real gentle—but still heavy enough to let you feel what was comin’. He knelt over you, hand slidin’ down to your panties.

“You good?” he asked, voice soft now, but still scratchy and deep.

You nodded, whisperin’ yes before you even knew you were speakin’.

He pulled them down with both hands, thumbs draggin’ slow along your hips, not missin’ an inch of skin. You lifted for him, legs partin’ instinctively, barin’ yourself without shame.

And when he looked at you, laid bare beneath him, he leaned down—kissin’ your knee, then your thigh, then higher still—like he meant to devour you slow.

Like he was about to make up for everything he didn’t do last time.

OJ moved between your thighs with a weight that made your breath catch, one of them thick arms slid up under your knee, liftin’ your leg easy like you weighed nothin’ to him. His hand rested against the inside of your thigh, just above your knee, holdin’ you open, thumb strokin’ lazy circles into your skin. The pressure wasn’t hard—but it was final. You weren’t goin’ nowhere. Not till he was done.

He kissed the inside of your knee first.

Then a little lower.

Then higher.

Lips draggin’ warm and slow, the faint scrape of his stubble makin’ your skin feel raw and wanted. And he ain’t look away. He watched you—watched your mouth part, your back twitch, your thighs tense beneath his grip.

“Mm,” he hummed against your skin, his voice rough and low like he’d been savin’ it just for this. “You already shakin’, baby.”

You swallowed, tryin’ to breathe, but your chest was tight, your belly hot. His mouth found the crease of your thigh and lingered there, kissin’ and suckin’ like the taste of your skin alone was enough to undo him.

Then, finally—finally—he lowered his head.

You gasped the second his tongue touched you.

Warm. Firm. Slow.

OJ licked up your slit like he was feelin’ out the rhythm first, testin’ what you liked—then flattened his tongue and did it again, harder. He moaned into it, deep in his chest, and that vibration shook you right to the bone.

“Oh God—OJ,” you gasped, hand flyin’ to his head.

But he didn’t let up. Didn’t even pause.

His hand slid further under your thigh, holdin’ you open tight now, his other arm restin’ heavy across your lower belly, pinning you. That grip was solid—years of throwin’ bales and ropin’ wild horses translated now into keepin’ you still while he devoured you.

You tried to move.

Couldn’t.

Didn’t want to.

He flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit in slow, precise strokes, then sucked it into his mouth with a gentleness that wrecked you. Your legs twitched in his grip, your body tryin’ to curl in on itself, but he just leaned in heavier, buryin’ his face deeper.

“You gon’ keep runnin’?” he murmured against you, lips brushing your slick folds as he spoke. “Hm?”

You whimpered, tryin’ to answer, but the words came out high and broken.

He chuckled—low, gravelly, hungry.

“Can’t even talk now, huh?”

His tongue circled your clit again, slow and lazy, like he had all damn night. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, diggin’ into the muscle there—real, thick under your hands, the way only a man who worked sunup to sundown could be. His back flexed when you squeezed him, but he didn’t lose focus. If anything, he doubled down.

“Wanted to tease me in front of your little group chat,” he murmured against you, kissin’ your inner thigh again before draggin’ his tongue all the way up your center. “Tell ‘em I couldn’t handle you?”

You sobbed out a sound—half moan, half apology.

“Tell me again,” he growled, “that I can’t get it up.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t speak.

And he knew it.

He shifted, lifted your hips a little higher, his mouth sealin’ back over your clit while two thick fingers slid inside you slow, stretchin’ you open in a way that made your thighs shake, your whole body arch up into his mouth.

You cried out—choked and raw.

OJ just grunted again, fingers curlin’, tongue flickin’ in time with the roll of your hips. He owned you in that moment. Strong, solid, anchored between your thighs like he was built to be there and nowhere else.

“You gon’ finish for me like this,” he muttered, his breath hot, his voice thick with want. “Right on my tongue.”

You nodded, mouth open, gaspin’—but still couldn’t form a single word.

Didn’t need to.

OJ could feel the way your body was climbin’, twitchin’, tightenin’ around his fingers. He knew. He kept goin’. Harder. Slower. Deep.

And you? You came with a cry you couldn’t bite back, hips liftin’ off the bed, OJ’s arms holdin’ you down, still, while he drank every last drop of you.

Didn’t stop ‘til you were twitchin’, whimperin’, too sensitive to move. You ain’t know it could feel like that. Not just good—but shattering.

OJ kept goin’ even after your first climax broke through you like a wave crashin’ against the shore. That heavy tongue movin’ just right, those thick fingers curled up inside you, hittin’ that spot so steady your body didn’t know what to do but react. You were shakin’, legs twitchin’ around him, hands clutchin’ at the sheets—but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

“Come on,” he muttered low, mouth still workin’ your clit with purpose, voice thick with heat. “Lemme feel you gush, baby. I know you got it.”

You moaned—loud, helpless.

He adjusted just a little, hooked your hips tighter in his arms, spread you wider, and damn, it hit different. That pressure, that pace—tongue flickin’, then suckin’ gentle and slow just to snap back harder—until it was too much.

You cried out, eyes rollin’ back as your release hit, hot and wet and sudden, gushing over his mouth, your whole body jerkin’ against the flood of it. Your thighs clamped tight ‘round his head on instinct, hips buckin’ even as you tried to push him away, overstimulated and sobbing—but OJ didn’t move.

He grunted into it, breathin’ you in like that was exactly what he’d been after all along.

Your hands flew to his scalp, fingers diggin’ into those soft curls, scratchin’ at the back of his neck, then slidin’ down to clutch his broad shoulders, still tremblin’, still comin’.

Finally—finally—when your legs locked around him and wouldn’t let go, he slowed down.

Kissed you once, soft and wet, right on the inner thigh, his beard damp, jaw flexed from holdin’ back all that hunger.

Then he pulled back.

And Lord.

You looked down at him, sprawled between your thighs, his lips glistenin’, face flushed with heat and effort—and even then, his breathin’ was measured. Chest rising slow and deep like he just walked through a storm and ain’t even winded.

Light was low now, sun spillin’ in soft from the window, catchin’ on the slope of his shoulders, the sweat along his collarbone. His skin was golden, warm, almost glowin’ in the light—and he looked like he was carved from the land itself. A man who worked with the earth, slept under it, and rose every morning with purpose.

And damn, you admired him.

“Mm,” he said, voice raspy now, still thick from the taste of you. “All that talk…”

You blinked, lips parted, still breathless.

He licked his lips, wiped his beard with the back of his hand slow.

“You wanted me up?” he asked, standing now—towering, body casting a shadow across you. “Well, I’m up.”

His dick was hard—rock hard—hangin’ heavy and full between those strong thighs, and when he stepped back just a bit, you saw the twitch of it. The need. All that heat bottled up now ready to be poured back into you.

“Now go ‘head.” he said, voice low.

You pushed up, legs still weak, body hummin’ with aftershocks—and crawled to him on hands and knees.

Slow. Deliberate.

Head swimmin’ with everything he just did to you.

When you reached him, you looked up—his eyes already locked on yours. Hands restin’ heavy on his hips, jaw clenched, nostrils flared like he was fightin’ the urge to take over.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t rush.

Just let you come to him, earn it.

And baby, you were ready to do whatever it took.

You reached for him slow, hand wrappin’ around the base of his dick, thick and heavy in your palm. Your breath caught a little, just lookin’ at him like that—long, veiny, the tip already glistenin’ with precum. He watched you, his eyes dark and low, one hand draggin’ back through his curls, the other hangin’ loose by his side until—

You leaned in and kissed the tip.

Real slow.

OJ’s fingers twitched.

“Mmph,” he muttered, breath catchin’. “Aight.”

You looked up, lips kiss-slick, smilin’ a little. “Aight?” you teased, tongue flickin’ out again. “That all you got for me?”

He gave a low grunt—like a warning—but didn’t stop you. Just watched. Waited. Let you take the lead.

Your lips wrapped around him, and you started slow, suckin’ the head with soft pressure, hand pumpin’ his shaft, twistin’ just how you liked it done to you. He was warm in your mouth, salty on your tongue, and thick. It took a little effort to ease down, jaw stretchin’ wide, breath comin’ short—but you wanted all of him. Wanted to feel him in your throat.

“Shit,” he whispered, voice rough now, hand liftin’ to the back of your head. His fingers curled in your hair—not pushin’, just holdin’.

“You good?” you asked, voice soft, breathless.

He nodded, chest rising heavy. “Just like that.”

You went down again—deeper this time—and your eyes watered when the tip brushed the back of your throat. You pulled back with a gasp, drool stringin’ from your lips, hand pumpin’ him a little faster now.

“Goddamn, OJ,” you said, half-laugh, half-moan. “What you feedin’ this thing?”

He chuckled, breath stutterin’, hips shiftin’ just a little forward. “Hay bales and stress,” he muttered.

You grinned—then took him back in.

This time, you went slow—deliberate. Learnin’ the weight of him, the way his body flexed when you moaned low, the little twitch of his fingers in your hair when your tongue swirled just beneath the head.

He groaned deep in his chest. “Shit—yeah. Yeah, right there.”

His hand gripped tighter, not hard, but firm, guidin’ you into a rhythm—his rhythm. You caught on fast, lettin’ him lead just a little, your mouth gettin’ wetter, throat startin’ to relax into him. He started mutterin’ under his breath then, voice low, breathless.

“You tryna kill me?” he said, barely audible.

You popped off him, gaspin’, hand still strokin’ him wet. “Not kill. Just humble.”

That made him grunt, deep and dark, his eyes burnin’ low as he looked down at you.

“You talk too much.”

You smirked, lickin’ up the underside of his shaft real slow. “Then shut me up.”

That flipped a switch.

OJ gripped your hair a little tighter, guidin’ you back down on him—and you let him. Mouth open, takin’ him deeper now, eyes locked up on his while you moaned around him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, hips startin’ to rock. “There you go… just like that. Keep goin’.”

You did. Mouth workin’, tongue rollin’, hand followin’ every stroke your throat couldn’t take. He was losin’ that calm now—his face tense, body flexin’ beneath your hands, his abs tight, thighs twitchin’ when you hollowed your cheeks.

You loved the way he sounded like he was tryin’ to stay quiet but couldn’t.

Loved the way his voice cracked when he said your name, the way he cursed under his breath, the way he groaned when you swallowed around him just right.

You had him deep—his hips twitchin’, breath catchin’, that steady quiet unravelin’ the longer you kept him in your mouth. You were takin’ your time with it, makin’ it messy, moanin’ low just to feel him pulse on your tongue, suckin’ him like it was the only thing that could keep you full. You didn’t care if your mascara ran or if your jaw ached. You wanted him wrecked. Wanted to make him lose that calm he wore like a second skin.

But just when you were pickin’ up speed, eyes waterin’, moanin’ around him, about to finish the job—

His hand slid down.

Not rough—deliberate.

Fingers grazin’ your cheek, then slidin’ under your chin… down the soft curve of your throat.

He wrapped his hand around it, firm but gentle, and pulled you up.

You gasped, mouth still wet, lips parted, brows raisin’ in surprise—but you didn’t fight it. You looked up, breathless, flushed, and ready.

OJ’s eyes were locked on yours.

And that quiet look he always had? That far-off, steady-cowboy stillness?

Gone.

He stared at you like you’d just lit a fire under his skin.

Then—real slow—he smirked.

“Look at you,” he muttered, thumb brushin’ your lower lip. “Mascara all down your face… pretty lil’ mouth all messy.”

You didn’t blink. Just licked your lips, eyes locked on his. “You ain’t stoppin’ me ‘cause you scared to finish, are you?”

He let out this low grunt of a laugh, deep in his chest. That was your only warning.

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

Heavy.

Like he needed to taste himself on your tongue. His hands slid to your hips, and the second he pulled back—his breath was ragged now, lips still brushin’ yours—he whispered:

“Turn over.”

You shivered.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t need to.

You turned around slow, heart poundin’, layin’ on your stomach, ass up just enough to let him see what he was about to claim.

OJ didn’t rush.

He took a second—hand draggin’ down your back, his calloused palm slidin’ over the curve of your ass, down to your thigh. He gripped you firm, fingers sinkin’ into soft flesh, and damn if it didn’t make your whole body hum.

“You think you in charge?” he said low, leanin’ over you now, his voice draggin’ heat across the back of your neck.

“Nah,” you whispered back, eyes flutterin’. “I know I am.”

Wrong move.

He growled low, grabbed your wrists, and pinned ‘em behind your back, his weight pressin’ into you just enough to remind you he was built for this—all that strength, all that quiet control comin’ down hard and real now.

“You gon’ feel me now,” he murmured, kissin’ the back of your shoulder. “You want me up? You got me up.”

His hips aligned with yours—and baby, you felt that thick length just pressin’ against your soaked folds, not even in yet, but your body already aching for it.

“Say you ready,” he said.

You whined, archin’ back against him. “I’m ready, Jay, Please…”

“You sure?” he asked, teeth grazin’ your ear, hands still holdin’ you down.

You moaned, desperate now. “Quit teasin’—fuckin’ do it.”

He slid in slow—that stretch hittin’ you deep and thick, makin’ your mouth fall open, makin’ you claw at the sheets while he pushed in to the hilt.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t ask again.

And once he was buried deep inside, he leaned down, mouth warm against your ear, his voice quiet but cuttin’ clean through your breathless moan.

“You talk too much,” you managed to whisper, a shaky grin pullin’ at your lips.

He let the silence stretch for just a second—just long enough for you to think you’d gotten away with that.

Then he smirked.

He pulled back—and drove into you hard enough to knock the sass clean outta your throat.

You ain’t sayin’ nothin’ now.

And OJ? He planned on keepin’ it that way.

Your face pressed into the pillow, mouth open, breath already catchin’ off that first stroke—and he was still deep inside you, not movin’, just lettin’ you feel the weight, the fullness of him. That stretch made your legs shake, made your hips buck back involuntarily, like your body couldn’t believe it finally had him—all of him—right where it needed.

OJ leaned over, chest draggin’ heat down your spine, one hand comin’ up to your arms and lockin’ both your wrists in his grip—firm, unmovin’. That thick forearm settled over yours like a damn armband, holdin’ you in place, claimin’ you like it was just another piece of the ranch he meant to keep.

“Still feelin’ in charge?” he murmured, his voice low, steady, and laced with that quiet fire.

You turned your head, lips grazin’ the sheets, your voice breathy but defiant.

“Might need a few more strokes to convince me.”

OJ let out the kind of laugh that sounded like a threat.

“Aight.”

He pulled back.

Then sank into you again—slow and deep, like he was diggin’ for something inside you.

Your mouth dropped open, a sob mixin’ with a moan, back archin’ hard. But he didn’t let go. That arm around yours tightened, holdin’ you down like he was wrestlin’ a wild thing.

“Yeah, keep talkin’,” he growled, hips rockin’ now in a hard, slow rhythm that had your thighs tremblin’. “You got all that mouth ‘til I get up in it. But now look at you.”

You tried to answer, tried to throw somethin’ back—but it came out a whimper, high and helpless.

“Uh huh,” he said, lips right against your shoulder now. “What happened to all that sass?”

You writhed under him, eyes rollin’, toes curlin’ into the sheets, and he loved it—loved the way your body met him stroke for stroke, even as your arms stayed pinned, helpless under his weight.

“Fuck—OJ—damn,” you gasped, voice crackin’.

“I know,” he rasped, rollin’ his hips deeper, slower, draggin’ every inch through you like it was the last one. “That’s why you was actin’ out. Wanted it rough. Wanted me to hold you.”

And he did.

That arm didn’t budge—held your wrists like you was nothin’ but his to use, his to keep, his to wreck.

Your hands flexed against his forearm, tryin’ to get leverage, but he tightened his grip and drove into you hard, makin’ your whole body jolt up the bed.

You screamed into the mattress.

“Y’all hear that?” he mocked, low and breathin’ heavy, sweat drippin’ down his back. “She was real bold earlier. Now she cryin’ into the sheets.”

You looked back at him, dazed, makeup smeared, sweat glistin’ on your skin.

“ain’t cryin ,” you managed, voice hoarse.

He grinned—eyes dark and dangerous.

“Look at you. Still runnin’ that mouth.”

Then he let go of your arms—and before you could move, grabbed your hips with both hands, spread your legs wider, and picked up the pace. Slow no more.

Ruthless now.

Heavy strokes, hips slammin’ into yours, skin clappin’ loud and nasty. The sound of it echo’d in that room like gospel and sin.

You clawed the sheets, eyes wide, mouth open—but the moans wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t slow.

“God—OJ—please—”

“You want me to stop?” he said, damn near daring you to lie.

You shook your head frantically. “No!”

His fingers dug into your hips, pullin’ you back into every thrust, makin’ sure you took all of him.

“Good,” he said, leanin’ over you again, his breath hot and jagged against your neck. “Cause I ain’t done.”

He reached around, hand slidin’ down your belly—then lower—fingers findin’ your pearl and rubbin’ slow, small circles just as he kept that brutal rhythm goin’. Your whole body jolted.

“You feel that?” he said, voice growlin’. “Soaked for me.”

“Shut—shut up,” you moaned, eyes rollin’ back.

“Make me,” he muttered, and slammed into you harder.

You couldn’t. You didn’t.

And he knew it.

You ain’t even know what words you were sayin’ anymore—just syllables, gasps, little half-sobbed “right there” spillin’ from your lips as he kept strokin’ you deep, his grip bruisin’ your hips, his fingers rubbin’ your pearl with that same steady, maddening rhythm.

It was too much.

Too much and just enough.

Your thighs were tremblin’ uncontrollably, stomach tightenin’ down, vision goin’ blurry. Your hands reached back, grabbin’ anything you could—his wrist, the sheets, air—and your voice cracked as your whole body locked up.

You came hard.

With a scream and a sob, your legs locked around him, back archin’ high, pleasure crashin’ through you like a goddamn flood.

You shook.

trembled.

cried.

And OJ ain’t stop—not until your body went limp under him, until your breath turned ragged and your hands finally fell away, open and empty.

That’s when he slowed.

Pulled out gently, breathin’ heavy himself, eyes trailin’ over your wrecked, boneless form like he just tamed a wild thing.

He leaned over you, one hand slidin’ up your side, the other brushin’ over your cheek.

You was still sniffin’, tearin’ up, chest risin’ fast from all that overstimulation.

And OJ?

He looked over your face slow.

Gentle.

“Look at you,” he whispered, low and almost sweet. “Told you I had it in me.”

His hands slid down your thighs, grippin’ ‘em just above the knees, slow and steady—then he turned you over, gentle but strong, flippin’ your limp body onto your back like you ain’t weigh a thing.

You blinked up at him, eyes glassy, chest still heaving.

OJ hovered over you, breathin’ heavy, sweat slickin’ down his chest and abs, that quiet look in his eyes still there—but darker now. Focused. Hungry. That kind of hunger you don’t just feed once.

He leaned down, thumb brushin’ under your eye, catchin’ the tear trail before it could reach your ear. His other hand cradled your jaw, fingers slidin’ behind your neck to pull you into a kiss.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t soft, either.

It was full—like he wanted you to taste what you’d done to him.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “You still with me?”

You nodded, voice barely a breath. “Mhm…”

“Good,” he said, smirkin’. “Don’t go nowhere.”

Then he hooked your legs—lifted them up just like when y’all was kissin’ earlier, bendin’ your knees high, pushin’ them back ‘til your thighs nearly kissed your chest.

He lined up again, thick and soaked with your mess, and this time when he slid in?

Slow.

So slow you could feel everything—every ridge, every inch, every place your body stretched and welcomed him back in like he never left.

You moaned loud, hand grippin’ his forearm while the other slapped over your own mouth.

“Nuh uh,” he muttered, knockin’ your hand away, eyes locked on yours. “I wanna hear all that.”

He moved deliberate now.

Long strokes.

Deep.

The kind that hit up—not just in—kissin’ that sweet spot with every push, makin’ your eyes roll back and your hands clutch at the sheets again.

You could barely speak. “O-OJ… baby—fuck…”

He licked his lips, jaw tight, arms flexin’ as he braced himself over you, muscles workin’ like a goddamn machine. “Yeah. Right there, huh?”

You nodded, whimperin’. “Yesyesyesyes—right there, don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

Just worked you, hips rollin’ like waves, that slow rhythm punchin’ deep and dirty, like he was diggin’ into the part of you that only he could reach.

Your legs trembled in his grip, feet twitchin’ in the air, and he loved it.

“Keep ‘em right there,” he muttered, pushin’ your knees back further, foldin’ you up and sinkin’ even deeper. “Let me in all the way.”

You choked on a sob.

“God—OJ—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, thumb slidin’ over your lips. “You wanted me up… I’m here now. You gon’ take all this.”

He circled his hips, grindin’ against that spot so slow, so filthy, your toes curled and your back bowed off the bed.

You couldn’t do nothin’ but feel. Hands in his hair, mouth open, body fallin’ apart under every thick, relentless push.

“You feelin’ that?” he growled, one hand slidin’ down to grip your thigh tight. “Feelin’ me all up in it?”

You nodded, cryin’ out, “Yes—fuck—yes I feel you—”

He kissed you hard, deep, tongue slidin’ into your mouth like he owned every part of you.

“You gon’ remember this,” he grunted between thrusts. “Next time you get smart, next time your girls start runnin’ they mouth—gon’ be thinkin’ ‘bout this stroke. This dick.”

You moaned into his mouth, legs startin’ to shake again, pressure buildin’ fast.

“I’m close—I can’t—OJ—”

“Yes you can,” he breathed, voice tight, grittin’ his teeth as his pace picked up, rougher now, hips slammin’ into yours just right. “You gon’ finish again. Just like this. With me watchin’.”

And you did.

Right there, legs up, body folded beneath him, mouth wide open as pleasure broke over you again, shakin’ through every limb.

And OJ?

He held you there.

Your body was tremblin’, eyes wet, chest heavin’ like you’d run a mile—but OJ didn’t slow.

Didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even blink.

He watched you finish—watched it wash over you like a storm, those hips still rollin’ steady through every aftershock while your breath caught in your throat. Eyes dark. Focused. Possessive.

Sweat dripped off his jaw to your chest, slid down between your breasts, and he licked his lips slow before that same calm, dangerous smile curved across his face. Not wide. Not cocky. Just sure.

Like he knew—you his now.

“Finished?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You nodded, legs twitchin’.

He raised a brow. “Nah. Tell me.”

Your voice barely made it out. “I—I finished…”

He leaned in, lips grazin’ your ear, heat from his breath makin’ you shiver again.

“Good,” he said. “Now lay back. I’m gon’ take mine.”

And before you could even breathe, he pulled out halfway—then slammed back in, thick and hard, the stretch meaner now, draggin’ a sharp gasp outta you.

You tried to reach for his chest.

“OJ—!”

But he caught your wrist mid-air and pressed it back down against the sheets, firm and final.

“Nah,” he said, voice dark as Mississippi mud. “Don’t touch. Just relax. You wanted this, right?”

You nodded, eyes wide.

He pushed your knees higher, planted them up by your shoulders, and folded you—deep and tight. Then he snapped his hips forward again, slow but powerful, grindin’ so deep it felt like he was tryin’ to reach your damn soul.

“So take it.” he muttered.

His strokes got deeper.

Longer.

His strength—unreal.

Built off years of wrestlin’ horses and haulin’ feed, them thick arms flexed every time he moved, his hips hittin’ like thunder rollin’ across open pasture. You could feel the control in him—the rhythm, the pace, the way he held back just enough to keep you right on the edge again.

You tried again, fingers brushin’ his side, but he grabbed your hand and pushed it back.

“I said don’t. Let me handle it.”

His tone didn’t raise. Didn’t need to. The weight in it alone had your thighs shakin’.

“Just take it,” he said again, lips by your throat now. “Ain’t no need for nothin’ else.”

You moaned—soft, near soundless—while he started really workin’ you.

He locked your legs around his waist and rolled his hips slow but heavy, hittin’ that same spot over and over ‘til your whole body went tight again.

“Nah,” he muttered when he felt you start to clench again. “I ain’t done.”

You whimpered, already past the edge, but his strokes just got deeper.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Thought you was finished? You gon’ finish with me. I want all of it.”

You shook your head, words lost.

He grabbed your thighs tighter, rolled forward harder—so deep it felt like you was splitting open again.

Your hands clawed at the pillow, mouth open in another silent cry.

“Tell me you mine,” he growled.

“I’m—OJ—I’m—”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours!”

He kissed you—hard, tongue in your mouth, breath hot. Then he pulled back, that storm in his eyes finally breakin’ loose.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “You mine. So finish wit’ me.”

His body locked up then—hips stutterin’, abs flexin’, that thick vein down his arm poppin’ while he dug in deep.

You felt it.

That final build in him.

His moans—low and full of gravel.

The heat—the pressure—the stretch.

You finished again, whole body tight, back archin’ up into him while your legs shook. You cried out his name while his thrusts lost rhythm, gettin’ messy, desperate, like he was chasin’ that final high with everything in him.

Then he buried himself in you, full and deep.

Groaned into your shoulder.

You felt the heat—all of it—and the way he held still for a beat, lettin’ it wash over him like a man who finally got what he’d been fightin’ against.

“Damn,” he whispered, jaw clenched, breath caught.

He let your legs down slow, movin’ like his body still remembered every stroke. Stayed on top of you for a minute, lettin’ you feel that weight, that heat, that strength still pressin’ into you.

Then he pulled back—kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

You blinked up at him, dazed, tears still slidin’ down your face from all that pleasure.

He wiped them with his thumb, leaned close, whisperin’ into your ear like it was a prayer.

“You good?”

You nodded, chest still flutterin’. “Better than good…”

He smiled, a little more of it this time—soft and satisfied. He laid down beside you, slid his arm around your waist and pulled you into him, lettin’ your bare skin meet all that heat and strength.

His lips pressed to your shoulder. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Next time you text them girls… tell ‘em this country boy handled every inch.”

You laughed, breathless.

Still twitchin’.

Still feelin’ it in your gut and in your chest.

And the way he held you after?

You slept like you ain’t never had a worry in your whole damn life.

————————————-

Wooohhhhh 200 followers yall gimmie a kiss.😏💕💕 I’m finna be writing for 200hours

[lady-phasma]

Fangtober Day 4 - Bondage

Dom!Armand x fem!reader (vampire)

Summary: Reader is a new addition to the Theater and Maître takes a particular interest in her and decides to show her the ropes take her to a private flat for a session, 3.3k words.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, it started out as bondage fluff but then turned into smut, tiny bit of blood play, unprotected sex but vampire sex so not risky.

a/n: Thank you so much to the moot who suggested actor vamp!reader new to the coven. However, I struggled with this one for a while - I finally just powered through it and here it is. fem!reader but reader not described.

So far the initiations and manual labor with the theater hadn’t been so bad. You slogged through your nights, cleaning the rows after the filthy humans left, helping with disposal after performances, whatever was needed. And you were rewarded with pre-dawn camaraderie, as you watched and listed to the elder vampires tell stories, rehearse, or just chat. Occasionally there were nights out among humans. The first few weeks had felt infinitely long, but now you had begun to adjust to a routine.

You began to nurture new and tentative friendships with Celeste and Estelle and even Sam. Even Santiago wasn’t always a cunt to you. As you had settled into the coven you had begun to notice Maître more and more. His eyes missed nothing. Constantly alert, constantly appraising, Armand watched his new addition. You felt an attraction to him that wasn’t there at first. You had been a little intimidated by Maître at the start of your tutelage. but now you wondered what exactly he was thinking about. Maybe it was all in your head.

As you swept the auditorium floor tonight you listened to the coven chatter and almost longed to join in. However, there was a small part of you that was glad to be alone with your chores. You didn’t feel like being seen this evening. Disappearing into the background suited you just fine. You were nearly finished, brushing the trash into the bin, when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Maître,” you bowed as soon as you turned to face him. Armand took a step toward you, slightly entering your personal space.

“Good evening, puce,” he let the words slide off his tongue, emphasizing your station. “Are you almost finished with your duties?”

“Yes, Sir,” you replied happily, almost but not quite looking into his eyes. “I only need to empty this.” You gestured to your trash can.

“Take it to the incinerator then meet me in the lobby. Don’t dally.” Armand left before you could reply.

You dusted off your clothes and ran a hand over your hair, smoothing it down, while you went to the lobby.

“Maître,” you greeted Armand as you entered.

“Walk with me.” He held the door open, allowing you to exit first. You stepped into the cool Autumn air of the city. Halos of mist hung around the street lamps as the evening’s rain slowly evaporated from the pavement. The emptying street had a quality that only late night city streets have, a liminal feeling left behind after the humans were nearly all tucked into their beds.

“Come,” Armand commanded from beside you. You walked in silence, waiting on him to explain or elucidate, but he did not. Not for many blocks. It wasn’t long before you had left the arrondissement and crossed the Seine. Vampire speed, even slowed for public viewing, was still surprisingly fast to you.

“I thought we could go somewhere with more privacy. I have a flat nearby,” he offered, apropos of nothing. He lit a cigarette, offered you one, and smoked for the rest of the walk. He dropped the butt on the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his show before opening the door to the apartment building.

You followed Armand through the doors and up the three flights of stairs to the flat. When you entered and Armand had locked the door behind you, a fire blazed in the fireplace. He took off his coat and hung it on a rack by the door. He tucked his hands in his pockets as he entered the small room. It was modest, a studio with a closet-sized bathroom in one corner, a table in the kitchen area, and a full size bed taking up much more space than the traditional twin bed these apartments usually housed. The only places to sit with the table or bed so you stood, waiting.

Armand strode to the fireplace and made a show of warming his hands over the fire. At first he didn’t turn to look at you when he spoke. You watched his face, lit by the fire, nearly mesmerized by the yellow and orange light in his hair.

“You are no doubt wondering why I brought you here tonight. You show potential, perhaps not to be center stage any time soon, but maybe one day. But you have something…” His voice trailed off as he turned to you and moved to stand directly in front of you. He lightly stroked your cheek.

“Interesting,” he murmured to himself as he appraised you. “You trust me as your Maître, yes?”

“Of course, Maître,” you nodded.

“So if I ask you to do something you would do it without question?” His nails ran down the side of your neck to your shirt collar.

“Yes, Maître.” You didn’t nod this time, something in his face had shifted and a nod felt too unserious.

“Well, puce, if I ask you to do something tonight that you find objectionable, simply say the word ‘aubergine’ and you won’t have to do it.” He smiled gently at the befuddled look on your face as he began to unbutton your blouse. “You can remember that word?”

“Yes, Maître.”

“Perfect.” He took his time opening your shirt while your heart hammered in your chest. You knew he could hear it and it would have embarrassed you, yet… Yet it seemed as if this wasn’t new to him at all.

Armand slipped your blouse off your shoulders. Then he began to work on the buttons of your slacks. You weren’t sure why you were doing this. It wasn’t entirely because he was your Maître. That was certainly part of it, but it felt like a very small part. You mostly felt like you would do anything for this ethereal creature. His hands moved deftly and barely touched your skin as he slid your pants to the floor. You stepped out of the pile of clothing without being told to. You stood still as Armand picked up the shirt and slacks and laid them over the back of a kitchen chair. You felt self-conscious standing in your undergarments, but Armand didn’t look at you in a way that made you uncomfortable. He led you to the bed and directed you to sit.

“You should know, this isn’t about the theater, darling,” he said. “This… is for my own enjoyment.”

You watched him with trepidation and excitement as he opened a drawer in the wardrobe and removed something. It looked like silk cord or rope and your heart raced in your chest again. He laid the bundle of cord on the bed and stepped next to you. He tilted your face up toward his with the lightest pressure of his fingertips.

“Lay down for me,” Armand whispered. You did so. Armand slowly began to unbutton his shirt, then placed it on the kitchen chair as well. He untied and toed off his shoes, placed them neatly beneath the chair, and walked to the bed in in his pants and socks. His movements were maddeningly slow as your mind raced with the possibilities. He untied the bundle of cord and it glistened in the dim light, it looked soft, but strong. He knelt on the bed near your feet as he spoke.

“Bend your knees, press your heels to your rear,” he instructed. You felt your face go hot, a very human response, but you did as you were told. He wrapped the cord around your thigh, then your shin, and tied your leg in a bent position. The cord was silky-smooth against your skin, but the knots were tight. Then he repeated the process on your other leg. You were exposed and vulnerable like this, even with your undergarments still on. You could have easily broken the bonds using your weak, fledgeling strength, but this was far more interesting. Armand took the remaining lengths of cord and moved them to your side.

“Hands above your head, palms together.” You pressed your hands together above your head. He leaned forward, between your legs, and bound your wrists together. Every sensation was more intense now: the fabric of his trousers rough against your inner thighs, the drag of his fingers over your camisole, grazing your hard nipples. He stood up and your eyes followed him as he walked to the table and sat in the empty chair. He tapped a cigarette from his pack, lit it, and smoked. He didn’t rush. You tried not to let your thoughts show on your face, but you knew you failed. Your brow was furrowed as you waited on him. The cords dug into your skin even though you had barely moved at all. Your normally shallow and slow vampire breathing sped up. Your cunt throbbed.

After an eternity, Armand stood and approached the bed. He trailed his fingers down one of your knees, down your shin to where the cord crossed your leg. You shivered. He moved to kneel on the bed, between your legs again. Slowly he slid a hand up your belly, under your camisole. His fingertips brushed against the undersides of your breasts. You gasped at his touch. As he moved his hand back down, he used both to gently press your thighs apart. Even that small movement caused the cord to shift against your skin. You sucked air sharply between your teeth. He let his fingers slide down the insides of your thighs and gently touched you over your panties. You could feel your wetness against the fabric and moaned. You tried to lift your hips to his touch, but it was nearly impossible in this position. The cords seemed to tighten as your legs shifted. You moaned as he pulled his fingers away, craving more of him.

Armand didn’t make you wait long. His long fingers slid up your buttocks to where the cord held you, then moved his hands up your hips. He leaned forward, almost hovering above you. He dipped his head and brushed his lips against your nipple through the thin fabric. He licked gently, leaving a damp spot above the hard point of your nipple. You involuntarily arched your back to get closer to his mouth and whined when your bonds prevented it.

“Maître, please,” you begged.

“Please what?” Armand quipped back, but his tone was patient.

“More please, Maître,” the sound of your voice was almost pathetic to your own ears, but you didn’t care. You watched him through half-closed eyes as he rubbed his hands gently up and down your sides. His thumbs occasionally grazing a nipple. He slid your camisole up over your breasts and sucked one of your nipples between his teeth. You could have cried out from the shock, but the pressure was so light that you could only pant. You still needed more. You wanted to touch him, run your fingers through his dark curls, down his neck, press yourself into his mouth.

Before you could beg again he sucked harder on your nipple and pressed his hips between your legs. You made an inhuman sound as the front of his pants rubbed against your panties and your sensitive lips. He sucked and licked your nipple with increased focus, getting caught up in the sensations and grinding his hips in slow circles. The pressure of his cock against you was a momentary relief. Then he pulled back.

“So needy,” Armand growled as he kissed down your stomach. He rose up to look at you as his fingers delved under the edge of your panties at the crease of your hips. Slowly, teasingly, he moved your panties to the side. He trailed his finger over you aching, swollen cunt, dipping just into your folds before leaving you wanting more.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered as he looked into your heavily-lidded eyes. “So well for me.”

“Yes, Maître,” was all you could think to say, the words most likely inaudible to a human, but he heard.

Armand continued to hold your panties aside as he leaned down and kissed just above your slit. He flicked his tongue over your clit and you twitched, moaning and whining. He smiled and licked harder, his tongue sliding between your lips. He moaned and the vibration sent chills up your spine. He teased you, not offering you any satisfaction, over your clit, down to your entrance, and back up. You wanted to beg and plead, but tried to bite back the words. Whimpering moans escaped your mouth, incoherent sounds, as you shifted and pulled against the restraints. You made no effort to break free. You could have, but the need for him to touch you, to keep doing this, was nearly overwhelming.

When Armand sat up he let go of your panties and began to unbutton his pants. You groaned louder than you intended. The thought that he would reward you, give you what you craved, flew through your mind.

“Yes, a small reward for such good behavior,” he grinned. “Perhaps I’ll even give you a release.” He slid his pants and boxers off his hips. You stared unabashedly. He was gorgeous. His dark hair caught the low light of the room, his chest rippled as he moved his pants further down, the muscles of his stomach flexing tautly. He stroked his cock lightly as he moved closer to you. Your legs strained against the cord. You watched him watch as he lined up and pressed his cock against you. He looked up and met your gaze. Yes? he asked silently. You nodded. When he slid into you it felt as if all of your bonds tightened. Your hands itched to reach for him, but you kept them above your head. Your thighs and shins seemed to press against the cord as you widened your legs to make room for his hips.

“God,” he moaned as he sank all the way into you. He steadied himself with a hand on each of your knees as he began slow, long strokes. Every time he pressed into you, the cords binding you shifted and dug a little harder. His eyes nearly closed as he increased his pace, hands sliding down to grip your thighs, then hips. The combination of sensations was exquisite. Every movement, every thrust, intensified by your inability to move.

Armand moaned softly as he slid into you over and over. His eyes flicked between your face and watching himself disappear into your cunt. His fingers tightened on your hips slightly as he moved faster. You whimpered as you grew even more desperate to touch him. Just my hands, you thought. Armand looked up at you with a nearly compassionate expression and leaned forward. You lifted your hands, still bound, and ran your fingers through his hair. The new contact combined with the forward shift of his hips drew a groan from your throat. As you stroked his hair, he almost seemed to purr. His sounds were soft and deep. He kissed your neck and collarbone as he pounded into you.

The mingling of your voices, your need, filled the small apartment. You grazed your nails against Armand’s scalp. He moaned and cursed against your skin. You clenched tight around him, so close, so desperate. You tried rolling your hips again, despite your bonds, this time disregarding the pain. You continued to ignore the part of your mind that insisted you could break them and be free. He wanted this, needed this, and you wanted to give it to him.

“Oh Maître,” you whined into his dark curls. You felt a small shudder pass over his body and continued. “You feel so good. Harder. Please.” Your words came out as breathy whispers, a pleading note in your voice.

Armand shifted his weight to one hand on the bed and slid the other up behind your shoulder. He pulled you down onto his cock as he thrust up and you cried out. He lifted his head to look at you and you saw that he was almost smirking. Hearing you beg was exactly what he wanted. He licked his lips and leaned down, kissing your hungrily. His hips slammed into yours and you moaned and whined into his mouth. Lips and tongues and fangs collided. You tasted your own blood in your mouth and arched your back. Armand sucked at the wound on your bottom lip, his movements becoming slightly erratic. You tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled back, gasping.

“Please Maître,” you looked into his eyes. “I want you to come.” He nearly smiled before kissing you again, licking the remaining blood from your already-healed lip. You barely noticed when he freed your wrists, his movements were so quick, and before the cord had slid off he muttered against your mouth.

“Touch yourself, puce, now.” Armand’s command alone could almost have been enough to bring your climax. You groaned as you slid your hand between your bodies. You looked at his face as you circled your clit, watching his reaction to how you tightened around him. He closed his eyes in the most beautiful expression of peace and pleasure. His hips began to stutter just a bit and you increased the pressure of your fingers as you brought yourself closer. You both groaned and panted as your climaxes neared. You closed your eyes and inhaled as you focused on his body above you, the way he moved inside you, the way his balls hit your ass with each thrust, the way you squeezed your thighs against his hips, the way his breath was hot on your skin. Your orgasm seemed to tense in all your muscles, starting everywhere at once, then it rushed over you. Your thighs shook. Your hand slowed as your arms trembled.

Armand nearly growled into your ear as you came around him. He thrust a few more times and, nails digging into your shoulder to hold you against him, he came hard. Mumbled curses and praise floated past your ear, but you were too far gone to pick out single words. He lay on top of you for a moment, balls emptying, cock twitching and softening, before pressing himself up to kneel between your legs again. He gently stroked a finger around from your temple, to your cheek, and along your jaw. Then he slowly began to pull out and you groaned as you felt his cum move with him. It was a singular and delightful feeling, but stimulation was becoming overstimulation with your legs still bound.

Armand knew this and as he knelt he began to untie your legs. He didn’t move slowly, but he took his time. Even though you were no longer human, he rubbed the skin of your legs where the cord had been as gently as if you were. He helped you straighten out your legs, one at a time, slowly and with care, with expertise. He stayed kneeling between your legs for a bit longer as he massaged them until they were flat on the bed. You watched with a mixture of awe and adoration. You also couldn’t help but to notice that he was equally gorgeous, soft and spent, as he was when he had started. You looked at him between your legs and felt a deepening attraction. This was a side of Armand that a select few were allowed to see and you were now included among them. Deftly, he slid his clothes off the rest of the way and lay on the bed next to you.

“Come here, puce,” he said with a tone that was more of an invitation than a command. He circled an arm around you and pulled you next to him. You laid your head on his chest and rested your hand on his stomach. You rolled half onto your side, wanting as much contact with him as possible. You let your hand travel up his stomach to play with the hair on his chest as you lay in his arm.

“Thank you, Maître,” you whispered as you closed your eyes.

Fangtober 2024 prompt list • Main masterlist

[kitkatscabinet]

HURT AND GRIEVE BUT DON'T SUFFER ALONE

requested by: @redr0sewrites

pairing: tim drake x gn! reader

prompt: "i'm not going anywhere until you sleep"

a/n: takes place when Bruce is stuck in time.

You're not sure what wakes you, whether it's the low thrum of the heater or the ambient sounds of early morning Gotham, regardless, you wake to an empty bed.

Tim's side of the mattress is cold, the sheets untouched, indicating he'd never come to bed. With bleary eyes, you reach for your phone, swearing and scrambling to turn the brightness down when you're blinded. Blinking the spots out of your vision, you stare down at the white numbers, 4:39.

Frowning, you swing your legs over the side of the mattress, wiggling your freezing toes against the carpet to stimulate the blood flow. You stumble groggily out into the living space, pausing at the sight of a dishevelled Tim surrounded by papers, illuminated only by the light of his laptop and the street lights pouring through the windows.

Even in the dim lighting, you can see the deep bags beneath his bloodshot eye,s and your heart aches at the visual reminder of how hard he's pushing himself, running himself ragged in his quest to find Bruce.

He's so engrossed in his work that he doesn't notice your presence until you sink down on the couch next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, which makes him jolt. "Tim."

His brow furrows as he takes in your presence in confusion, "What are you? Why are you up? You should be asleep, you've got work in a few hours."

You should be used to this kind of behaviour from him by now, but you'll doubt you'll ever be able to stop worrying about his health, "I could say the same for you." Your hand slides down his arm to entwine your fingers with his, forcing him to turn away from the open laptop.

"Please come to bed?" You aren't above begging, especially when it comes to Tim's health.

He winces, attempting to turn away from your pleading eyes, knowing he's likely to cave under your gaze, but you refuse to let him. "Tim —"

"I can't!" He exclaimed, ripping his hands from yours as he stood, turning his back to you and starting to pace. "I... How can you ask me to sleep when Bruce is... When he's stuck! I need to... I need to find him!"

"Tim, Tim, calm down." You attempt to cajole, grabbing his arms and spinning him around to face you to prevent his agitated movements.

"Calm down — how can you expect me to calm down? Everyone thinks he's dead, I'm the only one looking for him! He needs me!"

"I believe you, I believe you, baby, but please," your voice cracks traitorously as the tears you’d been so desperately attempting to hold back leak down your cheeks. "Please, Tim, you need to rest. I can’t keep watching you like this."

He breathes heavily for a few seconds before he practically crumples into your outstretched arms, deep sobs wracking his exhausted frame as you smooth a hand over his hair.

"Just... just go back to bed, I'll be there soon." He croaks, though you both know it's a lie as he tries to pull away from your hold.

"I'm not going anywhere until you sleep." You denied, refusing to back down this time. You'd given in so many times before, but enough was enough.

"I —"

"Tim." Your voice is stern yet gentle, a little wet with the silent tears you were still shedding, "please."

You slowly pull away from the embrace, linking your fingers together once more as you lead him to your shared bedroom with little resistance.

You tuck him under the covers with ease, frown deepening as you notice how light he seems. When was the last time he ate? You'll have to make him breakfast in a few hours just to make sure he gets something in his stomach.

He's asleep nearly the second his head hits the pillow and you slide in behind him, holding him to your chest as you absentmindedly hum a soft tune.

You allow yourself a few moments to watch him. It's the most at peace you'd seen him for weeks, the nearly permanent crease in his brow finally smoothed out as he unconsciously relaxes in your grip.

Before long, your own exhaustion wins out, and you fall asleep to the rhythmic pounding of his heart beneath your palm.

[mountainsandmayhem]

God Bless The She Devil Who Made Joel Miller

Pairing: BFD!Joel x F!Reader

18+ only!!!

Summary: After a fight with your boyfriend, your best friend Sarah invites you to say with her at her childhood home with her dad.

CW: Joel be peekin, Joel is mean (but you like it). I’m choosing not to say anything else to not spoil anything so engage at your own risk.

AN: You can all thank @littlevenicebitch69 for this. She asked for being caught, but I am daddy and I know what she really wants 😉 thank you @mermaidgirl30 for being my forever beta xo

Graphics by @saradika-graphics

God bless the absolute angel who brought Sarah Miller into your life. She somehow convinced her dad to let you stay with them over spring break after your boyfriend locked you out of your shared apartment and then refused to answer the phone or let you in. Sweet, empathetic, and dependable Sarah was at your apartment minutes after you called her and didn’t have to say much to her dad to let him allow you to stay.

And God bless the absolute she devil who made Joel Miller and put him in close proximity with you. You have a boyfriend, maybe, you can’t be sure, but you do know you have it HARD for Joel Mother Fucking Miller. He’s exactly the type of man that would classify as a DILF, and you don’t even consider yourself into older men. But Joel isn’t older, he’s experienced and charming and every single thing he does seems to turn you on.

Sarah has been working a day shift at the local grocery store during the break and Joel is off running his contracting business. Joel Miller, sweaty and dirty and building things with his large calloused hands. Fuck, you try to shake that image from your brain because you certainly do not need another image of him to touch yourself too.

You have a job serving in the evenings so the house is quiet and all yours during the day. This afternoon the sun peeks through your curtains and wakes you. Sun dancing along the pale yellow walls of the spare bedroom. You pick up your phone and see that it’s clear and sunny, the perfect day to lay out by the pool that Joel said you could use, “make yourself at home, darlin’, any friend of Sarah is welcome anytime.”

You practically leap out of bed and into your ensuite bathroom to brush your teeth and get ready to lay out in the sun. You rush down the hall in the swimsuit Sarah lent you, a large blue and white striped pool towel tucked under your arm.

You love Sarah, but there’s no chance you’re wearing this ridiculous one piece swimsuit to tan, plus you’re alone so what’s the harm? Joel doesn’t get home until well after 5 pm most nights, Sarah usually around 3 or 4, and she’s seen you naked more than once. Plus the backyard is fairly private, most likely no one will see anything.

Fuck it, you think to yourself, slipping the red lycra straps off your shoulders and then shimmying the suit down your body. The sun immediately warms your skin and that boost of vitamin D already has you feeling lighter and happier. You spread the towel down on the chair and lay on your stomach, tying your hair on top of your head and then grabbing your phone.

You flip through Spotify before settling on the album Ten by Pearl Jam. As the first song floats across the backyard, you rest your cheek on your hands and let the fast paced grunge music wash away your thoughts of your boyfriend and what you’re going to do next week when you go back to school. All that matters now is the sun on your skin.

X•X•X•X•X•X•X

Joel was just about to start working on some paperwork for his next building when he heard movement in the hallway. You must be up for the day, he should probably let you know he’s working from home today, just in case. He wants you to be comfortable here, even if it’s killing him to see you wandering around his house in those small denim shorts you wear to work. Last night he was almost certain he could see your hard nipples peeking out from the fabric of your tight white t-shirt.

Absolutely not, Joel. He scolds himself.

He hears you pad down the hall and then the unmistakable swoosh of the sliding glass door to the backyard. He glances out the window in his office to see you slip the red swimsuit Sarah lent you off your body. His cock was already painfully hard behind his jeans.

She just turned 21. The Angel on his shoulder reminds the devil that’s tempting him from the other side.

His mouth waters as he looks at your body. Your tits are perky, pink little nipples hardening as the air hits them.

She's going through a hard time. The good side of his conscience seems to be losing but he finds an ounce of strength and looks away. He can’t be staring at you.

He tries to focus on this goddamn contract but even little deadline and “initial here” blend together and all he can see in the jumbled words of the page is that little strip of hair that leads to that bundle of nerves he so badly wants to suck on. When he looks up again you’re laying face down, round and perky ass facing his window and on display for him. She must not know he’s home, and now she’s going to think he’s a total fucking creep if he says something now.

She’s your daughter's best friend. No, she’s off limits. Beyond off limits. Get it together, Miller.

And then your music drifts through his cracked window. You’re listening to Pearl Jam. So now not only are you incredibly tempting but you also have the music of his teenage years blasting. He can’t resist anymore, glancing out of the window to see you still laying on your stomach and your plush ass bouncing along as you wiggle to Eddie Vedder singing about still being alive.

He’s not sure how it happens, his body seems to move without him knowing, and suddenly he’s standing at the window, staring down into the backyard at you. His muscular arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the large window frame.

He slows his breathing and focuses on you - every dip and curve, every freckle, every little bit of skin being absorbed by his heated gaze. Your legs are slightly parted, but not enough for him to be able to see your cunt, and fuck does he want to see it.

His palms tingle with the need to cup your ass, maybe spank you for being naked in the middle of the day. He has neighbors, they could see you right now. This is unacceptable and you should be punished.

Just as he’s about to head downstairs his cell phone rings loudly and you shoot up onto your elbows and look over your shoulder at him, eyes locking with his before a tiny smile crosses your face. Joel looks away quickly and grabs his cell, almost crushing the device in his grasp as he answers.

X•X•X•X•X•X•X

Joel Miller was fully lurking at your naked body, and while that should probably embarrass you, you need to get fucked. You need something, anything, to forget about that piece of shit boyfriend who locked you out and refuses to talk to you or let you get your stuff. Sarah told you when you first met that he had her when he was 19, so it’s not like he’s THAT much older than you. Plus it’s just fucking.

Yep, I’m going for it.

You gather the towel around your body loosely, hooking your swimsuit on your finger and twirling it happily as you head into the house, determined to confront him and then seduce him. When you head up the stairs he’s standing in the doorframe of his office, just across from the spare bedroom you’re occupying. He looks deliciously pissed, one arm propped above his head on the door frame, the other on his hip, knee popped out. Your pussy flutters at the thought of his large, angry body above yours.

The opening bars of Jeremy fill the silence between you two, almost daring the other to make the first move.

“Turn that off,” Joel snaps. “I’m working.”

“Didn’t look like you were working a few minutes ago,” you say back, matching his energy.

Joel’s eyes narrow, brows furrowing, but you can tell he’s fighting to keep his eyes on yours. You lick your lips, testing him, teasing him, pushing him to see if he’ll take the bait. The flick of his eyes to your lips happens so quickly you almost miss it.

You let out a scoff, “Ya, that’s what I thought.” You step towards him, so close that you can smell the coffee and sawdust on him. “Wanna take a break from all that work?” You say the word work teasingly, trying to entice him.

“Go to your room and put some clothes on. Don’t let me catch you naked in the backyard again,” He says deeply, then closes his office door in your face.

You smirk to yourself, dropping the towel at his door and wandering into your room leaving the door wide open. You hook your phone to the Bluetooth speaker as you lay on your bed completely naked. You hit the volume button and slip your hand between your legs, rubbing your clit in fast, little circles.

“Daddy didn’t give no affection, no

And the boy was something that Mommy wouldn’t wear

King Jeremy the wicked

Oh, ruled his world”

Joel whips his office door open looking absolutely furious. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of you. Bare, wide open, and soaking wet. You don’t stop, don’t even bother to look his way, as you dip your fingers into your pussy and cry out his name. Joel steps into your room and hits the power button on your speaker. The only sounds that film the room are your moans and the squelching of your arousal as your fingers slip in and out of your pussy.

“What the fuck did I just say, little girl?” Joel says darkly.

You open your eyes to look at him and the expression on his face sends your heart into your stomach. You’ve always been a little bit of a brat, getting in trouble lots growing up. Truthfully, you like the rush of it, the adrenaline of the unknown. But Joel looks dangerous, eyes blown out with rage and lust, hands clamped into fists at his sides, a slight blush pinks his cheeks, lips in a tight line.

You sit up, crossing your legs and covering yourself with a pillow as you turn towards him. You’re suddenly not feeling so confident, you may have pushed the wrong man.

“Y-you said outside,” you start, your voice wavering. “I’m inside.”

Joel moves so quickly that you don’t even have time to register what’s happening as the pillow is ripped from your grip and disposed of on the floor in front of you. You’re bare and exposed to him again.

“Spread your legs,” he says hungrily, voice a raspy whisper.

He watches your throat as you swallow hard, leaning back on your elbows and planting your feet on the edge of the bed. You look at him tentatively, jumping and letting out a little squeal when he barks, “I said spread your fucking legs.”

You relax, letting your knees fall open. His breathing is rapid, a growling moan leaving his parted lips. He takes one step, his knees hitting the edge of the bed.

“Joel -” you start.

“Shut up. You knew what you were doing, you wanted this. Didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes, but…” his hand slaps the inside of your thigh and your knees slam together as you cry out.

“Spread. Your fucking. Legs,” he repeats in a slow and deep command.

“That hurt!” You say back, squeezing your knees together tighter. It feels like he set fire to your thigh and you can already see the red handprint forming.

“If you’re gonna act like a little brat, I’m going to treat you like one. Now spread your legs so I can hit the other one.” He raises an eyebrow at you cockily. “If you keep them open, I might reward you.” You’ve bit off more than you can chew with Joel Miller.

You take in a calming breath through your nose, relaxing your knees as you exhale slowly. Joel can see the milky, sticky strings of your arousal as your pussy lips spread open for him. He has to swallow the excess saliva that pools in his cheeks at the sight. He wants to taste you so fucking badly.

“I think you liked it,” he taunts. “You’re makin’ a mess, you like being slapped around, don’t you? Treated like a little whore.”

Before you can respond he lays a hard smack on your other thigh. Your hips involuntarily buck upwards, your head falling back and a moaning, whimpering cry you don’t recognize as your own leaves your lips. You focus on your knees, fighting against your body’s instincts, keeping them pushed into the mattress.

“That’s what I thought,” he says as he kneels in front of you and yanks your ass to the edge of the bed. “Think you should get a reward now?”

“Y-yes, please, Joel. Please!” You have never had to beg for sex before, boys your age are usually fired up and ready to go, but men of Joel’s age know sex is so much more than just penetration - it’s a game, a tease.

He bites down on your thigh, “Please. Please, Joel!”

“You smell so fucking good,” he says as his hooked nose trails down your little line of pubic hair. You squirm under him as your clit twitches, aching for his attention. “And so goddamn wet. My little whore, aren’t ya?” His warm breath hits your needy clit and you flop down onto the bed, whining in need.

“Please -” but your words are cut off by the front door opening and Sarah’s voice calls through the house.

“Everyone can celebrate, I’m home now!!!” She yells jokingly.

“Fuck!” Joel huffs under his breath and bolts for his office, kicks your towel and swimsuit into your room, you follow and click your door shut quietly.

“Hello?” Sarah calls, heading up the stairs.

“Just getting dressed,” you call through your closed door. “I think your dad is in a meeting.”

“Put on your swimsuit, it’s gorgeous outside!”

Taglist

@corazondebeskar @hiddenbabynyc @rainstorms-library @smutsmutslut @sullyrocky44

@keylimebeag @pimosworld @casa-boiardi @pedritoferg @paleidiot

@javierpena-inatacvest @blazeflays @akah565 @pinkiec6-rubi @pedroshotwifey

@lorilane33 @pansexual-potatoes @jessthebaker @jasminedragoon @koshkaj-blog

@pedroswife69 @strawberri-blonde @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @iloveenya

@iluvurfather @ashleyfilm @mermaidgirl30 @untamedheart81

[aayakashii]

FINALLY IT'S THE LAST DAY of posting Valentine's Day themed headcanons for each House in Tokyo Debunker! Ignore the fact that it's the middle of March already and I procrastinated this for so long

All prompts come from this post here ♡

And dividers are from @saradika-graphics 🫶

Taglist: @wannaberecluse

Frostheim | Vagastrom | Jabberwock | Sinostra | Hotarubi | Obscuary | Mortkranken

Valentine's Day in Mortkranken

Yuri

how does he show affection?

Peak tsundere. The tsundere to end all tsunderes. He demands your constant attention while hiding it behind a thick layer of furrowed brows, scowls and raised hackles. Expects you to be at his beck and call 25/8 and if you don't do that, he WILL be grumpy for the rest of the week. He needs you there, beside him. Even if you're not doing anything and he's working, he just needs your presence to feel like things are bearable. (He's the king of parallel play btw.)

does he like hugs? what are his hugs like?

Yuri says he hates them and NEVER gives them, but you know better. You notice how he slowly slips into your arms and melts against you when you hold them out for him. You notice how his hands grip your clothes like he's afraid you'll disappear and take all of his peace with you. You don't say anything. You just hold him when you know he needs it (and he'll allow to be held when you're the one that needs comfort).

is he good at flirting? how does he flirt?

PLEASE. He's a Victorian man in spirit. He can't even look at the nape of your neck or your hands without blushing like a damsel. He can't flirt and won't flirt, ever.

is he good at gift - giving or does he struggle to get it right?

The problem isn't giving you a gift. The problem is how much he overthinks what he could possibly give you that would look in good taste, so he can come out of it looking good. He REFUSES to ask for help, doesn't even look up online what are some good gift ideas for your s/o....... in the end, he gets so stressed about it that you notice his odd behavior. You ask what's going on and, after pressuring him a lot, he ends up confessing about his plight. You finally put him out of his misery by just saying what you'd like to get (a proper romantic date with him outside of Mortkranken)

is he quick or slow to give his heart away?

SLLLLLOWWWWW. Yuri doesn't even understand what is happening. Objectively, he knows SOMETHING different is going on due to all the physiological changes in his body whenever you're around. But he has no idea why. Why is his heart tachyarrhythmic? What is causing the mydriasis in his pupils? Why does he feel epigastric pain and profuse perspiration whenever you're around? He already has anxiety, so are his symptoms just worsening? When you finally end up making a move, it's when it all clicks into place for him. And after that, he has to come into terms with the fact that he likes you. He's stuck with you now, though.

does he find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

HARRRRRDDDDDD. Even the mere thought that he loves you sends him into a panic attack. Love isn't supposed to be nowhere near the priorities of the best doctor/researcher in Japan. However, when you burst into his office late at night and force him to go to his room, tucking him into bed and staying with him until he finally sleeps, he can't help but feel like love is endlessly overflowing out of his pores.

does he get jealous in a relationship?

Yuri's AWFULLY jealous. Literally any little thing sets the alarm bells off in his head. He's so used to being dismissed by others, despite his scientific accomplishments, that any wrong move from you will make him spiral into jealous madness. And it's not pretty, unless you like how he looks when he cries. He wiggles and squirms when you decide to hug him while you soothe his anxieties, but eventually he calms down, sniffling and hiccuping in the crook of your neck. Maybe it's time to make a list of all your friends and acquaintances so he stops thinking every man is a potential threat... (spoiler: it won't help. His jealousy is chronic.)

what is his ideal date?

Date? He has no time for that! (You have to drag him out of Mortkranken and into a cute, quiet cafe or museum and force him to get his mind out of work. It's something he never even thought of doing, so just that is surprising enough for him).

would he ask the big question or expect their partner to?

He wants to ask. It's a big move, a big decision, and Yuri thinks he's responsible for all the important steps in your relationship. If you end up proposing first, he'll accept but he'll get mad too. He will demand you let him propose as well (and will 100% believe that HIS proposal is the one that counts for real).

how does he feel about valentine’s day?

Never even thought about that and thinks all of these dates are just a waste of time. He will think you're a bit silly for trying to get him excited about it, but with enough insistence, you can make him do anything.

does he get protective easily?

Terribly so. He wants to know where you are 25/8, if you're not around him. Yuri thinks anyone else besides Jiro and him are a bunch of unrefined brutes and that you definitely should NOT put yourself in danger by talking to them. Stresses himself half to death whenever you go out in missions and is ADAMANT on giving you a full check up once you get back. If only he had the money power to just bribe everyone to keep you by his side...

does he believe in true love?

Maybe as a kid, he dreamed about all those fairytales he had read before the only books he picked up were medical ones. It's tough to believe in it now, when all that seemed magical turned against him. You don't mind challenges, though.

Jiro

how does he show affection?

He suffocates you with his presence. Jiro might always be on the go, but he makes sure to take you with him, if possible. He needs to make a dozen and a half house calls? You're going with him. He needs to fetch something from the teachers? You're going with him. He might even show up at class a bit more frequently if you two have the same schedule. At the end of the day, you're exhausted from all the walking, but even then, he makes sure to stay with you until you're asleep. (Sometimes you have to listen to his big brother fawning over his little lovesick brother throughout the night...)

does he like hugs? what are his hugs like?

He doesn't mind them, as far as he's concerned. He always accepts your hugs, patting your head while you bury your face on his chest (that's when he realized how tall he actually is), letting you hold him for as long as you need. A few rare times, however, Jiro has found himself with the impulse of pulling you into his arms and hugging you himself. It's like an involuntary reflex – he can't control it. He searches for you, only stopping once he's holding you tight against his body. It's only then that he feels that simmering need finally lets him breathe again.

is he good at flirting? how does he flirt?

He doesn't flirt, but he still flusters you because he is blunt as hell. Sometimes, he stares at you so intensely that you squirm under his gaze. It's when you can't handle the weight of his ruby eyes on you that you finally ask if anything's wrong. When he says, "I really would like to kiss you" matter-of-factly, with his monotone voice, you feel your stomach flip inside you. He may be a doctor, but he's also a little bad for your heart.

is he good at gift - giving or does he struggle to get it right?

He doesn't waste any time trying to think about a surprise. The only surprise he likes to give you is making you yelp so he can laugh at your expressions. Therefore, Jiro straight up just asks you what you'd like as a gift and give you exactly that. Don't even try to tell him to give you whatever he feels like, otherwise you'll end up with a scalpel as a gift.

is he quick or slow to give his heart away?

Much like Yuri, he doesn't fully understand what's happening once he starts feeling a bit different whenever you come around. However, unlike Yuri, he researched his "symptoms" straight away, as soon as he realized none of the diagnoses he was giving himself were correct. After that, it was pretty much smooth sailing. He accepted the fact that he was in love with you with the same ease he informs patients of their health issues.

does he find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

Easy. Jiro is blunt. When he woke up from his coma, the usual emotional restraints most people feel around things such as that were lost. He doesn't see why he should bother hiding his feelings if he is with you. Isn't it the norm to express your emotions to your partner? He would only keep his mouth shut if you expressed discomfort (and obviously, you don't, even if it flusters you so much).

does he get jealous in a relationship?

Not really. He spent a good time reading and studying about relationships in order to understand his feelings for you, and there was one specific word he read time and time again during his researches: trust. Jiro trusts you and your relationship with him. He trusts that you wouldn't do anything wrong, nor choose someone else over him. If a random student falls for you, that's their problem – he is pretty sure you're still his no matter what. Now, if someone starts bothering you... that's a whoooole other story.

what is his ideal date?

Jiro wants to go to any place in which you two can drink some tea, since it's the only thing that doesn't perturb his stomach all that much. He's been trying to slowly eat small portions as long as you make them and feed them to him (you still think he's making that up just to indulge in your attention), so he'd like to take his own food with him, if possible. You tell him that maybe you two could plan a picnic somewhere quiet, and you see his eyes widen and glint a little bit as soon as he hears your words. Picnic it is, then.

would he ask the big question or expect their partner to?

He won't mind if you ask him first; in fact, that's probably what ends up happening. Jiro follows your lead and whatever you decide to do in the relationship (as long as it isn't breaking up, obviously). So if you propose first, he'll gladly accept. If you just express desire to get married, however, he'll just straight up propose as soon as the words leave your mouth. No sense in wasting time.

how does he feel about valentine’s day?

Does not care at all. Never even noticed things changed during Valentine's. If you point it out, he'll acknowledge it and ask if you want to celebrate it, but if you don't, he won't mind either. He only cares if you do.

does he get protective easily?

Even though he isn't very jealous, he still is extremely protective. His hands are always finding purchase on your shoulders or your back, keeping you safe and close to him. He's always looking out for your health and well-being, even when he isn't feeling good (you've told him to take better care of himself time and time again due to that). If anything or anyone seems to be threatening or even just bothering you, he doesn't hesitate to activate his artifact. You already know, as soon as you hear the distinct bling of his chainsaw, that you need to reassure him that you're okay and that there's no need to commit manslaughter over some annoying guy pestering you.

does he believe in true love?

Not really. He believes in what he can attest with scientific methods. Regardless, he knows he loves you. That's enough for him.

[misswynters]

Xavier as a first-time dad

featuring. xavier x fem! reader

synopsis. You were exhausted coming home after the birth of your baby. Since he isnt allowed in the kitchen, he had to order takeout for the two of you.

a/n. there’s not enough fanfics for him here (let me know if any mistakes)

Xavier carefully carried your newborn into the house. The baby was swaddled snugly in a soft, pale yellow blanket. Nestled securely in his arms, their tiny face peaceful in sleep. Xavier’s gaze never left the small figure in his embrace, a mixture of awe and protectiveness etched into his expression. Every step he took was as if he were cradling the most fragile treasure in the world.

“You know, I can hold the baby,” you teased softly, your voice tinged with playful exhaustion as you followed him inside.

Xavier turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, a smirk quirking at his lips. “Nice try, sweetie. You’ve been through enough these past few weeks. Besides,” he added, his tone dropping to a low murmur, “I don’t trust anyone else with them right now. Not even you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the amusement in them betrayed your affection for his overprotectiveness. The truth was, you didn’t have the energy to argue. After three long weeks in the hospital filled with sleepless nights, tests, and recovery, your body craved the comfort of home.

As you sank onto the soft couch in the living room, a sigh escaped your lips. The soft cushions welcomed you like an old friend, and for the first time in weeks, you felt a sliver of relief. Watching Xavier move toward the nursery with the baby still cradled securely, your heart swelled. He carried them like they were the world itself, and to him, maybe they were.

From your spot on the couch, you could hear the faint creak of the nursery door opening and Xavier’s hushed voice as he whispered soothing words. Quiet rustling of the fabric followed, no doubt as he carefully laid the baby in the crib. Moments later, the soft sound of the baby monitor came on, a small but comforting one.

When Xavier returned, his broad frame filled the doorway for a moment before he crossed the room to where you lay sprawled out. His gaze softened as he took in your exhausted form, your head resting on the armrest and your legs curled beneath a throw blanket.

“You doing okay?” he asked gently, kneeling beside you, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“Better now that we’re home,” you mumbled, your eyes fluttering shut briefly.

Xavier’s lips twitched into a smile. “That makes two of us.” He sat down beside you, his arm draping lightly across the back of the couch. Once you felt his warmth, your body seemed to release the last threads of tension holding you upright. Sleep began to pull at you heavily. Before you fully drifted off, you whispered your thanks to him.

His hand found its way to your hair, his fingers moving in slow, soothing strokes. “You don’t need to thank me for anything,” he whispered, his voice filled with quiet adoration.

As you fell asleep, Xavier continued to watch over you with his hand never leaving your hair. The peaceful rise and fall of your breathing brought a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in weeks. After a moment, he carefully scooped you into his arms, cradling you as delicately as he had the baby earlier.

Carrying you down the hallway, he nudged open the bedroom door with his foot and stepped inside. He laid you gently on the bed, taking his time to rearrange the pillows and pull the blankets over you. His touch was soft as he tucked the edges around you. Leaning down, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, which he lingered for a moment as if to seal the gesture with his love.

“Sleep well, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Back in the living room, Xavier placed the baby monitor on the kitchen counter. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a slightly crumpled Chinese takeout menu, smoothing it out on the counter with a small grin.

“Let’s see here,” he mused to himself, scanning the familiar list of options. “Sweet and sour chicken for sure… Egg rolls, fried rice, maybe those dumplings you love…”

As he dialed the number, he leaned against the counter, his mind already picturing your face lighting up at the sight of the food. He knew how much you’d missed simple comforts like takeout, and he couldn’t wait to surprise you with it when you woke up. For now, though, Xavier stayed attentive to the soft sounds of the house. Faint rustling of the baby shifting in their crib, the noises coming fromthe baby monitor and your steady breathing from the bedroom.

. . .

An hour has passed, awoken by the sound of crying. Disoriented for a moment, you blinked, registering the faint sound of your newborn’s cries coming from the nursery. As if in sync with the baby, your body protested with aches and exhaustion, the soreness from the last few weeks making it hard to sit up. You rubbed your eyes sleepily, already dreading the walk outside the bedroom.

Meanwhile in the kitchen, Xavier stood frozen, torn between the sound of the baby’s cries and the impatient knock on the door signaling the arrival of the takeout. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, whispering to himself, “Okay, think, Xav. Baby first. Always baby first.”

Moving with the urgency of a man who didn’t want to mess up, he hurried to the nursery. The baby’s tiny cries softened the moment he stepped into the room. It was as if they sensed his presence. He carefully lifted them into his arms, his hands were gentle as he cradled their small body close.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, little one,” he whispered, his deep voice sounded smooth like it was rich in honey. The baby immediately quieted, their tiny fists curling against his chest. He let out a small, relieved chuckle, pressing a soft kiss to the top of their head. “That’s more like it. You just wanted your dad, huh?”

The knock on the door sounded again, more insistent this time. Xavier grimaced, glancing between the baby in his arms and the door. “Alright, we’re multitasking,” he muttered.

Cradling the baby with one arm, he strode toward the door, managing to unlock it with one hand while still keeping the little one snug against him. The delivery person raised an eyebrow at the sight of him holding a baby but said nothing as Xavier offered a sheepish smile and handed over the cash he had ready in his pocket. “Thanks,” Xavier said, balancing the takeout bags in his free hand. The baby let out a small coo, and Xavier smiled down at them. “See? Teamwork.”

Just as he closed the door, he heard the soft shuffle of your feet behind him. Turning, he found you waddling toward him with a sleepy expression laced with discomfort. Your hair was a mess, and your eyes were half-closed however to Xavier, you were perfect.

“Should’ve woken me up,” you said, your voice groggy as you leaned against the doorframe for support.

Xavier’s brow furrowed with concern, but his teasing nature slipped through as he quirked a smile. “And miss this adorable scene of you waddling over like a sleepy penguin? Never.”

You shot him a weak glare, though it was hard to stay annoyed when he stood there with your baby in one arm and the takeout in the other.

“Penguin? Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine,” he conceded, stepping closer to you. “A very elegant, sleepy penguin.”

Despite your exhaustion, a small laugh escaped you, and Xavier leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You should still be resting,” he murmured, his voice soft. “I’ve got this under control.”

“Clearly,” you replied, gesturing to the takeout bags. “What’s next, a juggling act?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he joked, but his gaze softened as he carefully adjusted the baby in his arms. “Come on, let’s get you back to the couch. I’ll set up dinner and bring you something to eat.”

Before you could protest, he was already guiding you toward the living room, his free hand lightly resting on your back. Once you were settled back on the couch, he placed the takeout bags on the coffee table and handed the baby to you, their tiny face now completely at peace.

“They’re good now, thanks to you,” you said, holding the baby close.

“Of course they’re good,” Xavier replied, his tone playful but warm. “They know their dad’s a pro.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Watching Xavier move around the room as he set up the food and ensured you had everything you needed. It filled you with a deep sense of gratitude. He was always calm and steady but his devotion made your heart swell.

As he sat down beside you, a plate of your favorite takeout in hand, he leaned in and kissed your temple. You rested your head against his shoulder as the baby settled into a peaceful sleep between you.

[starsinthesky5]

Who’s hornier, joe or songbird? how often do they do the yk 🤫 what’s their sex drive like ;)

a/n: mhm. yup

warnings: mentions of nfsw content below

you are in love masterlist

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

this is way longer than planned but there were quite a few things to dive into here ;)

who’s hornier:

honestly? it depends on the day. they match each other way too well. but generally speaking? she might edge him out in that department just a little—because she’s shameless about it. joe walks into the room all loose and golden from the sun, hair a mess from a nap, shirt half-tucked into gray sweatpants, and she’s immediately grabbing his wrist like, “you got ten minutes or less?”. she’s vocal, flirty, and absolutely reckless when she wants him. doesn’t matter if they’re mid-convo, at home, or at a public event. once the craving hits, she’s gone.

meanwhile joe’s more subtle. sulky. needy. he’ll do the hover move—lean against the kitchen counter while she’s cooking, just to rest his chin on her shoulder and kiss her neck. or sit behind her on the couch, hands slipping under her hoodie, pulling her into his lap like, “you warm?”. he’ll never say “i want you” first. but he’ll act like it. beg for it in every quiet, desperate way possible. and the second she does say it? game over. man’s already pulling his shirt over his head.

how often they do they go at it:

when they’re home together? borderline dangerous. at least once a day when the schedule allows—sometimes more if they’ve been apart (as we previously dived into) and it’s not always fire and pure need. sometimes it’s lazy, slow morning sex with tangled sheets and sunlight on their backs. sometimes it’s a quickie before heading out, barely dressed, out of breath. and sometimes it’s those long, drawn-out sessions where they don’t leave the bed all day. full of laughter and sweat and breaks for snacks and water and then “okay, one more round and then we’ll shower,”. (spoiler: they don’t.)

sex drive:

she can be pretty insatiable when she wants to. and well, she wants him all the time and she doesn’t care if they’re in the kitchen, in his car, or in a dressing room backstage. if the mood hits, it’s on. she’s unabashed about it—grabbing his hoodie strings and tugging him closer, whispering filth in his ear when he’s trying to focus. like, “you gonna keep pretending you’re not hard or you wanna do something about it?” with her mouth at his neck, right as they’re leaving dinner with friends.

he's destroyed. every time. because joe? joe is patience. he simmers. he’s got that slow burn, long game kind of heat—lingering fingers on her waist while she’s brushing her teeth, palming her ass when he hugs her from behind, lazy kisses down her spine when she’s waking up. he’s the type to slide his hand between her thighs under a blanket while they’re watching a movie—not even to start anything, just to touch. to feel how warm and soft she is. because he can’t not.

but here’s the thing: they feed off each other. she loves how easily she can break him. how just a whisper, a moan, a look can send him spiraling. and he loves teasing her until she’s squirming. making her beg. dragging it out just to hear her say please.

they are both constantly in some state of wanting each other. and it’s not just about getting off—it’s emotional. intimate. they crave that closeness like oxygen.

she’ll climb into his lap while he’s gaming, barely giving him time to pause before she’s straddling him, hands under his shirt like, “you missed me?”. and joe’s like, voice already rough, “you know i did,”. and he’ll carry her to bed. forget the game entirely. lay her out like he’s been waiting all week just to get his hands on her again.

or, he’ll come home from practice and she’s already in the bath, candles lit, soft music playing, and he’s stripping before the front door even closes. because they both know exactly what that means. and how that night’s gonna end—with her tucked under his arm, breathless and sore and smiling like she just got everything she’s ever wanted.

they don’t schedule sex. they don’t plan it. it just…happens. an “i missed you” kind of kiss that turns into a hands-wandering, shirt-tugging, couch-destroying mess. a sleepy cuddle that turns into slow, lazy morning sex, half-asleep and tangled in warmth. a random look across the room that ends in, “you have five minutes to get upstairs or i’m taking you right here,”. they love each other’s bodies. they know how to use them. and they’re not afraid to be completely consumed by it.

because yeah, they’re in love. but they’re also obsessed. and it shows.

but their intimacy is beyond physical pleasure, and that's what makes this relationship so special. it’s the quiet kind. the kind that builds in the in-between moments—when no one’s watching, when nothing’s expected. like when she’s laying on his chest after and he’s drawing soft shapes on her back without realizing it, or when she kisses the spot behind his ear and he shivers every time but never tells her why.

it’s him brushing the hair out of her face when she’s too tired to move. her tugging his hoodie strings and pressing their foreheads together because it’s the only way she can say i love you without words.

intimacy is him learning how she likes her tea. her memorizing the exact way he likes his post-practice massages. it’s the soft "you okay?" whispered against a kiss. the way she sits in his lap not to start something, but just to be near him. the way he’ll wrap his arms around her from behind while she’s brushing her teeth and bury his face in her neck like he missed her all day.

when they’re wrapped up in each other, it’s not about release. it’s about being known. being seen. being held like you matter. she can come undone just from how he says her name. he can fall apart just from the way she looks at him like he’s home.

so yeah, they have a ridiculous amount of physical chemistry. but the real intimacy?

that’s in the laughter. the safety. the sleepy kisses and shared looks and late-night talks where they whisper dreams into each other’s skin like secrets.

it's knowing that every touch, every breath, every heartbeat is more than just want—it’s love. deep and undistracted. soul-level stuff.

and neither of them has ever had that before.