#i MEAN I LOVE KISSES but this means so much intimacy

[always-just-red]

Oh I forgot to add 😭😭😭 be it fluff like jelly sylus but fluff maybe he trying to make the mc jelly too ? I’m going wild with ideas, I will be quiet

(Part 1 of ask) FINALLY finished this fic oh my goshhh I've loved it so much but writer's block was my constant companion for this one 🫠 Thanks for your patience!! Sy is jealous but I'm still pushing my 'Sylus is the softest man alive and would die before hurting MC' agenda, so I had to get a lil creative! Hope I've pulled it off idk 😭😭

Be Mine

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: Sylus is getting a little tired of sharing you with the other men in your life (and he doesn't mean Luke and Kieran 🙃)

Genre: lil bit of angst, comfort and fluff

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, jealousy, other LIs mentioned, brief allusion to Raf's self-harm tendencies, cheating mentioned, some intimacy & kisses-- more soft than spicy!

| Word count: 4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Sylus has spent centuries waiting for you, so he’s going to give you another minute.

Patience is not a virtue; it’s an old acquaintance he greets with a false smile whenever he’s forced to pass it on the street. Sometimes outside your building, whilst you’re chatting with a neighbour from the apartment above yours. Sometimes when you’re running late from a doctor’s appointment.

Patience has been cropping up a lot these days and gods, he’s sick of its face. Even now, it sits with him at this table for two as he sips at a glass that’s almost empty. There’s poetry in stalling, in savouring what’s left, especially as a waiter hovers anxiously nearby, anticipating the need for yet another refill (it would be the third).

Dregs of blood-red wine swirl with solemnity. Sylus is a patient man, a man who waits, but he doesn’t want to be. He wants the reward of it: the pot of gold at the end of that insipid rainbow. Hasn’t he waited enough?

He lifts his drink to his lips again.

“Sylus!”

They curve as he swallows the final drop.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, flinging yourself into the seat across from him so quickly that he’s cheated of the chance to rise and help you with your chair. “Sit back down,” you usher, because he had made a start on it, “really, Sy, I’m so, so sorry. Things at work just got crazy, and I—”

“You don’t have to explain, sweetie,” he smiles as he signals the waiter. He’ll have that refill, now, and he orders your favourite drink as you shrug off your coat and fumble with your bag, looking for something. “I’m more than familiar with the Association’s… dedication to a cause.”

You glance up with an amused smile. “We’re keeping you on your toes, huh?”

“Mmm. There is one hunter who’s proving to be a real thorn in my side.”

“You on top of that?”

“Most evenings, yes. Some mornings, too.”

You poke your tongue out at him. You’ve retrieved a compact mirror and you use it to study your dishevelled reflection. “Is everything all right at work?” he asks as you fuss over your hair.

“Yeah,” you puff. “Long story.”

“We have time.”

With a warmer smile, you stash your mirror away and sequester your bag by your feet. “You sure?” He gives you a look. “Fine,” you chuckle. “Basically, Xavier forgot to write up some reports. He’s been away on an ultra-secret, special mission or whatever—” you tap your nose conspiratorially— “which I didn’t just tell you, okay? But yeah, the reports weren’t done, and they were due tonight, so…”

Sylus raises an apathetic eyebrow. “He asked you to help?”

“Begged me, more like.”

Of course he did. The waiter arrives with your drinks and Sylus has never been gladder for a distraction. His mouth is full of pettiness, bitterness, so he drowns it with wine. You could have called. Texted. “So kitten’s been playing secretary, hmm?” he goads instead.

“That would imply kitten could keep track of time,” you pout, “so no. And speaking of playing a part—” you poke his nose— “you’re allowed to be mad at me. I should have called you. Texted. So let me have it, yeah? I feel bad enough already without you being all… perfect.”

You’re only teasing, but Sylus doesn’t feel perfect. He’s thinking about you working late with your partner, laughing at his jokes, poking him with your pen to keep him from falling asleep on his paperwork. He smirks, regardless. “What if I want you to feel bad?”

“Oh, gods,” you slump forwards, face-down on the table. “How long were you waiting?”

“Years.”

You fake cry into the tablecloth. “Don’t, Sy. Just tell me the truth. How bad was it?”

“Really, years,” he insists again, folding his arms on the table and sliding forwards, too. His chin is resting on his hands, and he blows at the top of your head. “Look.” Your face lifts so you can peer at him. He pinches his hair. “I’ve even gone grey, see?”

You sit up the tiniest bit more and your noses are almost brushing. “It looks nice,” you whisper.

“You think so?”

“Mmm. Suits you.”

Your eyes are every gem— every jewel in an illicit auction Sylus has to steal away from the rest of the world, because something that pretty just has to be his; it will find no worthier home than his hands. His devotion fills vaults. Aren’t they spilling with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds— those reckless imitations of your gaze? No-one else could deserve them, adore them like he does.

And they’ve nothing on the real thing.

Someone clears their throat and Sylus tracks the noise begrudgingly. The anxious waiter is back, clutching menus this time. You sit up fully, laughing to break the tension, and sure enough, Sylus feels less like hurling the man through the nearest window.

He’s still thinking about it though. He tells the waiter as much with a smile, and the menus are passed over with shaking hands. When Sylus says, “thank you,” it sounds like a bomb, ticking.

“Play nice,” you tut, once the waiter’s cleared the blast radius.

“Sweetie, when do I ever not play nice?”

You blink back at him disbelievingly. This should be good. “How about the time that you—?”

A familiar ringtone interrupts you, and your eyes widen in apology as you grab at your bag, rifling around for your phone. You find it— check the call and decline it— but relief is hiding, refusing to set foot on stage. Not yet, it confers to Sylus darkly, because it knows what comes next.

“Do you need to…?” he asks anyway.

“Nah, it was just Rafayel. Thanks, though.” You set the phone down. “Where was I?”

“You were about to tell me what a terribly bad man I am, sweetie.”

“Right!” you giggle. No, not yet. “So how about the time that you…” The phone rings again. You check it. Decline it. “How about the time that you—ugh!” It’s ringing again.

Sylus taps a finger on the table, impatiently patient. You can’t mute the wretched thing: the next call you miss would be a Wanderer, tearing through an orphanage or the like. It’s the reason you check, even when there’re no orphans at stake— just a pest of an artist with too much time on his hands.

Except… “Oh,” you say, glancing downwards, “it’s Zayne. I should probably—” Sylus gives a half-smile of blessing, but you weren’t waiting around for it— “hey, Zayne! I can’t talk right now, unless— Raf? What the hell? How did you get Zayne’s phone?”

You pull yours away from your ear as a string of whines come through:

“— ignore my calls, don’t even text me to ask what’s up, and then pick up his call right away? You hate me, right? Just say that you hate me, cutie.”

“I don’t hate you, Raf.” The phone is back to your ear. ��I’m busy. Now seriously, how did you get— oh, hi, Zayne. Why is Raf…?” Sylus can hear a deeper voice answering your questions. “He’s at the—? Shit, is he okay? Ugh, tell him I can hear him. Tell him I know he’s not dying.”

You meet Sylus’s eyes as conflict erupts on the other end of the call. Sorry, you mouth as static filters through, interspersed with broken words and curses. The doctor’s voice prevails. “Yeah, Zayne,” you speak back to it. “I’ll call Thomas, get him to pick him up. Mmhmm? Oh!” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I forgot, he’s at that stupid art thing. Look, maybe later, I can…”

The artist’s shrill tone is protesting.

“I know it’s my job, Raf!” you counter. “But gimme a break, please. If it was any other night, you know I’d be there. Of course I wanna be there! But I can’t—”

It’s just a slip of the tongue— words you don’t even realise you’re saying— but Sylus still feels his heart sink. He hates it. A heart is so difficult to argue with: it’s long gone before you can talk any sense into it. He stands from the table, those priceless eyes of yours pursuing him. When you tilt your head, he musters a smile, then a weak excuse: “I’m just stepping outside for a moment.”

You nod, a follow-up question on the tip of your tongue, but then there’s a voice in your ear again— two voices— and you’re you, so of course you listen.

…

Sylus waits on a bench outside the restaurant, closing his eyes as he waits for his heart to come back.

It’s only been a few minutes. He’s thinking about your eyes, your nose and lips— an inch from his— and how he should have closed that gap before it grew treacherous. Shouldn’t he be done with this? This… longing? You’re his. You’ve told him you’re his, over and over again, but he finds himself needing to hear it once more; the ghost of your voice is starting to lack persuasion.

He is yours without exception, but you? There’s always a caveat. I’m yours, Sylus. But only so long as the city is quiet. I’m yours, Sylus. Until someone else calls. The door to the restaurant opens— he can hear it— but he doesn’t open his eyes. He wants to pretend.

I’m yours, Sylus. No caveats. No exceptions.

“Sylus.”

He swallows the dread in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” you entreat softly. His eyes open, and you’re wearing your coat, holding your bag. “I have to run to the hospital— it’s this whole thing. Raf, like, passed out or something. He’s not been eating again. Zayne said when something like this keeps happening, it’s a sign that… yeah. He just… needs someone. And he hasn’t got anyone else, you know?”

“I understand.” You’re worried about your friend. That’s all it is.

Why can’t he believe that’s all it is?  

You come over and sink down on the bench beside him, looping your arm through his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Don’t you know that he’s afraid? That a selfish, spiteful part of him wants to hide you— with the rest of his treasures— away from the light, so he can love you in the dark?

There’s a sigh as you lean against him, savouring his touch like the wine one swirls in a glass when their thoughts are elsewhere. It’s gone in a mouthful; you check your watch, and he hopes it’s bitter.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

No, he would rather be sweet for you, but look at you— making him lie. “I’m okay,” he says, and it doesn’t have a drop of conviction. He’s tired of philanthropy.

…

“What are you gonna do? Come on, tell us. Tell us! What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know, Luke. Give me a second, okay? Jeez.”

You literally just got here. Your pace is brisk and the night air still clings to you— you shed a layer of it by peeling your arms out of your coat. Luke and Kieran are close behind, keeping to your heels like terriers hoping you’ll trip with a plateful of food. They’ll take even a crumb at this point.

“You gonna fight him?” Kieran nudges, but your lips stay tight.

“Oh, you’re so gonna fight him,” Luke takes away from the silence.

You don’t know what you’re going to do. You’ve reached a decadent lounge, lavished with black and gold, and you throw your coat over the arm of a chair before starting to wrestle off your combat boots. You’ve been off work for hours, but it doesn’t feel like it. One call-to-duty after another; first the hospital, now this.

Mephisto caws in greeting from a nearby perch. “I’m not gonna fight him,” you say as your second boot drops with a clunk. “I just need to—”

“Say no more,” Luke cuts you off. “We want in.”

With a tired sigh, you gaze up at the twins at last. Kieran is readying a fist: punching his hand softly, the beak of his mask low and threatening. Beside him, Luke swings a baseball bat over his shoulder. He didn’t have it a second ago. Where did he even—?

You put your hands on your hips. “You guys got a death wish or something?”

“Yes!” they enthuse together, nodding excitedly.

You haven’t got time to ask. Your focus drifts to Sylus’s bedroom door, where music is leaking with honeylike light. You can’t count the number of times you’ve fallen over that threshold, exhausted— always slightly broken. You want to crawl into cool silk sheets and a warmer embrace, but there’s one small problem.

The text that had brought you here, anxious and out of breath:

Boss is with someone.

“What’re you thinking?”

You’re closer to the door, now, and Luke’s whisper makes you jump. You spin, twisting the bat from his fingers and pushing him back until the tip is pressed to his throat. “Get back,” you hiss, before levelling the weapon at an encroaching Kieran, “both of you.”

Luke leaps behind his brother— swinging him between you for protection. The baseball bat stays hovering, and Luke peeks over Kieran’s shoulder, swatting at it like an indignant kitten.

“Stop it,” you scold, poking back at his hand and his masked face. “Begone!”

“Yes, boss!” Kieran goes to move, but Luke is holding him in place. He’s dragged backwards: a human shield until they can both scurry around the turn of a corridor.

You smile fondly. You forget, for just a moment, that you’re alone and full of uncertainty. The song in the next room lulls, at its inevitable end, and then you can’t forget. You’re stood in silence, staring at a door you’ve never had to knock before. Another song starts up.

Whatever this is, you can handle it.

You use the baseball bat to tap against the dark wood. “Sylus?” you call.

He makes you wait. You can hear him, moving around— unmistakably taking his time— but you don’t mind. You’re running scenarios through your head. Is he in on this, too? Or…?

He opens the door and oh, he definitely is. His silk robe hangs haphazardly over his figure, one side threatening to slip from his shoulder and the belt dangerously loose at the middle. A flush is tinting his face, spreading down through his neck, past his collarbone and lower, you think, but you’re trying not to look.

“Sweetie,” he purrs in the way that tells you he’s up to no good, “what a pleasant surprise.” His eyes flit downwards. “And you’re armed, too.”

There’s a breathlessness to the observation, and your ability to breathe briefly eludes you as well. His hair is damp and unkempt, his skin warm, his gaze hot. Is this a test? It feels like a test.

“Are you alone?” you snap, because he’s clearly put some thought into whatever it is, and you’re a good sport, so you’ll play along.

“No,” he says, but then: “You know you’re always with me in spirit, kitten. Even if not in—” another downwards glance— “body.”

“Sylus.”

“Mmm?”

“I’m going to ask you one more time.” You catch his chin with your free hand, forcing his gaze back to your face. “And I want a real answer.” He swallows thickly. “Are you alone?”

His submission is fragile. He lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around your wrist like a reminder of the fact. “Careful, sweetie.” His grip tightens as his voice drops. “Think about what you’re asking.”

“I know what I’m asking.” You snatch your hand free and step closer. “Get out of my way.”

Sylus narrows his eyes, but soon relaxes. He sweeps a hand through his hair, chuckling as he obeys— moving aside to let you past. You storm through, looking over every visible inch of his room. There’s nothing to see, of course. No clothes that aren’t yours pooled over the floor. No lover wrapped up in his bedsheets.

“Just what exactly are you looking for?” he asks smugly behind you.

“Save it, Sylus.” Your pretend patience is gone. “The twins told me everything.”

So you start searching more strenuously. You make your way over to his bed, baseball bat slung over your shoulder as you check behind the far side— even stooping to peek under it. You open the wardrobe. Nothing. Use the baseball bat to push back the curtains, letting in more blood-red moonlight. Nothing. You huff in frustration.

“You know, don’t you?” Sylus says quietly.

He’s leant against the doorway, arms crossed, and you spare him a glance. “Know what?”  

“That there’s no-one here.”

It sounds like defeat. “I’m taking this very seriously, actually,” you dismiss as you roll open the drawer of his bedside table, where no-one is hiding. You move on to even more absurd places: lifting flowers out of their vase to glance about inside it, peering into the horn of his vintage gramophone.

You’d hoped your antics would elicit at least a short laugh, or a scoff of amusement. There’s nothing, though, so you plonk onto the bed— defeated, yourself— and look to the man as you set your weapon down.

He looks back with an insincere smile. “How did you know?”

“That you weren’t really with someone? Because you’re you, Sylus. The key to a good prank?” Your fingers twinkle in the air beside your head. “Believability. Besides—” now a forefinger taps at your temple— “nothing gets past this.”

“Your ego?” he guesses with a smirk that is sincere, if nothing else.

“My brain, Sy.”

“Ah.”

Your ego— tsk. Your feet are dangling from the bed, playing with a slipper they’ve fished out from underneath it, and you have half a mind to launch it at him. This doesn’t feel like one of your usual games, though, and you’ve had a whole ride through the N109 Zone to figure out why.

“I really hurt you, didn’t I?” you speak like a confession, staring down at the floor so you don’t have to meet his eyes. “That’s what all this is about, right? You wanted to get back at me for dinner?”

“No, I—”

“I get it.” Your feet find the second slipper. “I do. I mean, it was a really shitty thing to do— walking out on you like that. Especially after you waited for me. You went to all that effort, and I— ah.” You’ve toed one of the slippers out of reach.

“Allow me,” comes a voice that’s suddenly close. Sylus’s figure looms over you before he’s crouching, kneeling by your feet. He still looks like a mess of sin, but he’s gentle as he retrieves the slipper for you. Removes your socks for you. Slides a slipper onto each of your cold feet. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he mutters.

You let out a sigh. “Sylus.” You’re scolding him, and he gazes up at you, his eyes garnets of adoration only you could afford. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“So why won’t you tell me how you feel?”

He sits back on his knees, his thumb drawing circles on the inside of your ankle. The ministrations are mindless, and so are his words: “How I feel is not important.”

“Of course it is!” You pull away from him. “Don’t say things like that.”

“But I thought I could tell you anything, kitten.”

It’s a nick from a blade that could do much worse; he wants you to feel how sharp it is. His smile is a warning and he’s waiting for the hunter in you to strike back, because violence is what you’re good at. What you’re both good at. It hurts, but it’s easy.

You shift forward on the bed. “Sylus… you don’t need to protect me. Not from you. Not from anything you feel. I want you to be happy, to tell me if you’re unhappy. I don’t need you to—” your fingers skirt over his chest and you falter inexplicably— “to sacrifice yourself for me.”

Sylus looks down to where you’re tracing the shape of his heart on his skin. He lets out a long, beleaguered breath, then leans closer to you, his head turning away as he settles it on your lap. Your hands find his hair instinctually, threading through it in slow, meandering motions.

“I want you to be mine,” he admits on another sigh.

He can’t see you smile, but he’ll hear it in your voice: “I am yours, Sy—”

“No— just mine.”

He won’t make it a demand. Even asking you nicely has him breathless and still, like the drawn-out pause of a finished symphony. Your hands stop moving, out of respect for the quiet. You’re remembering the times you’ve been late out of your building because you’d stumbled into Xavier in the lobby. The doctor’s appointments that always overrun, and Rafayel’s ‘emergency’ phone calls.

“Come and sit with me,” you mumble, patting the bed beside you.

When Sylus does, it’s with the same reluctance a cat surrenders a sliver of sun. Lazy and listless— still warm from the light. The bed sinks under his weight and you turn to face him. His robe’s collar has fallen further, so you hook a finger under it to draw it back up to his neck. Then you straighten the lapels, smoothing them over distractedly.

He’s watching your face, not the movements of your hands. Your cheeks feel warm. “I was speaking to Rafayel earlier, and we—”

A groan, and Sylus is no longer at your fingertips; he’s flopped down backwards on the bed, his hand over his face. You can’t help giggling— you’ve broken the big, bad boss of Onychinus, it seems. Is that all it takes? You grin as you lie down with him, settling on your side, propped up on an elbow. He doesn’t stir when you fix a few stray strands of his hair.

“We talked about boundaries,” you continue. “How I can’t be on call twenty-four seven, and how he’s going to take better care of himself, so I don’t have to be.”

Sylus has moved his hand, ever so slightly.

There’s more: “I’m gonna call in sick to work tomorrow. I made a deal with Xavier, that’s why I stayed late today. He’ll cover for me.” You shift closer. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I know I can’t always be with you, but I am always thinking of you, I promise. You’re always with me in spirit, Sy, even if not in—” you press a quick kiss to his chest— “body.”

He chuckles at the words, or maybe the touch tickled.

You grin down at him. “I’m yours. Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“No! Ugh, just—” Smart-ass! You flick his forehead as he laughs quietly. “Not the words ‘I’m yours’, say that I’m—”

His hand is at your face, pulling you in so he can kiss you. It’s slow and it’s patient; he’s taking his time, and you won’t slip away. You can feel his smile. “You’re mine,” he murmurs when he finally withdraws. One more kiss, lighter, on the tip of your nose. “Just mine.”

Always. You let him pull you into an embrace, snuggling into his warmth like you’ve been wanting to from the moment you last left it. You can hear his heartbeat beneath the lullaby of his breath. “Sy?” you whisper.

“Hmm?”

“You look really hot when you’re pretending to cheat on me.”

He scoffs, but a yawn comes before his response. “Don’t get any ideas, kitten.”

Your quiet is pensive. “I have this lunch with Zayne later this week. I really should text him to find out—”

The grip around you constricts, and a voice is in your ear, soft and possessive:

“What did I just say?”

[lila-went-missing]

Hiii, saw you wanted some requests for Sevika and I've had this idea bubbling up for a while. Imagine Vika with a reader that's normally experienced, yk has fucked one or two people before and it's not a sex god, and they're growing insecure about sevika never starting intimacy even after months of dating, so they think it's because they're not as good as the girl's she's been with before. Idk just thought that'd be good

I'm kind of obsessed with this, ngl. This isn't the first smut that I've written but it is the first smut that I've posted on here so feedback is always appreciated. Y'all will never guess... it's not proofread. Again. Enjoy my lovelies! X

Warnings: Smut (obviously), mild angst but nothing too horrible, mentions of body image issues but readers body type isn't specified or described.

Fem reader, of course, with female genitalia.

At first, you didn't think anything of it. She probably just wanted to take things slow with you. You weren't as experienced as her so she probably wanted to take her time.

That made sense for a while.

But now, after eight months together, you haven't had sex once. More importantly, she hasn't initiated it.

Realistically, you know that it's fine. There's plenty of reasons as to why nothing has happened so far. But that voice in the back of your head is doing a fantastic job of convincing you otherwise.

Sevika was kind of a sex symbol before you two got together.

She'd been with countless women, she was a regular at Babbettes. Her name was uttered on the streets like a sacred prayer.

You, on the other hand, have only been with two people: your ex, and a drunken one night stand that was less than satisfactory. So you did have sexual experience, but not nearly as much as her.

Honestly, it's starting to worry you.

Did she not like you? Was she not physically attracted to you? Was there something wrong with your body? Were you not showing enough skin?

Thoughts plagued your mind night and day. You were stuck in constant turmoil. It was impossible to stop your own brain once it got going.

It was taking everything in you to focus on the stove and not burn dinner.

You flinch at the sound of the door closing. Heavy footsteps sound through the house, approaching the kitchen.

Sevikas thick arms wrap around your midsection, her face making home in the side of your neck. For a long time, she doesn't say anything. The only sounds come from the meat sizzling in your pan. Moments like this make it easier to not think about the painful lack of aw sex life between you two.

Her lips purse, pressing small kisses against your skin. She hums against your neck.

"What are you cooking doll?" Her voice is muffled against your flesh but you understand her all the same.

"Spaghetti." You feel her smile.

"My favorite.." She mumbles. You hum a small "Mhm" before focusing back on the seasoned beef and water you're waiting for to boil. Her arms tighten ever so slightly, one hand slipping under your shirt. Her thumb caresses your bare skin.

It should be sweet but it really just drives the nail into the coffin for you.

Your voice comes out before you can stop it.

"Why won't you have sex with me?" You regret it the moment it leaves your mouth.

"I- woah, what? Doll what do you mean?" She honestly sounds baffled.

"Forget I said anything, please. It doesn't matter."

Her hands gently grab your shoulders, turning you around.

"No way. What are you talking about?"

You shake your head. "It's stupid.."

"It's not stupid if it's bothering you." She reassures you.

"It's just, we've been together for eight months, and we practically live together. But we haven't done anything. I know you don't have an issue having sex because half the undercity talks about how good you are and I just don't understand. Is there something wrong with me? Am I not appealing to yo-" Your rant is cut off by her lips. Her hands are holding you like glass, one on your cheek, one curled around your hip.

"There is nothing wrong with you." Her voice comes out as a soft whisper. "I'm sorry I made you feel like there was. I just knew that you don't have as much experience as I do. I didn't want you to feel rushed, or forced."

"Rushed? No, you could never.. I thought you just didn't want me that way." She immediately shakes her head. She kisses you again, more urgently this time.

Her hands grab anywhere they can, pulling you in. They're on your hips, waist, groping your ass.

"I do want you." Then they're picking you up and lifting you on the counter. "Let me show you how much I want you?" All you can do is nod as her lips trail down your neck. Her touch dances over your body, removing your top.

Her mouth follows soon after, sucking dark bruises into the skin on your neck and chest. She takes a nipple in her mouth and swirls her tongue around it. A low whimper leaves your mouth at the new, but not unpleasant, sensation.

Her right hand copies her tongue's motions on the other, pinching and pulling. Your body trembles against the counter with need.

She moves away from your breasts, kissing and licking down your stomach to your navel. Her hands unbutton your pants. She looks up at you as she lowers herself to her knees, silently asking for permission. You nod your head. You don't trust your voice. Your pants are off in seconds and thrown somewhere in the kitchen that you'll worry about later.

Her hand splays across your stomach and gently pushes you to lay against the tile. It's cold against your bare and burning skin, your back arching off of it but she keeps your hips pinned down.

You gasp as her teeth nip at the skin of your thigh. A breathy laugh leaves her.

"Shut up.." You mutter.

"Didn't say anything."

Your eyes roll in fake annoyance but you don't get the chance to reply as the cold air hits your bare cunt. Her thumbs pull your lips apart, admiring the sight before her.

"Fuck doll, you're so wet. All of this for me?" Her voice is husky between your legs and it stirs something delicious in your belly.

"Yes, all for you Sev.." She chuckles. Her teeth take the hem of your panties and drag them down your legs. She kisses your hips and navel, sucking hickies and marking you as hers.

"Please, Vika. Need you.." You whine. You can't bring yourself to care about how desperate you sound. You're sure that you look even more so from her position.

It seems, though, that your prayers have been answered because as soon as the words leave your mouth hers is back on you. This time it's between your legs.

She licks a long stripe up your pussy before stopping to suck your clit into her mouth. A loud moan reverberates from your chest as you lean your head back into the counter. Her tongue kitten licks at the bud before suckling on it like shes trying to nurse herself.

You've had people eat you out before but never this well. You don't think it could get better than this.

She moves down, opting to fuck you with her tongue instead. You definitely understand the appeal now. You've given yourself plenty of orgasms but this is the fastest one has risen before.

She feels it in the way you clench around her tongue and moves back to your clit. Her fingers fill up the now empty space, fucking into you in a gently but rough way only she could manage.

She's eating you like a woman starved and with the lack of sex the two of you have had she may as well be. If you didn't know better you might think this is her last meal.

Gasps and whimpers leave your mouth in a desperate way you can't stop.

"Fuck Sev.. ngh~ m'gonna cum, please.."

She smirks against you once more, speeding up her ministrations.

"Come on my tongue baby, make a mess on me." Her voice is muffled against you cunt, vibrations travel through your clit with her words.

You last maybe thirty seconds longer, hand tangled in her hair, before releasing over her tongue.

She laps you up, milking you for all that you're worth. She's never tasted anything more delicious. Her mouth doesn't let up until your whimpering from the overstimulation and pushing her head away.

She looks you in the eye as she sucks her fingers clean before kissing back up your body. Her lips lock onto yours and you can still taste yourself on her tongue. It makes your head spin in a way you've never felt before.

When you come back to earth, her hand is running through your hair.

"I'm sorry I made you believe that I didn't want to do that." She mumbles. "But now I may need it to be a daily thing." You giggle at her words.

"It's okay. I wouldn't mind honestly." She helps you sit up, a large hand cupping your cheek. "You didn't get to cum.." You whisper as you lean in closer.

"Don't worry about me, I'll get my fill later." The look on her face tells you that this isn't over. "I'm going to change out of these clothes. You just worry about dinner okay?" She slips your panties back on along with your shirt.

You nod, sliding off the counter. You wince at the mess you made but she's already wiping it up. Her lips meet your temple as she mutters a low, "I love you."

"I love you more." She shakes her head, chuckling before walking back to her room. You feel much better now, and you really can't wait for what she meant by "later".

[gangstalkerbarbie]

Yes, you don't owe anyone your time and intimacy. These things are freely given to people whose company you enjoy. They're not a reward for performing the mechanical actions of courtship correctly, they're a logical consequence of two people mutually liking one another on a profound human level. Courtship is a game between two people who already like each other, and the thing is that there is no reward, the reward is getting to spend socially sanctioned time together that could lead into nesting and raising children. The win condition of dating is a pair bond capable of weathering life and maybe sustaining childrearing, which for most people involves sex because it's fun, bonding and is what leads to children. The win condition of dating is not mechanical sex for mechanical sex's own sake.

The thing that progresses dating into greater seriousness is therefore also not a kiss, not a handy, nothing — you can do all of that with whoever you're dating, I don't care, but call me a boomer idk, the period of time that you're in love is supposed to be safe and fun for both parties. The progression of a relationship is about trust, which dies instantly the second dating is no longer both fun and safe.

If feeling safe and having fun does not, in your heart of hearts, include being alone together or handies or head for you (and let's be honest with ourselves, it often doesn't, no one really thinks these kinds of risks to her reputation and human value are fun and safe; when girls engage in these behaviours it's because they live in a bizarro world where for some reason horny boys are allowed to set the rules of mate choice and girls are taught to value being wanted above anything else), that should be respected. If it isn't, stop dating this person.

Lack of willingness to respect women's nonconsent (and telling you not to be a prude is, in fact, disrespect) leads to rape, which used to often lead to children out of wedlock whose lives were doomed to be miserable, which is why so many patriarchal cultures wrote not being in private with unwed women into ritual or customary law and usually tied in metaphysics.

Even back then, people knew that rape can be a profound sociological trauma with very far-reaching consequences and wanted to keep their children from experiencing it, and their grandchildren from living whatever life these circumstances gave them. Not everyone alive in a prevailing social climate agrees with it, but they do all know what the consequences are for acting like it doesn't exist.

And after marriage too, you may not always have the right to say no, but on principle you deserve it just by existing as a human being. No still means no even with a ring on it.

I would (and I have) stop talking to a guy even at the implication of any entitlement to sex; in my culture it's normal to be a virgin until 24 or older nowadays, because marriage is a very long commitment, and sex is always a risk for the woman, and no shit she has the right to discretion. If he wants to gently try to wheedle or pressure you into sex while you're still reasonably in the public eye as a distinct person now, imagine what he'll do when you're married, you're in private together with no witnesses all the time, and his grandma thinks he's entitled to it!

He's not entitled to fuck or damn, but marital rape is much harder to get any recourse for than rape, comma, vanilla (which itself is the farthest thing from a picnic), and not everyone who blogs on the internet has a right to no-fault divorce. Universally applicable advice: either the man you're with is capable of understanding that no means no, or you just don't get into that position with him to begin with. If he has bad vibes, don't give him a chance, leave. If he says or does some weird shit, don't give him the benefit of the doubt, leave. You are always morally in the right for leaving and telling everyone about why.

There may be very little you can do once you're too far in — I'm not saying you shouldn't have the right to leave a bad marriage, I'm saying a lot of people wake up one day to find they don't — so if at all you can choose whether you end up in that position, do everything in your power not to.

There should, also, in principle be standards you should be able to hold men to. Leave if they refuse to be held to standards; they do believe in standards even if they claim not to, just standards only for you. You want the guys that believe sincerely in standards for everyone that you also believe in.

They will be hard to find because their path is thankless and often also considered to be cringe or even juvenile (because very young boys don't know they're supposed to want to hurt women yet, not wanting to hurt women is widely perceived as naive, feminine or infantile among men), but it's the only way to safely be heterosexual. If you need a man (I'm a lesbian but I have brothers I love who feel they need women, and I know full well that it is possible to feel you need a man), pick a good one.

You may be waiting until you're 30, even 40, but the good news is that gives you time to make nesting money and learn who you are, so, you know, different time periods, different priorities.

Secrets of the mothers of Israel or whatever, special for Tumblr: make good choices about your box and hold the men in your life to standards. Otherwise they will make up bad one-sided standards to hold you to and make your stupid box choices for you.

The social coercion women face to date people they’re not attracted to is fucking insane. I remember distinctly thinking “well, I can just force myself to be attracted to him…”

Films, books, etc, all show the trope of beautiful woman and unattractive man. There is still the myth that an unattractive man will treat you better than an attractive one (more women are waking up to this, but still). Even now the left thinks that activism happens between the legs of women.

Don’t date people you’re not attracted to. Don’t feel guilty for not giving them the time of day. No means no.

[gloomglimmer]

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂  𝐑𝐏  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒  —  pt  4-6:  confessions,  first  kisses,  and  the  shift  from  longing  to  something  more.  some  of  these  may  be  repeats  from  other  posts  of  mine.  couldn't  give  up  the  chance  to  use  them  again!  ✧  ˚₊  Themes:  longing,  tension,  intimacy  &  love  unfolding

𝐏𝐓.𝟒:     𝐓𝐇𝐄     𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓     𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄     𝐓𝐇𝐄     𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋   .

The  moment  hangs  between  them  ;  too  much,  too  close.  Will  they  lean  in,  or  will  the  tension  break  before  it  can  become  something  real?

 My  muse  catches  your  muse’s  wrist  before  they  can  walk  away,  voice  softer  now.  “…Don’t  go."

 My  muse  closes  their  eyes,  exhaling  shakily.  “Tell  me  I’m  wrong.  Tell  me  this—whatever  this  is—doesn’t  mean  anything.”

My  muse  hesitates,  looking  down  at  their  intertwined  fingers.  “…Do  you  even  realize  what  you  do  to  me?”

My  muse  lifts  a  hand  to  your  muse’s  face  but  doesn’t  touch  them.  “…Say  the  word,  and  I’ll  stop.”

My  muse  brushes  your  muse’s  hair  away,  their  fingers  lingering.  “You…  have  no  idea  how  long  I’ve  wanted  to  do  that.”

My  muse  watches  your  muse  laugh,  something  shifting  in  their  gaze.  “…God,  I  think  I’m  in  love  with  you.”

𝐏𝐓.  ��:     𝐓𝐇𝐄     𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓     𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒   .

A  heartbeat,  a  breath,  a  hesitation(?)  then  finally,  lips  meet.

My  muse  starts  to  say  something  but  is  cut  off  as  your  muse  kisses  them  instead.

My  muse  doesn’t  think—they  just  act,  pulling  your  muse  in  before  they  can  change  their  mind.

My  muse  cups  your  muse’s  face,  pressing  their  forehead  against  theirs.  “…Are  you  sure?”

My  muse  kisses  your  muse  mid-argument,  desperate  to  stop  them  from  walking  away.

My  muse  hesitates  inches  away,  whispering,  “Tell  me  to  stop,  and  I  will.”

My  muse  pulls  away  breathlessly,  searching  your  muse’s  eyes.  “…Do  that  again.”

My  muse  kisses  your  muse  so  softly  it  almost  doesn’t  feel  real.  “…I’ve  wanted  to  do  that  forever.”

My  muse  touches  their  lips  afterward,  a  little  stunned.  “…Oh.”

𝐏𝐓.  𝟔:     𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓     𝐍𝐎𝐖   ?!

The  confession  is  out!  The  kiss  has  happened. 

My  muse  swallows,  voice  quiet.  “…So…  what  happens  now?”

My  muse  laughs  nervously,  rubbing  the  back  of  their  neck.  “So…  do  we  pretend  that  didn’t  just  happen,  or—?”

My  muse  reaches  for  your  muse’s  hand  again,  this  time  without  hesitation.

My  muse  smirks,  bumping  your  muse’s  shoulder.  “So,  uh…  was  I  any  good?”

My  muse  tilts  your  muse’s  chin  up,  searching  their  eyes.  “You’re  sure  about  this?  About  me?”

My  muse  exhales  shakily.  “I  don’t  know  what  this  means  yet,  but…  I  know  I  don’t  want  to  lose  you.”

 My  muse  kisses  your  muse  again . . . this  time,  softer.  More  certain.  “…Just  in  case  that  first  one  was  a  mistake.”

[velvet-n-lace]

NSFW Alphabet (Belphegor Edition)

Series: Obey Me!

Genre: Smut/Headcanon

Word Count: 1.9k words

Pairing(s): Belphegor x Female MC

Original Template by @/the-coldest-goodbye 

CW: somnophelia and some sadism

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He’s probably gonna be too tired after all that fucking. Belphie would have to recover before he asks you if it felt good or if you are still recovering from your orgasm. He can make the effort to clean you a bit, but he’s really there for emotional support.

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partners)

Like Levi, Belphie is impressed that he’s got a good physique despite sleeping all the time. Because of that, he likes his slim arms so he can hug and cuddle you in his sleep; he believes slim arms give the best hugs, after all. Belphie also loves two things about you: he loves your thighs because he gets to sleep on them, and he especially (for no inconspicuous reason) loves kissing and wrapping his hands around your pretty neck. 

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum, basically)

Belphie loves it when he unleashes his load all over your face; watching you struggle with its salty and bitter flavor brings out a slight sadistic satisfaction. If he catches you spitting it out, he will only unleash more deep down your throat. Seeing it glisten under dim light all over your thighs and belly makes him want to lick it off you. Watching you lick it off his cock while he’s recovering from his orgasm only adds to the fun.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There have been nights when you just woke up with cum all over your face or thighs. Belphie would, at times, wake up in the middle of the night from a wet dream and notice you’re too sleepy to give him a quick handjob. He would rub one out and aim it at his desired body part on you. At times, he can be silent and get away with it, but usually, his grunts and sounds of his hand tugging his shaft would wake you up and catch him red-handed.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Not experienced in the slightest. It was never his number one priority, but as he got to know you better, he began touching himself and dreaming about you more often. The day he finally got you in bed, he unleashed whatever desire he had for you, and a sweet but slightly sadistic demon was revealed before you.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

He’s not much of an active demon, so he loves having you straddle him in a cowgirl position. Hearing you moan his name with pain and pleasure in your voice is what he lives for when you’re riding his cock, and smacking your thighs and ass. Having him on top will unleash his more sadistic side; when he grasps your neck, it usually means he wants you to ride him roughly, which is how he likes it.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

He usually tries to be serious, but even his serious side brings some sweetness. He really gets in the moment the deeper her goes~

H = Hair (How well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He has a bit of trouble grooming himself or at least keeping up a good routine. It was a lot worse before he met you. He needed Beel's help to wake up on time to brush his hair and remind him to take better care of himself. Little by little, you motivated him to at least clean himself better. The carpet matches the drapes perfectly, with the same tints of white over his mostly dark bush.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? The romantic aspect.)

He gets intimate, even in the moments when he’s dirty-talking or degrading you softly. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to him as he nibbles on your earlobe, his hands roaming over your body like he’s claiming ownership over you.

J = Jack off (Masturbation Headcanon)

Belphie’s imagination ranges from you jacking him off violently or having you beneath him while he pounds. He is constantly humping his pillow and grinding his hips into it with a low moan. He often needs to keep it low, especially in the middle of the night when Beelzebub sleeps nearby. When he’s jacking himself with one hand, he’s touching himself with the other hand and imagining you bringing him all this pleasure.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Having you be the one on top while you ride his cock, means he could lie down while you give him all the pleasure. If you could sit on his face, he would happily pleasure you with his tongue. He has a dirty mouth filled with degrading remarks, and he’s constantly repeating them the more he holds you by the neck and chokes you softly. And as mentioned before, he’s very much into somnophelia and being degraded (he doesn't mind being on the receiving end, too). Waking up with your juices all over his face and body will make him seek vengeance on you the next night~

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

It's mainly your room because it’ll be just you two. You can have a quick one in the Twin’s room if Beel is not there, but knowing Belphie, he will probably ask you to come in anyway. Maybe out of spite, he will want to do it in Lucifer’s room, but both of you will get caught and strung up, so… whatever floats your boat.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Most of the time, it’s just catching you doing something unintentionally sexy. Maybe you’re taking a nap in a lewd position, or you were caught humping his pillow. Belphie just imagines the many things he can do to your body when he has his way with you. Sometimes it's even out of spite like maybe you teased him too hard, and now he really wants his hard cock to be inside you.

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

It would definitely be positions that are too difficult and tiring for him, including those that make him do all the work. Sharing you with any of his brothers is a big no-no; maybe the only exception is Beel, but even then, Belphie will be very possessive.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He prefers receiving, as always~ You will have him leaning back against the bedsheets when your lips wrap around his length. His slim body rises and twitches each time you take him deeper. He loves hearing you gag on it when you try shoving him down your throat; sometimes, his hands reach out to tangle and grip your hair as he thrusts inside your mouth. He loves the sound of a sloppy blowjob. If you want him to eat you out, you would have to be the one sitting on his face while he gives your pussy some sweet kitten licks.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and sensual wins the race. It’s only when he’s on the brink of his orgasm that he will begin thrusting into you rough and fast~ He may even grip your neck to go even faster~

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Honestly, he totally would be down, but he knows damn well it’s too risky to commit. Instead, he likes to pull you in closely to fondle your breasts or to give your ass a soft pinch. If you’re the one taking charge, then he will follow your lead and be a slave to your quick bathroom stall handjobs~

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

Slightly risky, as long as it’s nothing that requires too much stamina~ Besides the fondling and pinching, he can rub his hands against your thighs and maybe even finger you during class. He’s not afraid to walk up to you and begin making out with you in the hallways or right in front of his brothers; it's his way of claiming you in front of anyone watching or trying to make a move on you.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

Two or three rounds. You would think that a demon with great power would have a bit of strength in him, but he hates that he doesn't have enough left in him to keep it going. He would if he could, so that’s why he prefers you to be the one on top.

T = Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Just his beloved pillow and maybe even a vibrator to give him some pleasure. He even uses both for some additional pleasure, and he loves it when both are incorporated while he fucks you. Seeing you humping his pillow turns him on, and he often uses the vibrator to keep you writhing in pleasure.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

He’s so unfair, but Belphie’s teasing is very blunt and direct. Instead of alluding to a blowjob, he would just outright say, “I want your mouth on my dick…” or he would whisper into your ear and tell you, “You’re making me horny…” He’s a king of blunt flirting.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s a quiet boy; he knows how to keep his moaning low. He only gets slightly loud when you’re the one doing something to him, like when he reaches a certain point of pleasure, his breath would hitch, and he’ll let out a ghastly moan, maybe even start whimpering your name until you shut him up with kisses.

W = Wild Card (A random headcanon for the character)

As mentioned briefly before, Belphie hates the idea of sharing you with anyone. Beel, however, is the only expectation, but only on very rare occasions. Sometimes, the twins would argue over who gets to penetrate what or which position you would be in for them to fuck you. Belphie can be possessive, and Beel will attempt to wrap you tightly around him. Having two demons pressed naked against you makes it more overwhelming.

X = X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Belphie’s cock is sort of shaped like a cow’s dick. Even though it’s not as big as his older brothers, it has an extra ridge, making it look slightly intimidating when it twitches in your hands. It’s perfect for masturbation, and it’s easy to tug on with little effort~

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

It’s high when he’s more awake and when you're in close proximity to him. Although when he’s sleeping, there will be times when he dreams of you and wakes up with some cum stains on his pillow. He thinks his sex drive isn't high, but really, his wet dreams sort of show a different story.

Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterward)

He’s out like a light, and you know this. Maybe you need to wake him up a tiny bit so you can ask him how good the sex was. Maybe he’ll do a little aftercare if you need it, but right after that, he’s out~

[demigodsanswer]

A little tattoo au smut for your Sunday. Basically, I meant to write the percabeth first date per someone's request, but I ended up just jumping right into their night together. I just really wanted Annabeth to sit on his face idk.

~

Annabeth sipped the last of her wine and found her courage as Percy signed the check. 

“I had a great time tonight,” she told him, racing across the table for his hand. 

“Me too,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. 

“Should we get out of here?” She suggested, trying to remember how she used to flirt. 

Percy smiled and looked away from her, a bit pink in the cheeks. Annabeth held her ground and waited. 

“I’d invite you to my place,” he started, “but truth be told, I’m staying with my parents at the moment, while I look for my own apartment.” 

Annabeth smiled. “Well, that’s alright,” she promised, “Sophia is with Luke tonight. As long as you don’t judge how dirty my place is --” 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Percy assured her. 

~

Annabeth poured them each a glass of wine when they got upstairs. They made it though about four sips each before they were on each other. Annabeth couldn’t remember who kissed first, and it really didn’t matter. All she knew now was that Percy’s hand was under her shirt as her hands unbuttoned his. 

“I should tell you, I haven't had sex since Sophia was conceived,” Annabeth said. 

“Don’t worry, they haven’t changed it much,” Percy promised. Annabeth laughed and kissed him again. “Honestly, I haven’t been with anyone in two years, between the research and job market …” 

That was actually quite comforting. 

“The bedroom is that way,” Annabeth said, pointing to the small hallway. 

Percy pulled her off the couch and started to lead her there. Annabeth would have to thank Thalia for her forward thinking with the condoms that morning. Turns out, they were going to see some use. 

~

For going two years without sex, Percy certainly didn’t seem out of practice. His fingers, tongue, and cock knew all kinds of ways to please her. It was a miracle really. She’d always enjoyed sex for the intimacy of it, the comfort of another person there, the feeling of them reaching places in her so few ever had. But with Percy … Well, it turned out sex could also feel really, really good too. 

The sheets under them were damp from her pair of messy orgasms, one as he fingered her during foreplay, and one while he was inside her.

Inside her. He’d felt so nice, hot and hard, moving at such a perfect pace for her. She’d started on top, riding him until she came, and then he’d flipped them over. He’d started at a pace she’d describe as “making love” before really taking her hard, whispering all kinds of filthy things, and showering her with compliments. He’d cum inside her (well, in the condom, really), and the pulse of it was comforting and familiar. 

Afterwards, they just laid there, breathing and sweaty, ignoring the dampness on the sheets and the smell of sex in the air. Annabeth rested in the crook between his arm and his side, her head on his shoulder as traced some of her tattoos with his finger. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her. 

“You’re pretty handsome yourself,” she said back.

“I’m serious. That first moment I saw you last week, I mean, I was done for,” he told her. It didn’t sound like a line. Anyway, what would be the point of a line now anyway? He already had her in bed. 

“Oh really?” She asked, nudging him on. 

“I knew I had to ask you out from the first second I saw you,” Percy said. “At the very least, I needed to find all your tattoos.” 

She leaned back a little bit. “Feel free to have a look around,” she said, laying on her back, her body outstretched so he could look her over. 

Percy kissed his way slowly down her arm, then across her chest, stopping periodically to ask if there was a story behind a specific tattoo. Sometimes there was: a favorite moment from a book, a symbol she held dear. Sometimes, she just liked the idea. 

She had a few tattoos on her hips that had been stretched out and cut into during pregnancy. Percy ran a delicate finger over the scar tissue that ran across her bikini line. 

“C-Section?” He asked her, his green eyes curious and sympathetic. 

Annabeth nodded. “She didn’t want to come out,” she told him. “I was in labor for … oh, fifty-five hours I think? In the hospital for forty-something.” 

“Jesus,” he sighed, “you’re a hero.” 

Annabeth laughed and ran her fingers through his already messed-up hair. Percy seemed to lean into her touch, and she was confident that if humans could purr, he would have. 

“I sat at home with Luke watching Lord of the Rings extended editions, just waiting for the contractions to get closer together. By the time Return of the King was over, it was probably still too early to go to the hospital, but I didn’t want to watch the Hobbit movies, so I demanded we leave,” Annabeth said with a laugh. “Then it was forty hours of Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives.” 

“I mean, a classic,” Percy agreed. 

“Grade A TV, for sure. Anyway, she was supposed to go this way,” she held out her hands straight, resting them in between her thighs to mimic the birth canal, “but she went like this,” she turned her hands slightly to the right. “Her little head was just bumping up against my uterus and they couldn’t get her to move. She was trying to come out neck first. If it was even a hundred years ago, we both probably would have died. After a while, she was in distress, and within minutes I was being cut open.” 

Percy kissed the top of her hand, before crawling back up to kiss her face. 

“I’m sorry. I’m glad she made it here okay,” he said. 

Annabeth smiled. “Yeah, me too.” 

They kissed again, lazy and tender. He stayed on top of her, but his weight off of her, so all she felt of him was what warmth radiated off his body. She let her hands explore him a bit more. 

She had discovered another tattoo on his side. She’d panicked at the sight of a woman’s name, but she’d simply laughed and explained: “My mother.” 

“Oh,” she breathed out, relieved. His single mom. Who he was living with. And then she wondered if she was simply fulfilling some naughty role-play for him. Don’t be an asshole, she chided herself. 

Now her hands roamed past the tattoo to the fat of his waist and hips, and then to his ass. She’d caught him flexing plenty, and knew some of it was taut muscle when he felt like showing it off. But she preferred him squishy. 

“Can you roll over?” He asked between kisses. 

She pulled back as much as she could with her head still on the pillow. 

“Oh?” She asked, eyes wide, smile intrigued. 

He laughed a little. “Sorry, I just meant. I want to see your other tattoos. I assume you’ve got more on the other side?” 

“Oh, right,” she said with a laugh, “sure.” 

She rolled over and let him inspect her. There was a rose on her shoulder. That had been one of her first tattoos, when she was more into color. It was pink with a long stem. She’d only been nineteen when she got it. People said it looked like the rose from Beauty and the Beast, and they were right, but that hadn’t been intentional at the time. 

When she was confident enough in Frank’s work as he graduated from Thalia’s apprentice, she lent him her mostly-blank back to do a traditional serpent tattoo. It was actually cool as hell. But it didn’t have any real meaning, besides Frank getting to actually do it. It had healed pretty well too, although he had since touched it up for her twice. 

The only other thing of note was the smiley face on her right ass cheek. Percy’s attention caught that one right away. He poked it. 

“You’ve got a happy butt,” he said. She could hear the smile in his voice. 

“That was my first tattoo,” she lamented. 

“Why a smiley butt?” He asked. 

“I lost a bet,” she told him, before burying her face in her pillow. “I was so sure I wasn’t going to lose.” 

“Dare I ask what it was over?” He asked. 

“That I could lose my anal virginity by the end of Freshman year,” she said, embarrassed more than she maybe ever had been in her life.

There was a brief pause, before: “Wait, not a single man at Harvard wanted to do you in the ass?” He sounded shocked, angry, and outraged for her. 

“Right?!” She said, rolling over a bit. She’d tried to lie to her roommate about it, claiming that it had happened, but the holes (ha) in her story started to emerge too quickly. Eventually, she had to confess. “I think I intimidated all of them,” Annabeth said. 

“Probably,” Percy agreed. “Thankfully, I’m not intimidated,” he said, kissing her smiley face. 

Annabeth hummed, curious. “Oh?” She asked, innocent. “I don’t usually let men do me in the ass on the first date,” she told him. 

He kissed her other cheek. “No, but it would have saved you about fifty-five hours of labor if you did,” he teased. 

Annabeth gasped with faux-indignation, rolling over and pushing him onto his back to straddle him. They were close to the other edge now. She’d almost rolled them off completely. 

Percy was just laughing though as she held him to the mattress, her hands pinning his shoulders. 

“You’re impertinent,” she said. 

He just kept smiling. “Oh, I sure am,” he promised.   

~

She didn’t let him fuck her in the ass, at least not yet. She hadn’t done that in ten years, and she wanted to actually impress him tonight. Because if Percy Jackson never called her again, she’d have Thalia hunt her cousin down for her. Annabeth was absolutely determined to have a second, third, and fourth date with him at least. 

Percy wasn’t ready for another round. He looked a bit sheepish when she touched his still-soft cock, as if it was abnormal for him to not be hard again ten minutes after orgasm. Annabeth just kissed him gently, as if to assure him it was okay. 

Percy’s hands gripped her thighs and tried to coax her up towards his face. 

“Are you sure?” Annabeth asked, hovering over him. 

“So sure,” Percy said, trying to pull her down. She still hovered a bit, close enough that he could lick her clit. But after a few teasing flicks of his tongue, Percy pulled on her a bit harder. “Sit down,” he said, his tone commanding and confident. It thrilled her from her chest down into her lower belly and compelled her to listen. She sat down then, careful not to put all of her weight on his neck. Birth had left her with a bit of a Pixar-mom body, not the slender, narrow hips and thighs she’d been used to in her early twenties. But Percy didn’t seem to mind. He seemed to worship her thighs and the cunt between them. 

Annabeth hadn’t sat on someone's face in years. Truth be told, she hadn’t had sex with someone since Luke. She’d had a few dates, but the men she’d gone out with hadn’t interested her, and the one woman had been asexual. (Annabeth had introduced her to Thalia, and they went out for three years, so it worked out for someone). Luke hadn’t been into eating her out. He never seemed particularly that sexually interested in her at all. Even now, his rare kiss was more of a desperate search for love and family than sexual gratification. It was almost funny that the two of them had conceived. 

But Percy … 

“Oh, god,” Annabeth moaned, pressing her hand against the wall to steady herself. Percy knew what he was doing. He’d discovered what she liked during the foreplay -- a gentle pattern of circles until the pressure built, then a little suck, and then a little more. 

Percy fingers gripped the fat of her ass tight as she rode his tongue. The pressure was building low in her pelvis. She’d already cum twice tonight. A third time sounded lovely. So nice. So needed. Percy sucked on her clit a little more, and Annabeth rolled her hips against him. 

“More,” she pleaded. Percy curiously sucked on her clit again. “Yeah, yeah,” she confirmed. Percy did what he was told, and Annabeth closed her eyes to focus purely on the feeling. “Oh,” she yelped, closer, closer -- 

Annabeth gripped Percy’s hair as her thighs clenched around his head as she came. She didn’t expect to squirt again; she usually needed something inside her, not just on her clit, but oh, his tongue had been so perfect on her, her body didn’t give her any choice or any warning. Maybe it did, and she was simply too satisfied to notice. Her orgasm soaked her thighs, the pillow under her, and Percy.  

Oh fuck -- 

“Jesus,” she said, climbing off of him quickly, “I’ve waterboarded you.” Percy was just laughing as he wiped at his face. Annabeth’s own face felt scalding hot; she was sure she’d gone red from her forehead to her chest. “I’ll get you a --” 

Percy just grabbed her hand and tugged her down towards him. He pulled her into a kiss, deep, filthy, his tongue slipping into her mouth still tasting like her. Annabeth braced herself on the ruined pillow as he let her taste herself on him. 

“How are people not lining up around the block to date you?” Percy asked her, before pulling her in again, this time just pecking her lips. “You’re fucking magnificent.” 

Annabeth just moaned a little, not exactly sure what to say. So, she chose to just watch Percy move his hand from her face to his cock, hard again, pink tip straining up towards the ceiling. He stroked himself slowly. 

Annabeth pressed kisses into his neck, before sucking gently on a sensitive spot she’d found. 

“Do you want me to do something about that?” She asked, nodding back towards his cock. 

Percy nodded. “If you’re up for a little more …” 

Annabeth tied her hair back. “I am,” she promised. 

(When he warned her he was about to cum, she pulled back and let him finish on her face. It was only fair).

[earthlybeam]

Your writing always brings me such joy. Would you be able to do Marriage & Parenthood with Glorfindel?

Thank you so much and I hope everything is well with you 💕

Thank you so much for your thoughtful and encouraging words. 🥺✨They truly mean a lot and are deeply appreciated. ❤️‍🔥🫶✨

Glorfindel version below.

☀️𝓖𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓵

𖤓 Glorfindel, as a spouse, would be a partner defined by warmth, devotion, and boundless affection. Unlike the reserved Gil-galad, Glorfindel is expressive and unashamed of his feelings, wearing his heart on his sleeve in all aspects of your relationship. His love would shine like the sun, warm and radiant, and his presence would fill every corner of your life with joy and light. To Glorfindel, love is not just a quiet partnership but a celebration of life shared with someone he treasures above all else.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Glorfindel As a Spouse

Glorfindel would be a spouse who embraces love with his entire being. For him, being in love means constantly expressing it—through words, actions, and even the smallest gestures. He would be the type to greet you each day with a kiss to your forehead, a soft touch to your hand, and a smile that could melt away any worries. His affection is unreserved and constant; he would never let you doubt how much you mean to him.

Glorfindel would place you at the center of his life. Whether he is busy with his duties as a leader, warrior, or emissary, his first thought is always of you—how you are, if you’re comfortable, and how he can make your day brighter. He would never hesitate to drop everything if you needed him, no matter how pressing his responsibilities. His love is not just steady; it is dynamic and overflowing. He is deeply attuned to your needs and emotions, always able to sense when something is wrong, even if you don’t speak it aloud. Glorfindel would gently coax you to open up, sitting beside you with his warm golden aura, holding your hands as he listens. He thrives on connection, and being able to share your burdens or your joys with him would be one of the most fulfilling aspects of his life. While Glorfindel is naturally affectionate, his protective instincts as a warrior and leader would also define his role as your spouse. He would face any danger with unwavering resolve if it meant keeping you safe, often going above and beyond to ensure you are shielded from harm or worry. He would be quick to reassure you during troubled times with his calm voice and steadfast presence. His courage on the battlefield extends to his courage in love—he is not afraid to show his vulnerability, admit his fears, or share his dreams with you.

In private moments, Glorfindel is a playful and lighthearted spouse. He thrives on bringing laughter into your life, teasing you gently or pulling you into spontaneous dances when the mood strikes. You would often find yourself surprised by his small but thoughtful gestures—flowers left on your bedside table, a favorite meal prepared after a long day, or a quiet picnic under the stars where he serenades you with a soft song from his youth.

Glorfindel’s love is generous and unselfish. He would prioritize your happiness and well-being above his own, often going out of his way to ensure you feel cherished. He is the kind of spouse who remembers every detail about you: your favorite flower, the way you like your tea, or the songs that make you smile. To him, love is found in the details, and he takes great pride in ensuring you always feel seen and valued. Though Glorfindel’s joy and energy are boundless, there are also moments of quiet intimacy that reveal his depth. He treasures the simple, peaceful moments of sitting together by the fire, holding you close in his arms, and speaking of dreams and stories from ages long past. These moments are where he feels most at home—where he can truly let his guard down and simply be with you.

Glorfindel as a spouse is unwaveringly loyal and devoted. He is a man who loves deeply and with all his heart, and he would never let the fire of his affection for you grow dim. His love would be the kind that lifts you up, fills your life with light, and surrounds you with an unshakable sense of belonging. With him, you would always feel safe, cherished, and adored—whether in the golden halls of Imladris or under the stars of Middle-earth. For Glorfindel, loving you would be the greatest adventure of all. It would be the melody that drives his life, the light that guides him through the ages, and the joy that gives him purpose. And in your presence, his golden spirit would shine brighter than ever.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Glorfindel As a Parent

Glorfindel would be the epitome of a loving, warm, and endlessly supportive parent. His golden spirit, overflowing with kindness and joy, would shine even brighter in the presence of his children. To him, fatherhood would be one of the greatest gifts life could offer, and he would embrace it with all the enthusiasm and care of someone who treasures every moment of it. With his sunshine-like energy and deep capacity for love, Glorfindel would be the kind of parent whose very presence feels like home—a constant source of comfort, protection, and light.

Glorfindel’s parenting would be centered on creating a warm and loving environment where his children feel safe, cherished, and free to grow into their unique selves. He would shower them with affection, whether through big, joyful hugs or playful laughter that fills the house. Every day would bring a new adventure with him as a father—be it exploring the forests of Middle-earth, listening to his whimsical tales of ancient times, or simply sitting by the fire as he teaches them songs from the days of Gondolin. Glorfindel would have an uncanny ability to turn even the most mundane moments into something magical, his golden aura imbuing every interaction with a sense of wonder. As a parent, Glorfindel’s protective instincts would rival even his legendary valor in battle. Though his love is gentle and nurturing, he would be an unyielding shield between his children and the dangers of the world. If a threat ever came near them, he would rise with all the power and courage of the warrior who faced Balrogs, ensuring that no harm would come to his beloved little ones. However, his protectiveness would never stifle their independence—he would encourage his children to explore the world, but always with the knowledge that he is there to catch them if they stumble.

Glorfindel would be a patient and attentive parent, always attuned to his children’s emotions and needs. He would be the first to notice when something is troubling them and would gently draw them out with his soothing voice and warm presence. “You can tell me anything,” he would say, his eyes full of understanding and compassion. Whether they are sharing their dreams, fears, or triumphs, Glorfindel would listen with his whole heart, making them feel valued and understood. Teaching would come naturally to him, though his lessons would never feel like burdens. Instead, they would be shared through stories, songs, and hands-on experiences. He would teach his children the importance of kindness and courage, of standing up for what is right and helping those in need. Through his actions, he would show them what it means to be strong yet gentle, brave yet compassionate. Whether it’s guiding them in swordplay, helping them learn the beauty of Middle-earth’s lore, or simply encouraging them to follow their passions, Glorfindel’s approach to parenting would be one of balance—providing guidance while allowing his children to find their own path.

Glorfindel’s playful side would make him the kind of parent who knows how to bring endless joy into his children’s lives. He would chase them through golden fields, lift them high into the air to see the tops of trees, and let them ride on his shoulders as they laugh together in the sunshine. He would indulge their curiosity, answering every question with patience and delight, even if it means staying up late to talk about the stars. And when their little hearts grow weary, he would scoop them up in his arms, humming soft melodies as they drift into dreams. But Glorfindel’s love would also shine in the quiet moments. He would be the father who stays up late to comfort them after a bad dream, who leaves little surprises to make them smile, and who always knows when a simple touch or a reassuring word is needed. His love would be unconditional and ever-present, a constant source of strength that his children could rely on no matter what.

In times of struggle, Glorfindel would remind his children of their own strength. “You are braver than you know,” he would say, his golden hair catching the light as he smiles at them with pride. “But no matter how hard the road may seem, you will never walk it alone.” He would never let them feel as though they must carry their burdens by themselves, for his love is a partnership, a bond that never falters. Glorfindel’s children would grow up knowing they are deeply and unshakably loved. They would carry his warmth with them wherever they go, a light in their hearts that guides them even in the darkest times. And in return, they would see him as not just their father but their protector, their teacher, and their greatest source of comfort and joy. To Glorfindel, fatherhood would not simply be a duty—it would be a source of endless joy and fulfillment. His golden energy would infuse every moment with love, laughter, and light, and his children would carry that radiance with them throughout their lives, forever warmed by the sunshine of their father’s boundless affection.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Challenges as a Parent

As a parent, Glorfindel’s radiant, golden personality would make him naturally attuned to his children’s needs, but even the brightest light can cast shadows. His greatest challenge would be learning to temper his boundless enthusiasm and protective instincts with the patience to let his children learn and grow on their own. Glorfindel, who has faced the darkest terrors of Arda, would struggle with the idea of his children facing any danger, no matter how small. His love and fierce protectiveness, while born from the purest place in his heart, could sometimes manifest as overprotection. He might find it difficult to watch them stumble or fail, his first instinct always being to shield them from harm or heartache.

Though Glorfindel would encourage curiosity and exploration, he might be overly cautious when his children express an adventurous streak—especially if it echoes his own boldness. If they showed a desire to take risks or venture into the unknown, he would grapple with the fear of losing them to the same forces of darkness he once faced. “I know the world can be harsh,” he might say, his voice tinged with both pride and worry. “And I would face it all again if it meant keeping you safe.” Over time, however, Glorfindel’s deep wisdom and love would help him realize that part of being a good parent is allowing his children to find their own strength, even if it means letting them take risks.

Another challenge for Glorfindel might be balancing his sunny, playful nature with the need for discipline. His instinct would be to offer warmth and encouragement, but there could be moments when he struggles to set boundaries or enforce rules, especially if his children give him those wide, pleading eyes. “How can I say no to that face?” he might mutter with a laugh, only to realize later that he must guide them firmly when needed. As he grows into his role as a father, Glorfindel would learn to balance his natural warmth with the wisdom and structure his children need to flourish.

Tender Moments For all his challenges, Glorfindel’s love as a parent would shine brightest in the tender moments he shares with his children. Whether it’s comforting them after a bad dream, carrying them on his shoulders to see the sunset, or simply holding them close as they share their hopes and fears, Glorfindel’s presence would be a constant source of reassurance. He would be the kind of father who makes time for his children, no matter how busy his life might be. “There is nothing more important to me than you,” he would say, his eyes glowing with sincerity.

When they are young, Glorfindel would indulge his children with all the joy and playfulness they could imagine. He would tell them stories of his time in Gondolin, of bravery and triumph, but always with a touch of humor to keep them smiling. He would turn the lessons of the past into fantastical adventures, sparking their imagination and teaching them the values of courage, kindness, and resilience. On rainy days, he might create games to keep them entertained, filling their home with laughter and the warmth of his presence. As his children grow, Glorfindel would adapt his approach, becoming not just a playful parent but a wise and steady guide. He would take them out to the golden fields of Middle-earth, teaching them the ways of the sword or the beauty of the land, always emphasizing the balance between strength and compassion. “A warrior’s heart is not just strong,” he would tell them, “but gentle enough to protect what truly matters.” Whether teaching them practical skills or simply listening to their dreams, Glorfindel would be a patient and encouraging teacher, always striving to help them become the best versions of themselves.

Glorfindel’s affection would be shown in countless little gestures: a flower left on their pillow to brighten their day, a cloak wrapped around them when they’re cold, or a soft kiss on the forehead as they drift off to sleep. In moments of sadness or doubt, he would sit with them, holding their hands and reminding them of their worth. “You are more precious to me than all the stars,” he would say, his voice soft but full of conviction. And though he would never push, Glorfindel would always remind his children that they are capable of greatness. Whether they seek to be warriors, scholars, or something else entirely, he would cheer them on with unwavering pride. “Whatever path you choose,” he would say, his golden hair shining in the sunlight, “know that I will always walk beside you.” In moments of quiet, when the world seems still, Glorfindel might take his children to a peaceful glade or a starlit hill, sharing the beauty of Arda with them. These moments would be his way of teaching them not just about the world, but about the joy and wonder it holds. He would hum lullabies as they rest against him, his voice carrying the peace of ages past, and remind them that no matter where they go, his love will always follow.

Enduring Love To his children, Glorfindel would be a beacon of light—a father whose warmth, kindness, and endless love shape their lives in profound ways. His challenges as a parent would only deepen his commitment, teaching him to grow alongside his children and to love them not just as they are, but as they strive to become. Glorfindel’s legacy as a father would not lie in grand declarations or material gifts, but in the quiet, enduring love that shines in every moment he shares with his family. His children would carry his light with them, knowing that no matter how far they wander, they will always have a home in their father’s heart—a golden, unshakable love that never fades.

[vaguely-concerned]

rook x lucanis: romance with a commentary track! solas and spite contribute with their thoughts and opinions along the way whether anyone wants them to or not. it's like a MST3K episode up in here as you try to get hot and heavy. in. in the pantry. love among the radishes at the end of the world (rifftrax version)

[peppermintmochafem]

.

[kyri45]

And when the day kisses the night you know that, even after the dark, the light will shine on a new sunrise.

AT LONG LAST.

AT LONG.

LAST.

THE BITCHES. FINALLY. KISSED!!!!!!!

SHADOWPEACH IS OFFICIALLY CANON!!1!1!1 (in the au)

Shadowpeach Bio Parent AU (PREV/ FIRST / NEXT )

Next part is coming on February 8th, 1PM ET

You can bet your ass they kept making out on the way to heaven.

More rambling and Horizontal and vertical versions of the kiss under the cut!

Well, what can I say. It's been a long journey, but the Shadowpeach Bio Parents AU can finally be officially a "Shadowpeach-canon" AU ahah. Hopefully the slow-burn wasn't too painful. I put my heart on my sleeve when I say that I swore to myself that as soon as the two bitches completely, fully forgive each other, then, and only then, they could have their moment.

Then, something something-having your true form while doing an act/saying something means showing the honesty of what you are saying/doing-something something

I laughed my ass off so many times while drawing panel 7 bc like- Mac is just "omg this idiot is so stupid, he's my idiot, I love him so much"

lastly, finally, FINALLY, I don't have to hold back anymore! Prepare yourself, Im gonna go full blast with these bitches. If you thought whatever they were doing before was gay, BOY DO I HAVE NEWS FOR YOU. this story might as well turn intp a FWP (plot? what plot? fluff without plot)

hehe mac in panel 17 is like "oh NO U DON'T! PUT YOUR MOUTH WHERE IT BELONGS

Maybe this is not as epic or as a boom as the spicynoodle kiss. But that's kind of the point. They are the doomned toxic yaoi who healed in the past 6 months. They have always been together kind of. A kiss is just one of the hundreds other actions and words they shared during all the other parts of the story. They loved each other well before this chapter. So a kiss is just a natural course of them re-discovering each other and their intimacy. They sleep together (literally sleeping together, not sex yet) they comfort each other at their lowest, they saw each other inner selfs, they call each other nicknames, they call each other beautiful. I mean this was less of a "Slow Burn" and more a "put it in the microwave cause it got cold so that it slowly get warm again, but the food was already cooked"

[iz-star]

His first kiss.

Twitter

Zayne's birthday is coming soon and I've been thinking about Dawnbreaker a lot. I wanted to give this drawing some shades of innocence considering that Dawnbreaker lives alone, doesn't talk much and has no close relationships or deep connections (Georgie seemed to be his closest friend, in paralel to what William was to Dr Zayne [and they both lost them the same way]) so even tho Dawnbreaker's work is really heavy, he must be kinda innocent for certain things like physical intimacy and what being loved feels like. With this I don't mean that he doesn't know what a kiss is or the notion of sex (he watches Doctor TV shows anyway xD) but more like he'd be really overwhelmed by it, especially knowing that... well, it wasn't a kiss for him.

[fushitoru]

rainy days and brownies

pairing ⸺ college/modern!au: bf!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you wake up for some soft moments with your boyfriend that involves brownies (turned freaky)

warnings ⸺ smut, tooth rotting fluff, some mild angst?, gojo unfortunately mentions skibidi toilet, I think I made gojo gen z here, boob worship, brownies and baking, established relationship, oral (f!receiving), gojo eats pussy like a champ, NOT EDITED, might be incoherent to everyone except me, product of a forceful effort to escape writer’s block, rainy mornings <3, lots of intimacy, art by 3-aem, probably in the same universe as this

general masterlist

Rainy mornings with Satoru means baking.

It’s a ritual the both of you have fallen into. On a day like this, where the air smells like rain, you blearily wake up from your nap to smell the warm distinct aroma of overly sweet brownies.

The slutty brownies were Satoru’s masterpiece. Even if he did overdo the sugar, you can’t admit that your stomach was growling as you rubbed your bleary eyes and frowned while raking a hand through your head. This bed head was going to be a bitch to untangle with the hairbrush.

“AND IIIIIIIIIIIII, WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUU—“

You jumped, caught off guard by Satoru randomly deciding to pay homage to Whitney Houston. Standing up, you headed towards the living room of you and Satoru’s apartment—-not before you adjusted your tank top so your tits weren’t out and the boy shorts you chose to sleep in properly covered your ass.

“WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUU—-“ You cringed at Satoru’s attempt of a high note, grumpily looking at him use his chocolate covered spatula as a makeshift mic. He was in the kitchen—-shirtless, of course—-now bending over to peek at the state of his brownies in the oven. Deciding the brownies weren’t done yet, he closed the oven door and stood up once more, reaching for his phone to undoubtedly scroll through TikTok. Continuing to hum different variations of the chorus, he swiped at his phone, ignorant to your presence behind him.

You think he’s kind of sweet like this. If it weren’t for him, the both of you would never be in this position. You would always be the cold frigid bitch he saw in freshman orientation and occasionally at parties across campus, and he would be the sweet, friendly guy that all the girls would continue to fall head over heels for.

To be honest, you don’t really see what he sees in you. You’re like a Disney villain, the witch that entraps him in her webs of insecurity and jealousy, but he remains the valiant prince, fighting to get to you. When he finally has you in his arms, he kisses you into believing that you are his princess instead.

It’s obvious in the way he fought for you—memorizing your schedule, rushing across campus just to walk you to class, pleading with you to grab dinner. And each time, you’d brush him off with sharp rejections, finding excuses to keep him at arm’s length.

But when he finally had you, finally cracked all your defenses—he was never going to let you go. You could see as much; the way he proudly walked on campus with you at his side, across the main quad so he could boast that he got you. You were his, and he was fully, undoubtedly yours. At parties, his eyes would always be on you, raking his eyes up and down your figure in your nurse outfit, conjuring up the hundred and thirty four positions he would fuck you so good in, even if there were prettier girls clinging onto his arms asking for a morsel of his attention. Pettily enough, you would just need to sigh and mumble “This party isn’t fun,” to have Satoru whipped, ushering you out of the frat house while those girls glared at the back of your Halloween costume, angry beyond measure that a nobody like you has the campus sweetheart wrapped around your finger.

Loud booms of the Vine gunshot sound effect snaps you back into the present, where Satoru is snickering at some god awful brain rot. You choose to approach him, wrapping your arms around his waist and smothering your face into his muscular back.

“Hi baby,” you mumble.

“Guess which sleepyhead is awake!” He announces to the world and turns around, and your traitorous heart jumps in its chest while looking into his eyes. It’s stupid. You’re both in your PJs on a morning where the rain thuds against the window pane, blurring both the window and all outside life, suspending you both in this moment. His eyes look affectionately down to you, and he plants a wet kiss on your forehead. “How was your nap, baby?”

“It was good.” You watch him turn around again to peek at the oven, and he hums, upper arm flexing as he grabs the heavy bag of flour, dragging it closer to him. “When’d you get up?”

“Around 7.”

You shoot him a bewildered look as you hop onto the counter, a better space to observe your boyfriend. When he realized that you had woken up, he had left his phone open to give you a kiss, reel playing noises. You peek over and almost snort at what is playing.

“Satoru, why are you watching alligators get chased away by a shovel?”

He looks up from the bowl of brownie batter he was now cleaning—-with his tongue, mind you—-and grins boyishly. “Isn't it crazy how hundreds of years of evolution get destroyed by a shovel?”

”Your feed is not normal,” you shake your head, keeping a stony face as you continue to scroll through his TikTok. In fact, it’s hilarious—-the things he got were weirder than one could dream, with toilets producing heads of men taking over whole cities. You’re not sure what that means about your boyfriend, but you accept it as you watch the nonsensical video.

“Wait,” he makes his way over to you, standing in between your legs. “Is that skibidi toilet?”

“What the hell is that.”

“Baby,” he whines. “You don’t know the lore? I don’t know if I can be with you for any longer.”

Your bite back a grin. “And subjecting me to hours of FNAF backstory wasn’t testament to how much I love you?”

Before he could whine back, you noticed he had some leftover chocolate on the side of his mouth and leaned over to lick it. Humming at the taste, you grabbed his hands and took in his brownie coated index and middle finger into your mouth.

He frowns. “Are you trying to seduce me into forgiving you and giving you more brownies?”

You laugh softly and give him a soft smooch on his shoulder. “No, silly. If I ate any more than half, I would have diabetes.”

He grabs the back of your hips and pulls you closer into him, nuzzling his nose against yours. The physical contact rubs at your nerves the right way, firing off that emotional part of you that makes you think loving him is so easy. How lucky you are that he’s chosen to give you his love.

His god-awful alarm blares—same annoying sound he keeps hitting snooze on for his 7ams—and the moment breaks as he reaches for the oven mitts to pull out the brownies. The aroma hits you instantly, making your mouth water. Satoru blows dramatically on the brownies, pouting and mock-yelling, “Hurry up and cool down! My girlfriend wants to eat you.” You can’t help but giggle. Once Satoru finally decides they’re cool enough, he grabs one and offers it to you. “Make way for the choo-choo train!” he snickers, guiding the brownie through imaginary tracks, a shit-eating grin on his face, before plopping it into your mouth.

You can’t help but let out a soft sigh as the brownie melts on your tongue, its warmth enveloping your senses. Rich, velvety tones of chocolate overwhelm your mouth, with each bite releasing a symphony of deep, indulgent flavors that linger long after the brownie is fully swallowed. “Wow, this is actually good.”

He pauses, brownie and hand held in mid air. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug innocently but stick your tongue out to him regardless.

Popping the brownie in his mouth--but not before sending you a pout---he brushes his hands together to remove the brownie crumbs as he makes his way back in between your legs. The way he settles between them makes you all too aware of the heat of his groin encompassing you. He lazily drags his eyes up your figure, but not before settling on your outfit. His eyes then flick down to watch his hands trace the hem of your tank top, and your eyes follow his hands, a little dizzy by the action.

You’re always a bit sensitive in the mornings, and before this day, you and Satoru’s interactions have been limited to a kiss before he runs for his 7am and then doing college work until 3am, where you’re both too tired for anything particularly frisky. So, yea, you are kind of pent up---and judging by the bulge that’s starting to form in Satoru’s sweats, you assume he is too.

You put your elbows on his shoulder blades to give him head scratches from behind and lean towards his jawlines giving small kisses. You can feel him close his eyes, purring silently like a cat, and underneath your hands, his back and shoulder blades tense and relax as you rake your hands over his scalp.

“This new?” He uses his index finger to snap the strap of your tank top against your shoulder, using his mouth to given open mouthed kisses to your collarbone.

“Mhm,” you hum, a little deliriously at that---he’s begun to trail down, mouth working at the swell of your breasts.

He slowly pulls the collar of your tank down, down down down until your breast pops out. His eyes trace the swing urgently and groans. “I missed these, sweet girl.”

You gasp sharply when he puts it in his mouth, tongue swirling around the nipple. Satoru’s always been a boob guy, joking about his hands being your bra to support “those mommy milkers.” Right now, he’s doing just that; groping the hell out of them and giving them kisses, as if they were God’s greatest creation.

As much as you were enjoying your boyfriend’s boob worshipping, you need more. You were throbbing in want of contact on your pussy, and you made sure to relay just that. “Toru, I need more,” you whined.

“God forbid a man appreciate nice boobs.” He rolls his like the sassy man he is and parts with your nipple like lips after a messy and wet make out session. Your breasts are gleaming with his spit, a string connecting your nipple to his lips. He trails his face down your torso, making his way down to his knees until he was facing your crotch.

You whine and clench your thighs together to draw his face closer to the space between your thighs. He looks up at you and coos, giving your inner thigh a kiss. “I can smell you from here, cutie.”

His statement reminds you that you’re not too wet in the mornings. As soon as you wake up, some of your morning sessions with Satoru require the aid of lube to ensure no pain. Irritation flares at you at the thought that you might need to leave your position to grab some l—-

Oh.

“What the hell. I thought you wet your pants,” Satoru giggles. The finger running through your folds glides messily, as you both marvel to how wet you are. You’re also on another plane; you haven’t felt his touch for weeks, and the feeling overwhelms you as the squelches your pussy makes echo throughout the kitchen.

Satoru gives you a kiss on your neck. “Baby, can I?” You deliriously remember that he’s lightly circling his finger around your entrance and when you finally give him the okay, he pushes in.

Both of you groan at how tight you are. “Satoru,” you moan and proceed to bring him in for a kiss as he pistons in and out of your pussy, curling them just the way you like and making you see colors.

“Pretty, pretty girl,” he groans. “Left my baby so pent up.”

At that, all you can do is nod and whimper in agreement. All that leaves your mouth are gasps of his names and oh my god’s because he’s making you feel so good.

And then, you almost scream as you feel him blowing hot air onto your folds, leaning down to give teasing kitten licks around your clit, but not directly on it. His tongue drags up and down until he finally stops it right next to your clit as if feeling the sensation of your pussy throbbing, echoing your fastened heartbeat skin-to-skin while drooling.

Frustrated, you try to move your hips, but Satoru grabs them to stay in place. He’s so close to the place you want him, but he’s stationed in one place, spit flowing down as his tongue is still and his dark eyes are staring at you as if enraptured by your struggling.

“Satoru, please lick my clit,” you moan wantonly, begging for him to change his position.

But Satoru Gojo wouldn’t be Satoru Gojo without some teasing. “What was that, baby? Avoid your clit? You got it.”

“No,” you sobbed, grabbing onto his hair and directing his tongue to your clit. This time, he relents, sucking the bud into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks, making you see stars.

But soon, his quick and fast lapping turn into lazy licks, and you get frustrated, grinding against air and pussy oozing out wetness as Satoru keeps his tongue outstretched in front of you but not close enough to make contact with your skin, teasing. You hate the feeling of your pussy throbbing and the inner thighs and pussy wet with your slick, lacking the sensation you needed to finally climax. “Oh my god, Satoru, please make me cum.”

“I don’t know baby, you sound pretty commanding to me.” The motherfucker shrugs as if he has nothing to do with your dilemma and starts trailing kisses up your inner thigh. His touches were close to where you needed him most, making you ache for the sensation of his wet laps against you.

“Please, baby,” you beg. “You feel so good, you’re making me feel soo good. I love you so much. Please let me cum.” You’re full on sobbing, hips writhing to get any sensation in.

Satoru, at your display, seems to give in, because he’s coming in once more, giving you a sweet little kiss on your clit. You nearly ascend.

He’s diving in, making a rhythm of dipping his tongue into your entrance and coming back to give sloppily wet laps on your clit. It’s when he groans while his tongue is inside, hot air and vibrations needily simulating your clit, that you come up with a gasp. You roll your hips, Satoru giving you little licks to help you ride out your orgasm.

For how hard you came, you’re bucking your hips frantically, body on a mind of its own as you almost fall off the counter. Satoru has to grip your thighs to prevent that potential injury and rubs soothing circles on the outside of your thigh as you pant, wetness and sweat likely painting the counter beneath you. It’s not until your breath returns back to it’s normal pace that you notice Satoru’s head against your thighs, looking up at you with lovesick eyes.

You’re probably giving him the same look back, you realize, given he made you ascend to heaven and back. He gives an affectionate kiss to your mound, moaning corny shit like “Your pussy tastes sweeter than the brownie.”

And then he stands up, knees popping on the way back up, and despite your fucked out state, you can’t help but giggle. “You old man with the popping knee caps.”

He glares at you playfully, but you know his expression too well to know there’s no real offense in it. “Hey. Rude to say that after I just made you cum your brains out.”

”And you’re about to get the same thing,” you purr, putting a hand on his hard-on. He hisses but looks at you with lust blown eyes as he grabs the back of your thighs to carry you to your shared bedroom.

Yes, rainy days do mean baking with Satoru, but not without intimacy with your even sweeter boyfriend in bed.

general masterlist

comment or reblog to let me know your thoughts! I appreciate all of them <3

a/n lol this was a bitch to write. this might be a word soup or salad or whatever for all readers and that’s ok! I’ve written this primarily at 1am so…

eugh ok im going back to writing ch5 of bridgerton!gojo and fixing the em dashes in this post when i wake up LOL

[nereidprinc3ss]

kiss it better

in which spencer notices your bruised knees and tries to make it up to you

18+ (fluff, allusions to past intimacy) warnings/tags: gn!reader i believe, reader has bruised knees lol, guess why, implied intimacy, hurt/comfort, sorta implied d/s dynamics maybe?? spencer is so smart and not very smart, but forever my no. 1 cutie pie a/n: why do i love writing about smut like before and after smut way more than i actually like writing smut LOL anyways here is this cause i haven't been posting very much!!! (also ik I said I don't like babe as a pet name but shhh) and GIF :D

“Hey,” you grunt as you flop on the bed in your pajamas, rumpling the neat covers. “Pay attention to me.”

Spencer holds his Sudoku off to the side and watches, eyebrows raised, as you scoot closer, tossing your leg over him. Soon he’s abandoning the book and pen on the bedside table in favor of hooking his fingers under your knee and stroking your leg, much to your delight. 

“Okay. What kind of attention would you like?”

You allow him to put his other arm around you and settle your cheek on his shoulder. 

“This is pretty good.”

“Oh, good,” he says with only a hint of teasing, leaning down slightly to kiss your lips and then the tip of your nose. 

When he pulls away you can’t help smiling up at him like a lovestruck idiot. Obviously he’s perfect all the time, but in his glasses, with his hair messy, wearing a navy crewneck instead of a button up and tie… he’s just… he’s just so…

He’s just so alarmed?

“Honey, your knee.”

“My knee?” Your own brows furrow and you track his eye line, craning your neck to look down to the blotchy sprawl of purple and red marring your skin. “Oh.”

The pillow is soft under your head where it falls, unconcerned even as Spencer gawps at you, baffled by your nonchalance. 

“What did you do?”

You snort. 

“What did you do, Spencer?”

It’s cute, the way his lips move as he silently repeats the sentence, trying to discern the meaning of your words. 

“What do you mean? I did something?”

“Babe.”

The knot between his brows has not loosened any—in fact you’re worried he’s going to give himself a headache. Or at least make himself dizzy, with the way his eyes cycle between your own. You try again, covering his anxious hand on the bend of your leg with your own. 

“When we got back from Penelope’s thing, the other night?”

Slowly the understanding seeps into his expression—soft guilt in his eyes, and a deep red stain in his cheeks. At least his face relaxes. 

“Oh.”

God, he’s so cute. He can’t hold eye contact, looking down once the shock of embarrassment has faded and swallowing, a little frown twisting his features once more. You reach up, brushing his cheek with a thumb and adjusting his glasses. 

“What’s wrong?”

The question comes out too smiley, but you can’t help it. 

“I hurt you,” he says, quietly, utterly ashamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I kinda think you did,” you tease, and Spencer says your name with a serious edge. You try to quit grinning so much. “Baby, it’s fine. You didn’t hurt me. Don’t you ever get mysterious bruises?”

His eyes are wide and honest on yours when he meets them again. 

“No. My iron levels are optimal.”

Naturally. 

“Okay, well, lots of people do. Sometimes I get a bruise and I have no idea what it’s from because it never hurt. These,” you look down, gesturing to your knee, “never hurt. It’s just what happens when your knees hit the floor.”

“Well you shouldn’t have been on the floor,” he scolds, countering with a sweet touch on your cheek. “I’m never letting you touch the floor ever again.”

Your shit-eating grin is back and better than ever. “Oh, so you’re going to carry me everywhere we go?”

“If that’s what it takes. I don’t like seeing you bruised up.”

“It’s okay. I bruised myself doing something I love.”

At this Spencer rolls his eyes and kisses you once more before gently pushing your leg away and getting out of bed. 

“Where are you going?” You ask, all smugness gone and more concerned than you ought to be as he flicks the bathroom light on. For a moment you receive no answer, but then he reappears bearing a white tube. 

“Give me your legs,” he says, sitting next to you on the bed. You swing your legs over his lap and watch on in mild interest as he dispenses lotion from the bottle and tosses it aside, carefully rubbing it into the bruised skin. Every few seconds he glances up to gauge your reaction, and though it’s definitely tender, you avoid wincing. “You don’t have to do that. I can tell it hurts.”

You laugh. 

“Yeah, well, it didn’t until you started trying to fix it.” The ointment is pungent and you make a face. “What are you rubbing all over me?”

“This is vitamin K and Arnica. It will make the bruises go away faster.”

“Aw. You don’t think they’re pretty on me?”

He sets the bottle on the nightstand and retrieves the pen he’d been doing Sudoku with earlier, uncapping it. Your heart swells as he draws tiny sad faces by the bruises on your knees, glasses slipping down his nose as he focuses intently. 

“I always think you’re pretty. I just never want you to be hurt, ever.”

“Are you done taking care of me now?” You ask, reaching out for him. The pen joins the bottle and suddenly he has no concern for your bodily health, practically crushing you with a hug. When he speaks it’s muffled by your shoulder. 

“Never.”

You hum, nose tickled in his hair and forming a dastardly plan. 

“You could kiss them better.”

Spencer laughs and presses his lips briefly to your neck. 

“I might just do that.”

[hcneymooners]

⋆ do you love me enough that i may be weak with you?

caitlyn x morally ambiguous!fem!reader x ambessa. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you are in competition with caitlyn for ambessa’s attention. you will follow her, to whatever end. no one draws you in like ambessa does. or so you tell yourself, even as caitlyn's lingering gaze makes your heart stutter. she’s almost desperate to be friends, but you don’t trust that girl by any means. to entertain her is to enable weakness. but, then again, have you ever truly been strong?

cw: a lot wow. age gap, older woman/younger woman, you're the youngest but in your twenties, canon divergence au, toxic relationships, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, power dynamics, impact play, body worship, dirty talk, bdsm dynamics, sub!reader, brat!reader, dom!caitlyn, dom!ambessa, voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, tribbing, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, face-riding, slightly dub-con in some parts, kissing, so much kissing, non-sexual intimacy, shower sex, hate sex (but is it really), sexual punishment, implied mental health issues, implied manipulation, you are all up to no good, polyam but is it really we'll see, caitbessa is not in love but they use each other, slight violence (fighting, training, & reader is hurt though not by caitbessa.), enemies to lover, rivals to lovers, slightly dark but not too much, guys i even wrote this properly no lowercase.

wc: 10.03k

soundtrack: give up - fka twigs, careless - fka twigs ft. daniel ceaser, holy terrain - fka twins, your girl - lana del rey (unreleased), & oh my angel - bertha tilman. order is intentional.

notes: this was supposed to be 7k. i need to be locked up. dedicated especially to @megalomaniacz for being the beautiful mind behind the caitbessa note that started it all. definitely one of my favorite things i've ever written.

A COIN’S FIRST SIDE. — CAITLYN.

​​You do not understand her incessant need to look at you.

The day has broken dark and cold. Your body aches with the rigor of being destroyed and depleted timelessly by Ambessa's experienced hands. It is only the three of you in the early morning - you, Caitlyn with her delicate bones wrapped perfectly in binding and sequestered underneath her uniform of buttery, dusky leather, and Ambessa with her arms bare, her face exposed by the careful braiding of her hair that reveals every subtle shift of expression.

It is this, over and over, until your body shudders into collapse. Yet—minute victory or sudden death—Caitlyn must look at you. Even when it's her turn, with her arched back pressed hard into the textured bamboo of the mat, her face crushed against the hollow of Ambessa's palm, she is looking at you. Those eyes, relentless and searching, track your every movement. It drives you utterly insane.

The weight of her gaze feels like another opponent entirely, separate from Ambessa's ruthless instruction. You tell yourself it's determination that keeps you standing, keeps you coming back day after day to this dance of dominance and submission. But there's something else, something in the way Caitlyn's breath catches when Ambessa's fingers ghost over that perfectly formed bruise on her collarbone—the one you gave her yesterday. Something in the way Ambessa's eyes darken when she notices you noticing.

You leave it. You cannot think of it.

Yet it follows you from the training grounds, through the winding corridors where shadows pool like old bruises. Back to the quarters you share with her, where even the air feels thick with unspoken things. It follows you. 

Caitlyn's presence fills every corner of the space you're forced to call home, from the precise way she arranges her rifle components to the lingering scent of gunpowder and leather that clings to her sheets. You are aware of that incessant staring, of the way her eyes rove over your naked chest; your small breasts are cupped dutifully in your hands as you unwrap yourself with a harsh breath.

Teacup tits, she'd called them when she’d once had you pinned against the wooden floor. It had been a day without mats; a day of endless testing. She had leaned in close, teeth gleaming like jewels as she held your stomach down with her hips. She had been sitting on you, and you had floundered then froze at the comments. You didn’t know she could be so brazen, so dirty-mouthed. This follows you too.

You've learned to move around her—around each other—in careful orbit. You are like twin moons, two violent girls with cheeks pressed against each other in the night, caught in some larger gravity - Ambessa's gravity - never touching but always aware. Always watching. 

The way she strips her gloves off finger by finger after training makes your teeth clench. You tell yourself it's irritation, not fascination when she unwinds the bindings from her own chest with methodical precision. Tell yourself you don't notice how the morning's wounds are already blooming across her shoulders, masterpieces in indigo and blue that match the ones Ambessa left on you last week—it doesn’t make it less true.

And Ambessa—sometimes you catch Ambessa watching too. The way her eyes linger on Caitlyn's throat, on the marks her own hands left there. It sparks something warm and dangerous in your gut - not envy, you insist. Never envy. Just hunger, the same hunger that drives you to push harder, to prove yourself worthy of Ambessa's attention, maybe both of your intentions. To prove you're stronger than whatever weakness Caitlyn stirs in you with her endless watching.

But later the envy cannot help but be itself, and you retch into your hands and sink from the vibrations of your anger. You do not trust her. You’ve seen her with that girl, the reckless pink-haired one, and she knows that you’ve seen her. But you are keeping this secret for reasons you don’t understand.

And in the dead of night, when sleep eludes you, you hear Caitlyn's breathing change rhythm across the room. You wonder if she lies awake thinking of the way Ambessa's fingers traced that lesion on her hip today, the one that matched the shape of your knuckles perfectly. Wonder if she knows you're awake too, caught in this web of wanting that none of you dare name. 

🕸

She is desperate for you, in a way that you do not understand. It is easier when she is quiet about it. 

There is an evening where she is loud—where everything is loud—and it rattles you. There is an incessant buzzing, maybe cicadas, and in the beginning, you are enjoying it because it reminds you of home and the way your feet fall into wet earth in the heart of the warm season. But then slowly, you begin to lose your mind and the buzzing is in your teeth and you now feel slightly detached from the world and your body is nothing but heat and you are almost lapping at the screen between the open dormitory window and the world and—

You crawl out of bed. You wear nothing but a sleep shirt two sizes too big, the chest open so that your sweat-laden skin gleams like a body of water. It belongs to Ambessa but it was your father's first until she swallowed your homeland and stole you away. You took it back and she said nothing. Maybe she was impressed with the voracity with which you bit and scratched her in the dark, massive cave of her bedroom.

So, yes, you crawl out of bed. You are swamped in ivory fabric and you drag your feet as you roam the halls. There is movement and it scares you, but you muzzle your mouth with your hand so that your scream dies between your teeth. It's only another guard. You keep moving.

Now, you are in the kitchen. You rummage through spaces until your fingers alight on the thick sphere of a pomegranate. You yank and now it is yours; hard and red in your hands. You turn, and she's there.

Caitlyn moves like water in the dark, all fluid grace even in her own sleep clothes. Her eyes catch the moonlight streaming through the high windows, turning them to pale fire. You clutch the pomegranate tighter, your nails breaking the skin. Juice runs down your wrist.

"Let me," she says, and she's closer now, close enough that you can see the light sheen of sweat on her collarbones. It satisfies you that she is warm too, that she is touchable. Her fingers brush yours as she takes the fruit, and you let her only because you're transfixed by the way she reaches for the small cheese knife on the counter, the way she tests its edge with her thumb. You hope for blood but there is none.

You don't remember moving, but suddenly you're against each other, a dance of hands and breath and barely-contained violence. She pushes, you pull. You spin her toward the table, but she turns it, uses your momentum to send you both sprawling across its surface. Your back cracks against the stone like a bone. Her face crumples momentarily at the sound of your pain, but then she is herself again. The pomegranate rolls away, forgotten until it isn't.

You think of another table, a wooden one from when you were younger. You think of hiding beneath the heavy oak with her, your breaths shallow and hushed as you press close to her side. You were younger then, small enough to fit between her knees, your hands gripping hers like a lifeline. Above, Ambessa’s boots thundered across the floor, her sharp commands reverberating through the room.

“Where are you?” she’d barked, voice like a stone through a window.

But Caitlyn had only grinned, leaning in to whisper, “Don’t breathe."

It's different now. You no longer fit.

She lands on top of you when you hit the floor, pinning you with her hips. The knife glints in her hand, but she just smiles, that same smile from the training mat, the one that makes your stomach clench with disgust and desi—no. She reaches for the pomegranate, and you watch, breathless, as she begins to peel it with delicate precision.

"I'll show you how," she murmurs, and then she's leaning down, pressing her mouth to yours with bruising force. Her teeth catch your lip, and you taste copper, sharp, and sweet like pomegranate juice. When she pulls back, your blood is dark on her mouth, and she licks it away like it's nothing, like this is nothing, continuing to peel the fruit with steady hands.

You buck your hips and she sets the knife down, next to your wrists where your veins gather and bulge like snakes. She holds you down with her core, and you can feel the heat between her legs. There is a moment where you freeze, and she smiles with delight. You buck again and she slams you back down, using a hand around your throat to keep you beneath her like a lamb. Her other hand comes up—the knife, you think in fear—and loiters against herself. Then it moves down, quick and smooth, to raise her slip of a nightgown and bare her creamy thighs. She shifts so that she is atop your stomach, and pushes the shirt up until it’s beneath your breasts. 

She isn’t wearing undergarments, or maybe she is. Maybe they are just thin. Either way, you can feel her against the skin of your belly, warm and weeping. You still aren’t moving, but you are slicking in return. You want to bite her, dig until she releases some sort of sound. 

Then there is a sound - a sharp intake of breath - and you both turn. 

Ambessa stands in the doorway, her expression unreadable in the darkness. For a moment, she watches, her head tilted like she's solving a puzzle. You look back at Caitlyn—who seems unrepentant about her half-nakedness. You put it together, the idea that they have seen one another like this before. The envy is riotous. You ache to kiss Caitlyn again if only to vomit in her mouth. 

It’s as if she knows and so she leans in, holds the side of your head as she feeds you pomegranate seeds from the cavern of her own mouth. Eventually, she is no longer feeding, only taking. She presses harder and harder until you let out a yelp of discomfort. It feels, if you aren’t mistaken, like a claim. 

Ambessa gazes at the two of you for a moment longer, then she turns away. Her footsteps echo down the hall, leaving you with the taste of blood and fruit and Caitlyn's smile against your mouth. 

You regain your strength; you throw her off. 

🕸

You don't sleep. 

Your body vibrates with fury, with want, with the phantom press of her against your stomach. The dawn breaks grey and sullen through the window, and when you dress for training, you notice Caitlyn watching you again. But it's different now - you see the tremor in her hands, the way she swallows when you bend to lace your boots.

The training grounds are empty. No Ambessa. The message is as clear as a blade against the skin, and you want to scream. Instead, you strip and step into the shower block, letting scalding water pound against your shoulders. You hear the door open, close. Her footsteps on the tile.

"Don't," you say, but your voice lacks conviction. You're too tired to maintain the walls between you.

"You think she's punishing us." Caitlyn's voice is closer now. You hear fabric hitting the floor. "She's not. She's giving us space."

You turn, ready to snarl, but the sight of her stops you. She's different in daylight - less predator, more girl. There are shadows under her eyes that match your own. Water beads on her collarbone where last night's sweat had gleamed.

“Get away from me.” She doesn’t. You try again. “Space for what?” 

The question comes out raw.

She steps under the spray with you, and you don't stop her. You watch the way the water falls over her, the spread of the moisture against her staunch skin. She is so angular, so prismatic. You feel as if the world refracts off of her. The water is running cold, so her breasts are erect and straining toward you. You think of drinking from them, more the effort of it, of the space between them where your mouth would fit.

"For this," she says but doesn't touch you. "For whatever this is. I'm tired of watching you pretend you don't feel it too."

"You don't know what I feel."

“I think you are a lonely creature.”

The heat between you evaporates like ash against the wind. Your mouth twists, and she steps toward you. She understands she has misrepresented herself and her intentions. You feel a familiar prickling. Tears. 

“Is this how you see me? A cowardly animal?” Your voice is flat, and she balks with her hands flexing nervously against her thighs.

“No. No. I only meant—if anything we are both animals. We have been trained as such at least.”

“You aren’t making this better for yourself,” you say, turning away. “And you don’t know me in any way.”

"I know you taste like pomegranates." 

You turn back to look at her, incredulous. “I had just eaten one, you little fool.”

“I know you let me kiss you before you threw me off.” Her smile is small, almost sad. “I know you've been keeping my secret about Vi.”

The name hits like a slap. You rise to the bait. 

"Why her?"

"Why Ambessa?"

You have no answer for that. The water runs between you, and for once, you let yourself really look at her. At the desperation in her eyes, the way she’s holding herself like she's afraid you'll bolt. Maybe you've both been hungry for the same thing all along.

Still, it eats at you. This odd way she is pretending to be meek and mild. She is soft in the same ways you are, with the same dips in her hips and calluses along her palm. You think of the panther-like movements of her muscles as she readies a shot. 

Something gathers underneath your tongue, and suddenly you are wailing. Loud and long. You rush at her, but she is waiting for you. She dips, and rams into your stomach as she flips you onto the tile. Though she is fighting back, she’s careful with you. Your head is cupped by her limber fingers as she sends you down. 

You kick and catch your foot on her side. With a gasp, she’s down too, but a hand still manages to grip at the fine bones of your ankle and yank. It hurts, and you make a terrible noise. She releases you as if you’ve burned her, and you twist to get out from underneath her. 

You’re on your belly now, flopping like a fish, but she makes you stay. She wrestles you up so that your back is bent as you press against her chest. You feel her fingers crawl like spider legs down your chest. She fondles, gropes, your tits. She is starved and erratic, pinching your nipples until they are standing on their own. 

Your skin is slippery with soap, so Caitlyn digs her nails in for grip. Then the action stops and her hand descends into the apex of your thighs. You try to jerk, try to send her off but she knows this now. She is understanding. That’s even worse.

She holds you, exactly as you need, and gets two fingers inside of your cunt. She curves them, tries to pull you inside out. You let out another noise, but it is less terrible. She works at you until you cannot remember language, only a deep animalistic noise of ‘uh uh uh’, a rhythm. Her thumb swipes against your clit and you’re there, the pleasure like a blinding fire.

You still try to leave her; you try to crawl. She rolls you over and bullies herself in between your legs until she can place her cheek along your heaving stomach. You begin to cry. You’re unsure why, but maybe Caitlyn knows because she only strokes your inner thigh to soothe you. She looks up at you, hair black with water.

“It can be like this, always. You only need to—”

You shove her and scramble back until you’re sitting on your own. She still watches you, cheek to the tile now.

“No conditions,” she says, reworking her words. “Only us.”

You close your eyes and see pink. You open them and think of your general.

“There will always be her.”

Neither of you knows which woman you’re speaking of.

A COIN’S SECOND SIDE. — AMBESSA.

Sleep does not come that night either. You only try because when there is no session to distract it, your body aches for a bed.

You lie awake, counting the beats between Caitlyn's breaths across the room, replaying the way her cheek pressed against your belly, her lips ghosting over skin as she spoke. The way she looked at you like you were something both precious and perilous, desired and dangerous all at once. Your body still aches from her attention.

A sound draws you from your thoughts - the soft click of your dormitory door. Through barely-opened eyes, you watch Caitlyn rise like a phantom, pulling on a robe. She doesn't look back as she slips out. 

Your feet are moving before your mind catches up.

You follow her through corridors you know by heart, the same path you took for that damned pomegranate. But she goes deeper, down halls you've never dared explore. When she stops at a familiar door—Ambessa's door—your heart clenches.

They speak in whispers you can't quite catch, but you see the way Ambessa's hand cups Caitlyn's face, the way Caitlyn leans into it like a cat being stroked. Your stomach twists violently. But then:

"She's ready," Caitlyn says, just loud enough, still soft. "She just doesn't know it yet."

Ambessa's laugh is low, rich like honey. "Oh, little one. She's been ready since I took her. We're just waiting for her to admit it."

You don't stay to hear more. But in the morning, when the summons comes—delivered by a guard who won't meet your eyes—you know they were expecting this too. They've been moving you like a piece on a board, and only now do you see the game.

You go anyway. You always do.

You press your lips together to avoid commenting on the way they stand separately like this will erase what you overheard yesterday. Ambessa stands at the center of the room, her presence devouring the light. It bends around her, as though the universe itself cannot decide whether to confront or flee her. Caitlyn is there too, poised and watchful, her gaze darting toward you and away again.

You look at her with an apathy you designed to get you through burning cities and crumbling countries. You wear your mother’s jewelry today: a septum ring with delicate chains of gold stretching across your cheeks, glinting over your ears. Ambessa’s eyes catch on it, a flicker of distaste passing over her face. Your fingers twitch, but you don’t remove it.

Caitlyn moves toward you, her steps tentative. You step back, forcing her to stop and speak first. Always assume power. This is what they have taught you.

“Do you find it fun,” you ask, head tilting, “to be careless with me?”

Caitlyn halts, her expression caught between guilt and something softer. Regret, maybe. This may be your delusion. Ambessa remains impassive, her gaze fixed on you with an unsettling intensity.

“Little one,” she begins, the shared nickname making you flinch. “You should be grateful. I’ve only eased you into a better space. This insipid competition for my attention is draining. I need my best soldiers to remain the best, to work with one another fluently.”

“You’ve been awful to me,” you say, your voice directed at Ambessa but your eyes locked on Caitlyn.

The mask you wear shifts, and you let your anger surface. 

“Do not call me her name. I’m nothing like her.”

Ambessa’s expression betrays a flicker of disagreement, but she inclines her head, a mockery of deference. “As you wish, little one. What do you think, Cait? Do you agree?”

The nickname hits like a physical blow. Ambessa smiles wickedly. Cait. You used to call her that, back when you were little girls, not yet twisted. You saw her as some kind of beautiful flower, one that had learned to tremble tall amongst the trees.

“You could have spoken to me,” you say finally, your voice sharper now. “You didn’t need this...elaborate scheme of seduction.”

“Love is a good enforcer,” Ambessa says, her tone rich with amusement.

“You wouldn’t know love if it spat in your face,” you snap.

The room freezes. Caitlyn stiffens, but Ambessa’s expression darkens, her presence swelling like a storm. You meet her gaze, unflinching.

“Get out,” she says, her voice quiet but deadly.

Caitlyn hesitates, her body angling toward you as though to shield you. Her hands twitch, almost childlike in their uncertainty. “She’s only angry. Let me—”

“Get out,” Ambessa repeats, her tone slicing through the air.

Caitlyn turns to you, desperation softening her features. “Listen to me,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “I meant it. All of it. With you. I only—”

You think of the evening before. Your throat works until you have something to say; your hand moves before you can think, shoving her back. The memory of her warmth lingers on your palm like a curse. You try to lose it. 

“Get out,” you whisper. 

She stumbles, her expression crumpling into something fragile. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay cold, and distant. Caitlyn hesitates for a heartbeat longer, but then she turns to leave. 

“You always try so hard to be good,” you push out. 

She pauses, remains facing away from you.

“I meant it,” she says again. “With you.”

She goes, the door clicking shut behind her.

Ambessa doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The silence between you is a battlefield, and you know you are primed to lose.

“Do you want to have me to yourself, or do you only wish to be my favorite?”

The question surprises you. However, you shouldn’t be surprised by anything Ambessa does. Her voice is calm, and measured, but it holds a challenge. There waits a quiet dare for you to step into the space she’s carved out for you.  

Your throat tightens, words lodging there like a trap. You hate the way your body reacts to her—the warmth that spreads under your skin, the treacherous pull of her presence. It disgusts you. It thrills you. You feel weak.

“I don’t want either,” you say, though the answer feels thin. A lie.  

Ambessa’s mouth curves into something sharp, more predator than a smile. “Liar.”  

Your hands clench at your sides. “I refuse to play this game, least of all with you.”  

“Oh, but you are, little one.” She takes a step closer, the sound of her boots deliberate, echoing in the cavernous space between you. “You’ve been playing since the day you first looked at me with that fire in your eyes. When I took you away.”

She clarifies as if you can’t quite recall. It grates at your nerves.

“You hate me, and yet you can’t help but ache for me. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”  

Your pulse quickens, the air between you crackling with tension. You hold her gaze, refusing to look away, even as heat rises in your cheeks.  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, but the words lack conviction.  

Ambessa tilts her head, her gaze dragging over you in a way that feels invasive, consuming. “I don’t need to flatter myself. I see you. At first, I thought you might take after me in a way meant to replace your mother.”

She reaches forward, fingers the cold along the ridge of your cheekbones. 

“I see the way you tremble when I’m near, the way your apathy tastes so much like desire,” she continues.

She steps closer, and you step back instinctively, your spine meeting the cold stone wall behind you. You hate how small you feel under her gaze, how she makes the air around you feel heavier, suffocating.  

“You’ve used me,” you bite out, your voice shaking but firm. “You’ve used Caitlyn, too. You pit us against each other like we’re pawns on your board. Is that all we are to you?”  

Ambessa’s expression doesn’t falter, but something flickers in her eyes, something unreadable. “You’re more than that, but useful as pawns when it’s needed. Both of you. But you’re still mine.”  

Her hand moves, slow and deliberate, until her fingers brush your jaw. The touch is barely there, a whisper against your skin, but it sets every nerve alight.  

“You hate it so much when we touch you,” she says softly, her voice a low rumble. “But it’s that hate that keeps you sharp. That’s why I keep you close. Why we—I— can’t let you go.”  

You want to pull away, to spit something venomous, to remind her that you’re not some plaything for her amusement. But you don’t move. You don’t speak. You can’t.  

“Caitlyn wants your approval,” Ambessa continues, her thumb grazing the corner of your mouth now. “She craves it. But you... you want something deeper, don’t you? Something darker.”  

You flinch.

“I want nothing from you.”  

Ambessa leans in, her breath warm against your ear. “Then why are you still here?”  

“Because you summoned me.”  

“Because you wanted to come,” she counters, her voice soft but unyielding.  

You try to defend yourself, but she’s moved past this now. Instead, her hands come to the bend of your hips and lift you with an easy effort that makes your legs widen around the bulk of her body. With quick steps she moves you to the chaise just off to the side of the room, sitting you on top of it. The world is blurring; she is moving too quickly for you to dispute.

Ambessa’s hands are firm as she strips you bare and traces the shape of you. Like Caitlyn—or maybe Caitlyn, like her—she cups a tit in her large hand and squeezes. This version of it is more painful, different from its softer sister movement in the shower. 

She leans forward, opens her mouth, and swallows that loose circle of fat. You arch into the heat of her lips, moan low and reedy as she suckles at your nipple. Her teeth trap bits of skin between them, marking you purposefully. She pulls off and takes your other breast inside of her again to be teased and tainted by her bruises.

You rock gently, chasing the feeling. This time when Ambessa’s mouth leaves you, she presses your tits together and appraises them. 

“She said this was one of her favorite parts of you.” When she finds your confused gaze, Ambessa smiles. “Cait.”

You tense at that, and she chuckles. The sound infuriates you. Still, you do nothing as she sinks lower, her breath approaching the swollen pearl of your clit. Without a word she latches on to you, lapping idly at you as if you aren’t already dripping down her chin. She holds you as your body stutters, pleasure arcing through you like thousands of arrows. 

Ambessa is measured in this too. She sucks your folds into her mouth, laps at you carefully as she grips your ass. She makes you ride her, clit bumping against her strong nose as you follow her instruction. She draws back from you once, only to spread you apart and spit crudely into your cunt. She watches it travel down your slit, slicking you with her saliva, then she spits again and pushes it in with a finger.

Before she continues she glances at you and gives you another order.

“Say her name.”

You say nothing, mind racing. She slaps your ass, hard.

“Say her name. As you used to.”

You understand now. Again, you ride her tongue but when your mouth opens it is not her name that you say.

“Cait,” you moan, legs falling open even wider.

Ambessa adjusts you, slings your legs over her wide shoulders as she consumes you. She shakes her head, burying herself in your cunt as she leads you over the edge. Over and over, she laps at you until you’re panting hard like you would when sparring. This is sparring in another form.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper. “Oh, fuck. Fuuuuck, Cait. Please.”

“Mmhmm,” Ambessa hums over your clit, and that’s the end of it for you.

You let out a sharp, shrill scream and attempt to bow over yourself with the strength of your orgasms. Ambessa refuses to let you, forcing you back and keeping your legs spread so that she can watch your cunt flutter wildly as you cum. 

“There you go,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” you answer, dazed and nonsensical.

Your pussy spasms, pink and oozing juices like a wound. Your thighs strain with the stretch of remaining open. You think of the shower floor.

“Caitlyn,” you gaps. You can’t stop pulsing. “Yes. Fuck, Cait.”

There’s a thud outside, against the door as if someone has fallen.

Ambessa removes her hands. The silence stretches between you, taut and electric. Finally, you find your voice, though it’s hoarse and trembling. 

“If you think I’ll ever belong to you, you’re wrong.”  

Ambessa’s smile returns, wicked and knowing. 

“You are brave, but you already do, little one. You just haven’t admitted it yet. What do you think we speak of waiting for?”

The absence of her touch feels colder than it should. She steps back, giving you space, but her gaze remains heavy on you, a reminder that you are never truly free of her.  

“Go,” she says, her tone dismissive. “Think about what you want. And when you’re ready to admit it, you know where to find me.”  

You don’t wait for her to say more. You rise and make to leave, hands grappling over your clothes. You feel discombobulated like a puppet with its strings cut. You only manage to slide your shirt back over your head and it dusts the tops of your thighs.

Ambessa only watches your struggle. You hate her. You want her. You don’t know where one feeling ends and the other begins.  

You tug the door open and step back as Caitlyn spills back against the floor, hand still between her thighs and shining with her own pleasure. Her chest is heaving, her skin pink with the rush of lust and physical exertion. Her legs splay beneath her like a doll’s. 

She pulls her fingers out with a wet ‘schleck’ and tucks them into her mouth, cheeks hollowing as she looks up at you—unashamed. You say nothing, only bend down and tug her fingers from her mouth. You put them in your own.

THE COIN, FACE DOWN. — CAITBESSA.

The dormitory is devoid of you. Caitlyn is unsurprised.  

You are unused to being touched. You don’t know how to be wanted. 

Still, she worries. More accurately, she spirals. The ache of your absence gnaws at her in the quiet moments, like a phantom limb she can’t stop reaching for. She doesn’t know where you’ve gone. 

Ambessa is losing herself too, albeit in a different way. Caitlyn wonders if she has ever truly lost something before.  

The world continues to turn. They train, a familiar ritual that feels increasingly hollow. Their strikes are sharper now, their parries more reckless. Ambessa’s movements carry an edge Caitlyn hasn’t seen before, a fury barely leashed. She fights like she’s trying to exorcise something, and Caitlyn is often the target of that rage.  

A blow to her stomach knocks the wind out of her. A strike to her face nearly cracks her jaw. Caitlyn knows better than to show weakness, so she grits her teeth and pushes back, delivering her own brutality in return. She delivers as well as she receives. 

She kicks Ambessa in the mouth once, the impact jarring up the toned meat of her leg. The older woman’s lip splits, blood dripping down her chin, but she doesn’t flinch. In response, Ambessa hurls Caitlyn into the corner of the room. She skids across the mat, hitting the wall with enough force to rattle her bones.

Ambessa isn’t looking at her, stays crouched on the mat with her hand pressed to her mouth. Caitlyn struggles upward, sliding to rest against the wall. The fight had been nothing more than an outlet, and Caitlyn, nothing more than a tool.  Caitlyn struggles to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall. The guards in the room avoid looking at them, the air too charged, too dangerous. 

Something simmers in Caitlyn’s stomach, a volatile mixture of anger, frustration, and something softer she doesn’t want to name. She refuses to puncture it, afraid of what might spill out. She is already suffering enough, diseased with the spores of her affection for you. 

And Ambessa.  

The thought churns in her mind, dark and poisonous. Ambessa has become an obsession she doesn’t want to admit to, a shadow that looms too large since that moment in the room. Caitlyn hates her, resents her, envies her. She knows what you taste like, what you’d like. She too has been inside you. Caitlyn now has nothing; they are disgustingly equal.

 But beneath it all, she respects her. And that’s what makes it worse.  

When Caitlyn finally speaks, her voice is strained, biting. “Do you always break your toys this quickly, or am I just special?”  

Ambessa’s gaze finally lifts, sharp and cutting. She wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand and smiles, a malignant curve that doesn’t reach her eyes.  

“Special?” she echoes, rising to her full height. “You think too highly of yourself, Cait. You’re simply better than most.”  

The nickname grates, a reminder of the intimacy they share now—unwanted, unavoidable, tangled in you. Caitlyn clenches her fists. “Don’t call me that.”  

Ambessa takes a step closer, her presence suffocating, magnetic. “You’ve been insufferable since she left,” she says, voice low and dangerous. “Do you think I don’t see it? You miss her like a dog misses its master.”  

“And you don’t?” Caitlyn fires back, the words cutting deeper than she intended.  

Ambessa’s expression darkens, and for a moment, Caitlyn wonders if she’s gone too far. But then the older woman smirks, cruel and knowing. 

“I miss her,” Ambessa admits, her tone a blade. “But not like you do. You ache for her because she is a twin to your pain, a foil to my approval. I ache for her because she belongs to me.”  

The words twist in Caitlyn’s chest, sharp and unbearable. “She doesn’t belong to anyone,” she snaps.  

Ambessa chuckles a low, bitter sound. “You’re wrong. [Name] belongs to both of us, and that’s why you hate me.”

Caitlyn’s breath catches, and she doesn’t deny it.  

Without you, they writhe like snakes, their weight pulling them into collision after collision. The mouth of the snake swallows the tail. The hatred between them is palpable, a toxic undercurrent that fuels their every interaction. And yet, when the nights grow long and the ache of your absence becomes unbearable, they find themselves drawn together.  

It’s not love, not even close. It’s desperation, a way to drown the pit you’ve left behind. Their intimacy is suffocating, a visceral reminder of everything they can’t have. 

When Caitlyn’s nails dig into Ambessa’s back, it’s not out of affection but frustration. When Ambessa’s teeth scrape Caitlyn’s collarbone, it’s not passion but punishment. They use each other because they can’t have you. After all, the emptiness you left is too much to bear alone.  

It’s never enough, no matter how fierce. Because they don’t want each other.

They want you.

Still, they try.

🕸

Again, the shower. 

They’re slightly cruel to one another. It fuels the high. 

Caitlyn snaps back to the moment as Ambessa needles a nail into the mottled skin beneath her shoulder blade, where a bruise sits thick and spreading. She hisses in pain, tits pressing further against Ambessa’s own. There are three thick fingers in her pussy and they fuck her in the way she needs. 

Despite the embarrassment, she lets her head fall onto Ambessa’s wide shoulders as she chases her orgasm. Her cunt is like water, dribbling down Ambessa’s wrist as she carves Caitlyn out. Again, a nail presses into the bruise. 

The motion is harsher this time around and Caitlyn cries out, throwing her head back so that her hair brushes the middle of her spine. Ambessa continues to toy with this patch of marred skin, teeth clamping on the wide skin of Caitlyn’s neck as the younger woman twists and shudders around her. 

“Good fucking girl,” Ambessa mutters, fucking her faster.

Caitlyn bounces to meet her, slamming herself down until her belly tightens and roars. Ambessa lifts her further, suctions her mouth around one of her perky tits, and digs deeper into the pink tight nature of her. Caitlyn roots a hand in her hair and slides the other down her body to collect pieces of that foamy, white ring gathering around Ambessa’s hand.

Slick with herself, she rubs tight, quick circles around Ambessa’s clit. The older woman’s cunt is large, folds heavy and leaking. Caitlyn feels her tremble and she moves faster, breath coming fast as the spray of the water slides down the crack of her ass.

With a muffled grunt, Ambessa cums. As she does, she bites deeply into the meager flesh of Caitlyn’s collarbone. Caitlyn whites out, eyes rolling back briefly so that she’s swaying and focusing on a blurred ceiling. Their orgasms warp and connect; they refuse to stop touching one another as if it will keep reality at bay.

The comedown is almost irritating, and in a frenzy, Caitlyn clutches Ambessa to her chest. This does nothing. 

She kisses Ambessa feverishly, practically mauling her, because the echo of your cunt is on her lips. Ambessa holds her, returns the kiss, then breaks it. 

“No matter how hard we try, she is not here.”

Caitlyn closes her eyes and her face pinches in pain.

“And where is she? Gone, and you are doing nothing to find her.” 

This close, Caitlyn can see Ambessa’s face twitch and melt into something revealing. Something rocks through her at the sight and she detangles their bodies.

“You cannot find her.”

The statement is accusatory, so much so that Ambessa surrenders and turns away. She shuts off the water; Caitlyn remains shivering. 

THE COIN, POCKETED. — YOU.

Your mouth tastes like metal and smoke. The streets of Zaun pulse beneath your feet, virulent and alive, and you can barely remember how many days it's been since you left them. Since you left her. Them.

You've gotten yourself into trouble - the kind Ambessa would have prevented, the kind Caitlyn would have shot through. Blood trickles down your side from where the knife caught you, and your vision swims with chemical fumes and exhaustion. You don't know where you're going anymore, just that you're going.

The world tilts sideways. You stumble and catch yourself against a wall slick with condensation. A familiar laugh echoes from somewhere above - it stops your heart, then starts it again too fast. You know that laugh.

When you look up, they're there on one of the suspended walkways - Caitlyn and that pink-haired girl, Vi. They haven't seen you yet. Vi has her hand on Caitlyn's waist, casual, proprietary. Something in you breaks and mends and breaks again.

Then Caitlyn turns her head, and her eyes find yours like they always have. The world stops. You try to run—you always try to run—but your legs give out. You thud to the ground. Mind heavy. Heart heavy. 

You hate her more than anything else in the world. You wish that was true.

You hear the clatter of boots on metal as she descends, and then she's there, gathering you up as if she hadn’t been entangled a moment before. She hooks a hand into your hair, and claws you into looking at her as she squeezes your face hard. Something inside of you understands that the action isn’t intentional, not this time.

She bends, hair falling from her hurried bun, and swallows you—grime and all. Her kiss tastes devastating and strains with relief, and you're too weak to fight it anymore. You push back, this time into her, and force her to hold you. She squeezes you tighter, moaning almost obscenely as she relapses and languishes in your feel, in your taste. 

Here is her sweet girl. Her sweet fucking girl. 

“Cait,” you moan.

She pulls away and strokes your baby hairs away from your forehead as you let out a feeble, wounded noise.

"Vi," she says, not looking away from your face, "help me. I need to get her back to Ambessa."

"This is your runaway?" Vi's voice is rough, knowing. "The one you've been tearing yourself up over?"

Caitlyn's hands tighten on your arms. "It's important for the mission that we-"

"Save it, Cupcake." Vi's laugh is different now, sadder. "I know what love looks like on you."

That training, that beloved animal comes back in full force, and Caitlyn looks up from beneath her lashes. Her face contorts and it’s the strangest she’s ever seemed to Vi. She reaches up, hooks a hand around Vi’s jaw, and drags her down. 

“Get it together, Violet. This is not your moment.”

Vi blinks at her, equal parts disturbed and titulated. Caitlyn lets her go, places that same hand on the peek of skin between the hem of your shirt and your linen pants. Why would you ever wear linen when running away? She looks back up again, traces Vi’s expression—analyzes it.

“I can love you both. I’ve done it before.”

Vi's laugh catches in her throat. You watch through half-lidded eyes as something passes between them— understanding, maybe. Or resignation. Your blood is making patterns on the ground.

"Fine," Vi says, and then she's lifting you like you weigh nothing, careful of your wound. "But if this gets me killed, I'm haunting you both."

“If she dies because of our procrastinating, I’ll do something worse than haunting,” Caitlyn snaps.

Caitlyn's hand doesn't leave your skin as you move through the undercity. You drift in and out of consciousness, catching fragments: Vi muttering about shortcuts, Caitlyn's fingers pressing against your pulse, the way they work together like they've done this before. They probably have.

"Stay with me," Caitlyn keeps saying, and you're not sure if she means now or forever. Maybe both. 

You think of Ambessa waiting, of how her hands will feel on your skin again, of how she'll look at you like you're something wild she's finally caught. You think of Caitlyn's desperation in the shower, that fucking shower and it’s cold water—of her mouth against your stomach. Of how they both break you apart and put you back together wrong.

"She's burning up," Vi says somewhere above you. Her voice sounds almost gentle.

"We're close." Caitlyn's voice shakes. "The extraction point is-"

"I know where it is." A pause. "You really love her that much?"

"More than is safe."

You want to tell her that nothing about any of you has ever been safe. Instead, you let the darkness drag you into its arms.

When you wake, you're in Ambessa's chambers. The sheets smell like her - lime and mango and earth. Caitlyn is curled against your side, her breath evening out against your neck. And there, in the doorway, Ambessa stands watching you both with hunger in her eyes.

"Welcome home, little one," she says, and steps inside.

THE COIN, MELTED INTO GOLD — CAITLYN & YOU & AMBESSA & YOU &.

Ambessa moves like smoke in the water. 

The room holds its breath as she approaches, and you feel Caitlyn's arm tighten across your middle—not protective, possessive. They don't look at each other. They never do. Their hunger is only for you.

"Did you think you could run from us?" Ambessa's voice is silk over steel, very careful in the moment. She sits on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dips with her weight. Her hand finds your ankle, thumb pressing into the hollow where your pulse beats rabbit-quick. "From me?"

You try to answer, but Caitlyn's mouth is suddenly on your neck, wet and wanting. She bites down, marking you, claiming you and Ambessa's grip tightens in response. They're going to tear you apart.

You realize, distantly, that you want them to.

"She's hurt," Caitlyn murmurs against your skin, but her teeth don't gentle. "We should-"

"We should punish her," Ambessa cuts in, and your body betrays you with a shiver. Her hand slides higher, past your knee. It makes you realize that you’re in nothing but a simple pair of baby blue cotton panties and a skimpy bra. Your tits spill out at the bottom. "Shouldn't we?"

Caitlyn makes a sound like drowning. Her fingers find the hem of your shirt and ghost over the bandaged wound at your side. "Yes," she breathes, and you feel yourself sinking, sinking. "But she's ours to punish."

"Ours," Ambessa agrees, and the word feels jagged.

You're losing yourself in them. A thought floats up through your hazy mind: that they refuse to acknowledge each other even as they work in tandem to break you down, to unmake you piece by piece. Their synchronized destruction should be beautiful to watch if you can remember how to open your eyes.

"Look at me," Ambessa commands and your body obeys before your mind can catch up. Her hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing against your lower lip. "She trembles so prettily for us, doesn't she?"

Caitlyn's answer is to drag her nails down your spine, making you arch into the touch. The pain blooms like ink in water, spreading out until you can't tell where it ends and pleasure begins. You're caught between them - Ambessa's unyielding strength and Caitlyn's desperate need - and you're not sure you want to escape.

"Tell us why you ran," Caitlyn whispers, but it's not really a question. Her fingers trace the edges of your bandages again, a reminder of what your foolish escape attempt cost you. "Tell us what you thought you'd find out there.”

"Freedom," you manage to gasp, and Ambessa's laugh is dark honey, sticky-sweet, and dangerous.

"Oh, little one." Her grip tightens, not quite painful. Not yet. "You're only free when I allow it."

She speaks only of herself, but you know the notion pertains to both of them. You know they're right. You've always known and it leaves something bitter in your mouth.  That's why you ran - not to escape them, but to make them chase you. To prove they would. To ensure they'd punish you when they caught you.

And now they have.

"Please," you breathe, though you're not sure what you're begging for. More? Mercy? Neither?

"Please what?" Caitlyn's voice has gone rough with her aching. Her teeth find your shoulder again, and you shudder. "Use your words."

But Ambessa's hand is sliding into your hair now, pulling your head back to expose your throat. "No," she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. "I don't think she gets to speak anymore tonight. I think she’ll bore me with her useless whining.”

The whimper that escapes you makes them both pause, just for a moment. Just long enough for you to feel their satisfaction ripple through the air like heat waves. You might die this way, you’re realizing. They may build you up one final time, only to slit your throat at the time of climax.

Ambessa is practically stone with her tempered fury, and Caitlyn is antsy with her need. You never realized how much you riled them in the same manner they did you. Ambessa goes on to say more, filling the silence with something sick and cruel but Caitlyn has had enough now. 

She lurches up, rolls you over so that she sits atop just like the night she first kissed you. The night where it all burst. There’s a moment where she has a hand on your chest, pushing down as if resuscitating you. You don’t understand it until you look down and see the way the pressure makes your breasts surge and spurt from underneath your bra. She pushes again and again and again until you’re taking halting, broken sips of air. Over and over, your tits spill until she grows crazed and snaps the fabric off of you.

Ambessa only watches, though you notice her thighs spreading. She looks soft, her hair unbraided and haloing her face. She wears nothing but a silk yellow robe which displays her figure lovingly. Your cunt grows warm, tender.

Catilyn taps your cheek, brings you back to her. You can’t remember if the button-down she wears is yours or Ambessa’s. Maybe both. You wince at her weight on your stomach and she moves up and over your face. 

There’s no time to prepare for the way she comes down on you, her groan thunderous as her pussy settles on your parted mouth. You fall into line, give her what she wants.

Still, you are to be punished, so she sits for a long while. Just smothers you. Occasionally she grinds, filling your nose with her musk. You can feel her soft curls around your lips, and you arch up as if to crawl inside of her skin. This gets her to move, a slow rocking that amps up as you settle into making out with her pouring pussy. 

You kiss her here, over and over, dragging your tongue into the affair until she’s riding you. Your tongue slips in and Caitlyn quivers with a whimper as she rides your face harder. You bring a hand up to hold her, to prevent her from slipping but she smacks it away. 

“No,” she pants. “No—oh, fuck me. Holy shiiiit.” She bounces liberally, selfishly. “No touching.”

Caitlyn leans forward, supporting herself as she fucks down on you with fervor. You’re so distracted with getting her to fill your throat with her pleasure that you mistakenly lose focus on where Ambessa is. Which is why the press of her cunt against your own absolutely blindsides you.

She’s climbed atop the bed during the desperate coupling between you and Caitlyn, removing your panties so that your pussy winks at her voraciously. True to her nature she decides to take, to conquer you. You grip Caitlyn tightly, so tightly that she squeals and cums at the pain. 

You forget to let go, buck wildly as she creams over your nose and chin. It settles on you like sugar; she takes a long finger and dips it in—soft and sweet. You suckle at the pad of it, taking the digit into your mouth and moaning around it as Ambessa slides your cunts together. 

You can’t tell if you are one body or three or three-in-one. You feel enmeshed in the both of them. Your blood is theirs; your cunt is theirs. Maybe it is less togetherness and more possession. Ambessa groans deeply as you gush against her, the squelch both loud and quiet. Caitlyn is now off to this side—this you know. She has her other fingers playing with herself, shifts down to let them puncture her. 

She shoves another finger into your mouth and you gag, let her hit the back of your throat. Drool is coalescing and running over them. The sight makes Ambessa open you further, and hold you down as she slides your clits together over and over—harder and harder.

Your babbling makes the both of them smile, dark curves tinged with their sadistic pleasure. Again, the possession. Ambessa shoves Caitlyn aside and crawls over you to hook her thicker digits into your mouth. She drags you, your head lolling, as she reaches down and rubs your clit.

You scream, silent with your mouth open wide as you cum. This is not enough. It is never enough. She is back on you, like a lioness on a gazelle. Her pussy swallows yours, and Ambessa forgets you as she leads herself to that approaching golden horizon.

When she crests, she falls on you and you do nothing but accept her weight. You lay there, do this for what feels like years, until Caitlyn weasels behind you. Then you do it again.

🕸

You wake with a start, disoriented by the weight pinning you to the bed. Caitlyn's arm drapes loosely over your waist, her fingers curled like she’d been holding you even in sleep. Ambessa’s warmth radiates from behind you, her breath slow and even. The sheets smell of sweat and sandalwood, of something heady and unnamed.

The sheet clings to your skin almost oppressively, a reminder of last night’s twist of limbs and pleasure. You slide out from between them, careful not to disturb their slumber. Ambessa stirs slightly, her arm shifting, and you hesitate. Caitlyn murmurs something unintelligible, and you freeze. When neither of them wakes, you slip free.

You take Caitlyn’s robe from the chair by the bed, pulling it around your shoulders. The fabric is sheer, nearly useless, but it smells of her. You step onto the balcony, and the cool morning air kisses your skin. The horizon is painted in hues of gold and rose, the sun stretching its fingers across the sky.

You lean against the railing, the chill of the metal biting into your palms. The fortress sprawls below and blends into the distant city, a patchwork of shadows and light. For a moment, it feels like you’re the only person in the world. But the ache in your chest reminds you that isn’t true. 

You are loved. You are wanted. And it terrifies you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest. The robe clings to you, and the light hits your body in a way that feels exposing, even with no one watching.

A soft sound pulls your attention, and Caitlyn steps out onto the balcony, her hair a tumble of dark waves over her shoulders. She’s still half-asleep, her bare feet silent on the stone. When she sits beside you, the space between you feels both unbearable and necessary.

"Couldn't sleep, baby?" she murmurs, her voice rasping in the quiet.

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the horizon. You ignore the goosebumps that rise at the pet name.

 "I don’t know what to do with so much love," you say finally, your voice trembling. "From you. From her. It’s… too much."

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reaches out, her fingers brushing your forearm. You flinch, and she pulls back, pain flickering across her face. 

"Baby," she says softly, and the word lands like a stone in your chest. "I will undo this. I will make your living easier."

You exhale sharply, the sound halfway to a laugh.  “Will I always have to share you?” you ask. 

You don’t look at her. 

Caitlyn hesitates, then glances toward the bed where Ambessa shifts, her hand moving as if searching for you in her sleep. You glance over instinctively, the motion so natural it betrays you.

“I could ask you the same,” she says finally. Her tone is steady, but there’s a thread of something deeper woven through it—something sharp and sad. Your gaze flickers to her, then back to the bed behind you. Ambessa shifts again, her brow furrowing, and you instinctively turn to her. The action is so ingrained, that you don’t realize what you’ve done until Caitlyn speaks again.

“She pulls at you,” Caitlyn says, not unkindly. “I see it.”

You want to deny it, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you say, “And you don’t?”

Her lips curve into a wry smile. “I pull at you too. But she’s… something else.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling over you. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The city stirs below, oblivious to the ache of your small world.

INTERLUDE: THE LIONESS, WITH THE COIN IN HER MOUTH. 

Ambessa lies still in the bed, her breathing measured and even, but her mind sharp and alert. She hears the murmur of voices from the balcony, the quiet cadence of Caitlyn's voice mingling with yours, a soft harmony in the cool morning air. 

Her eyes remain closed, yet her thoughts stray to the image of you wrapped in Caitlyn’s robe, the rosy light of dawn casting faint halos around your figures. She imagines the tension in your body as Caitlyn reaches for you, the way you’d shift, hesitant, but never pulling away entirely. It’s a dynamic Ambessa understands all too well: the push and pull, the magnetic sway you hold over both of them.

You’re the thread that binds, fragile yet unbreakable. It’s maddening. It’s beautiful.  

Ambessa shifts slightly, her fingers brushing the cool sheets where you once lay. The absence is temporary—she knows this. But the way you linger in her mind is something she can’t easily reconcile. She has always been a woman of precision, of control. Yet you are beginning to undo her in ways she cannot name, cannot stop, that she believed herself too old for.

Through the door left ajar, your voice carries faintly. When you and Caitlyn return, Ambessa will let you come to her. For now, she waits, her lips curving faintly, as if in a private, unspoken promise.  

“You’ll come back to me,” she murmurs under her breath, a whisper carried only by the stillness of the room.  

And outside, the sun climbs higher, gilding the world in its light.

RE: THE COIN, MELTED INTO GOLD — CAITLYN & YOU & AMBESSA & YOU &.

Caitlyn leans back, her eyes tracing your face. "We grew up together," she begins, her voice softer now. "Trained together. They taught us to kill, to win, to survive. But you…" She pauses, swallowing hard. "You were always my half. I can’t promise much, but when the pendulum swings, I will choose you to save. Every time."

Her words settle heavy in the space between you. You lean your head against her shoulder, letting the warmth of her presence ease the sharp edges of your doubt.

Caitlyn tilts her head, resting her cheek against your hair. "You’re half of me," she murmurs.

From inside, Ambessa’s voice calls softly, "Come back to bed."

Caitlyn shifts, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, then your nose, and finally your lips. It’s a lingering kiss, tender and unhurried as if she’s trying to pour every unsaid word into you.

"You’re my girl," she whispers against your mouth. "I love you, baby."

The declarations are so soft you almost think you’ve imagined them. But the look in her eyes tells you otherwise.

Ambessa calls again, her voice low and expectant. Caitlyn straightens, her hand falling away from yours. She glances at the door, then back at you. She stands, offering her hand to you. 

"Come," she says simply.

You hesitate, the ache in your chest a living thing. But you take her hand.

The sun exposes as it further moves toward its high point, casting the balcony in streaky light, but you feel no warmth. Only the quiet weight of something you can’t name, pressing into the spaces between your ribs.

And behind you, the world goes on turning.

“Come,” Caitlyn says again, her tone gentle but firm.

You go.

© hcneymooners.

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[webism]

on the “fuck you like i hate you whilst telling you i love you” note, i think the opposite applies to geto.

he’s fucking you slow and nice and kissing you all gentle and giving you a taste of domestic intimacy. his hands splayed over your body in a sort of reverence under candlelight—spends an hour just making out with your pussy because he loves how you taste. he’s so sweet on you, so kind with his touch and wholly devoted to your pleasure.

but he’s so mean with his mouth. calls you desperate and pathetic and a needy little slut who’s not good for much else than whoring yourself out as his toy. he speaks with a poison laced tongue that tastes like sugar when he kisses you. he fucks you like he loves you but wouldn’t refute telling you he doesn’t.

[kurooh]

Heyy I love your works!! Can I get some praise kink works with husband! Kuroo, atsumu and ushijima ?? 🥹🥹

TO BE LOVED IS TO BE.. PRAISED ! — HAIKYUU

⊹₊˚. featuring miya atsumu, kuroo tetsurou, & ushijima wakatoshi lovin’ on and praising their beautiful wife in bed.

warnings: 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader, breeding, one squirt, intimacy, praise, mirror sex, creampies, pet names, fluff, lingerie.

xoxo, juno: HI i hope u see this it’s been a few months 🥲 i loved writing atsumu’s he’s so cute

MIYA ATSUMU.

“haah, i fuckin’ love it when ya get dressed up like this, baby. ya always take such good care of me.” atsumu’s fingers smooth over the thin material of your lace thigh highs, his most favorite kind of lingerie to see you in. your soft legs are splayed out on either side of him as you bounce on his cock, squirming whenever his tip kisses your cervix.

he’s huge, easily stretching you out and filling you up just right. atsumu’s never been afraid to be vocal with you, but tonight he seems to be much louder than usual . .

a stream of curses falls from his lips like it’s nothing, and his nails dig into the skin of your hips, leaving indents shaped like crescent moons. “ngh, don’t—please don’t stop.”

“sensitive much?” you giggle, feeling a lot less tired now that he’s used your favorite word. in a heartbeat, you’re moving more deliberately, rolling your hips forward and nosing at the tender skin of his neck. with a moan, atsumu pulls you close and lolls his head over your shoulder, giving you any and all access. 

“jus’ a long day, angel,” he breathes out, clawing at your skin when you press open mouthed kisses to the column of his neck, occasionally nipping at the damp spots. “did ya know ya always make ‘em better?”

“mmm, you said the same thing about your salt baths,” you tease, lightly tracing the curve of his jaw with your tongue, pulling a groan of both pleasure and ire from the depths of his chest. 

“ugh, y’know what i mean,” he rolls his eyes even though you can’t see him, “i don’t look forward ta them like i do ta seein’ ya.”

“tsumu,” you say, borderline moan, and a shiver ripples through his body and makes his balls clench. “i was about to say the same thing, you keep reading my mind.”

you’re both on the same wavelength — which is why your pace quickens, much like his heart, without him having to say anything to you. gingerly, your fingers slip into the gold tufts of his hair and your nails lightly rake across his scalp. it’s when you pull hard that he lets out something between a whimper and a whine, teeth scraping over your shoulder as he searches for something to bite down on.

atsumu’s neck absorbs your own sounds of lewd delight as you ride him into oblivion, trying your hardest not to stop despite the burn in your thighs or the racing of your heart. you gasp sharply when his cock twitches deep inside your cunt and he grips your hips hard, holding you in place as he moans incoherently into your shoulder.

you pull him back by his hair and then into a kiss, your lips muffling his frantic gasps. whatever he said or tried to say is unimportant, because he ends up cumming abruptly, spilling white against your cervix. atsumu’s muscular back heaves as he struggles for breath, the entirety of his body covered in a glistening sheen of sweat that you can’t help but think about licking off.

“tsumu?” you ask gently, fingers lightly scrabbling at the nape of his neck, “you okay?”

he weakly hugs you closer, breathing heavily as he comes down from his high. “god, ‘m definitely gonna be dreamin’ about that,” for a moment, he pauses to kiss away the cooling spit on the slope of your shoulder and lets out a sigh. “jus’ wanna stay like this for a minute, angel. missed ya a lot today.”

KUROO TETSUROU.

“that’s my girl,” tetsurou coos, voice low and lustful, “swear you were made to take my cock just like this, sweetheart.”

clap, clap, clap. the crude smack of skin against skin grows louder, filling the room and inevitably pissing off the neighbors—tetsurou’s always loved to show off, and his most favorite ways to do so are by taking you to office gatherings or like this . . your wrists are bound together by his favorite silk tie for work and you’re sobbing out his name so loudly you’re drowning out the sounds of the bed.

you’re too cock drunk to even think about what flies past your lips. “o-of course i was, tetsu, ‘m all fuckin’ yours.”

he chuckles, bringing a hand down hard against your asscheek. your babbling is cute, but you’re burying yourself in the mussed sheets and making it difficult for him to hear you the way he expects to. that slap stings, and heat licks at the spot where his wedding band came down against your skin, but you don’t do anything other than arch your back and moan.

lithely, tetsurou leans forward over you and slips his hand beneath your chin, cupping your jaw as he lifts your head up and makes you look at the full length mirror that’s set in front of the bed. a dazed glance shows you the fucked out expression on your face and the makeup that’s smudged every which way.

“just look at you,” he chokes out, squeezing your hips as his dark eyes rake over you like he can’t get enough, “i love it—i fuckin’ love it when you’re archin’ like that, so damn pretty.”

tetsurou’s compliments are saccharine and raw whenever he’s inside you, full of filthy appreciativeness as your needy cunt sucks him deeper. he’s practically in your stomach now, taking the saying of ‘rearranging your guts’ almost too literally—it’s impossible to complain, especially when you’re too busy drooling while your eyes roll back in bliss.

“oh, fuck—t-tetsu, ‘m close,” the wet squelches of your pussy grow louder as he jackhammers his cock right into the soft, spongy spot inside of you that always reduces you to a mess without fail. his eyes lock onto you in the mirror as tremors roll through your body like surface waves, your face crumpling at the ecstasy licking at each and every one of your limbs. “ah, right there—oh, oh my goddd, ‘m gonna cum!”

in an instant, tetsurou snakes his hand over your shoulder and wraps his fingers around your neck, firmly pulling your body back against him. breathlessly, he groans into your ear and the sound only makes your heart pound harder, “wifey’s gonna cum all over me, huh?”

you nod frantically, arching against him as your short breaths shift into pitched gasps.

“let me feel you, honey,” warmth ghosts over the shell of your ear as his grip tightens just a fraction, “but i want those pretty eyes to stay open, ‘kay? watch yourself in the mirror like a good girl.”

so you do, even though your eyelids flutter a few times and an influx of tears blurs your vision. like a vice, your walls squeeze down on his cock as if they’re trying to milk him for everything he’s got—it almost works, but he drags in a harsh breath and barely holds it together. he’s got no other choice but to bite down hard on his lip when he feels you gushing waterfalls, soaking his skin with your delicious slick. but, tetsurou isn’t ready to give this up yet, not when he’s having this much fun watching the best porno that’s ever blessed his eyes.

you’re out of breath and entirely limp, voice cracking when you try to say his name. “hold—hold on, i need to sit down.”

an infuriating pout plays on his lips when you look into the mirror, and he takes the opportunity to diligently switch into an easier position where you’re sitting on top of his cock, thighs on either side of his hips. “better, baby?”

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI.

“you didn’t have to, ah, do all that,” you gasp, voice breaking and eyes fluttering shut as the languid thrusts of his cock seem to reach your lungs, “‘toshi, how long were you planning everything?”

wakatoshi chuckles breathlessly, pressing his sweaty forehead to yours. soft, small bits of baby hair stick to his skin, but he’s too focused on you to pay it any mind. “sweetheart, that doesn’t matter. it’s our second anniversary, of course i’d go all out.”

your back arches off the bed, and your hardened nipples press into his own. he’s never been so fulfilled by anyone before—not by friends, or family. not like this. you’re his everything, his favorite part of the day and the person he’d choose over everyone else. in the background, the bed creaks faintly, barely audible over the smooth music that pours into the room from a small speaker. 

it looks like the most romantic scene in a movie, of course it does—wakatoshi’s still as in love with you as he was the first time you went out on a date together, all those years ago.

“i wish you could see how beautiful you look right now,” a warm whisper ghosts against your lips before he gives you a kiss, swallowing your answer and the soft moans that follow it. “mmm, my lovely wife. i’ve been waiting all day to touch you, darling.”

even this far into your relationship with him, your cheeks still get hot when those endearing petnames roll off his tongue—it’s intimate, a gesture that leaves no question about the fact that his heart is entirely yours. 

“toshi,” you whine, nails digging into his muscular shoulders, “y-you’re gonna make me cum again, it’s—”

“i was about to say the same, honey,” he groans, tucking his face into your neck and inhaling your scent, “we’re not done, this time i want to—ngh, i want to put a baby in you.”

something delightful flashes behind olive green eyes, and he thinks of you, swollen all from carrying his child. he can’t help but picture walking around with you and everyone knowing that you’re his just from one glance. maybe it’s the baby fever talking or his well-known possessive streak, but wakatoshi’s lost in the fantasy of it all, abs clenching and hips faltering against your own as inescapable ecstasy licks at his limbs.

a sob of his name bursts out of you as you abruptly cum all over his cock, cunt sucking him deeper and gripping him like a vice. he grips your hips to keep you close, and you’re already on it, reading his mind with ease: your legs lock around his waist and draw him in, your own way of telling him you want the same thing he does.

wakatoshi spills inside you while you’re shaking, hot ribbons of cum gushing against your awaiting cervix. even as you thrash beneath him, he firmly holds you in place with his own weight and rocks his hips into you to push his load impossibly deeper. he murmurs sweet, sexy nothings into your ear and feels his eyes roll back when you thread your fingers through his hair. “sweetheart, you’re jus’ so damn perfect,” wakatoshi’s heart pounds even harder in his ears, “i need to—fuck, i have to fill you up again and again . . ”