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gojonanami · 9 months ago

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❝ 𝐈 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ! ❞

❝ I HEARD FROM A FRIEND OF A FRIEND, THAT DICK WAS A TEN OUT OF TEN !! ❞

✧ pairing: jjk au sorcerer! suguru geto x sorcerer! reader

✧ summary: geto's routine after a mission -- ingest the curses that he collects before his shower. but after he does, his body begins to burn and ache with lust to the point of pain -- and he can't get rid of the feeling alone. so what else can he do when you show up at his doorstep offering to help but accept it (aka a sex pollen / aphrodisiac curse fic).

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, so much smut, jjk compliant au, geto stayed a sorcerer and didn't defect, reader is one year younger than geto, (set during jjk s1), aphrodisiac curse (sex pollen), multiple orgasms, multiple positions (missionary, doggy, riding, other positions mentioned: standing, against the wall, spooning from behind, against the wall), masturbation (m), soft dom! geto, oral (m +f), handjob (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, cervix fucking, panty stealing, squirting, mutual pining, a little angst (discussion of star vessel / premature death arc), but a lot of comfort, cuddling, gojo hijinks

✧ wc: 8,180

Suguru was only sure of one thing, as he stared at himself in the mirror — cheeks flushed red, sweat nearly soaking through his black t-shirt, and a painful and glaring problem in his boxers—

This was a curse — literally.

Curses were made up of different negative human emotions — from loneliness to grief to anger, these negative feelings would pool and create a curse. Sorcerers were made to exorcise these curses, and Suguru did so — but in a different way than the others. He had to consume them as part of his technique. And even with the hundreds of curses he’s swallowed over the years, he would never get used to the taste — a shit soaked rag used to clean up vomit was how he could best describe it, but even then, that didn’t come close to the indescribable act of swallowing the manifestation of the worst negative human emotions — at least for most of them.

The one he had swallowed today was different — he was sent to exorcise a grade 1 curse in the heart of Tokyo that dwelled in an abandoned building — from the inside, he could tell that it was used as a strip club and possibly a bathhouse-turned-brothel, from the seedy mattresses left behind with dirty sheets and mussed covers, with rusting incense burners placed around the room, and the gaudy, fake jewelry that laid strewn about the place — assumedly any real jewelry picked clean. He swore he could have even smelt the ever lingering scent of cheap perfume in the walls and vents.

But the greater concern was the curse he had found himself with — a grotesque creature that stared back at him — its body a deep maroon, many eyes dotting its back with a large pair of black lips that Suguru didn’t care to draw any closer to. It was more humanoid than most — its form showing a more sophistication than many curses did, muscles of its many arms contracted as it finally spotted Suguru, its many eyes settled their gaze on him.

It was far too easy for him to take down the curse in hindsight — far too easy — and it seemed to watch him summon curses — and he swore it almost had seen a glimmer of recognition in its eyes and then it allowed him to deal the final blow.

He had kept the curse on hand — he could swallow it later, when he was near a toilet and perhaps some mouthwash — though that barely did much to remove the taste from his mouth. He had returned to Jujutsu Tech to do his reports, and hopefully head back early — Satoru was out on another overseas mission and Shoko was busy tending to patients and bodies as always, but you—

He wasn’t sure what you were doing, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to text you. Not after what Satoru said.

“When are you guys gonna fuck already?” the strongest sorcerer asked, making Suguru choke on his Sprite — strong in ability, but not in tact, “you and her have been eye fucking for weeks and you had such a thing for her before she decided to move to Kyoto—”

“That was years ago—”

“She has a key to your apartment—“

“So do you!” he glares.

“Then what about last night at the bar?” Satoru leans back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the ground, as he pulled his sunglasses down, “you could have murdered the guy that was hitting on her with your look alone — and I think you did when you stuck yourself to her side with your arm around her waist, until he ran with his tail between his legs,”

If looks could kill, Suguru would have surely murdered his best friend — infinity be damned, “She looked uncomfortable, what was I going to do—”

“Well, she certainly didn’t look uncomfortable with you hanging all over her, now did she?” He raises an eyebrow, as he leans forward again, the front legs of his chair landing with a thunk, “what are you gonna do if a guy comes along that she falls for? You’re telling me you’re not gonna regret it, Suguru?” Suguru says nothing, unable to meet Satoru’s gaze, as Satoru crushes his own can into a ball, before tossing at Suguru, “You guys just got to hurry up and fuck,”

Suguru swats the crushed can away, “You’re disgusting,”

He grins, as his words seemingly only confirm what he assumes, “Disgusting, but correct, and if I’m right, you’re taking some of my missions off my hands,” he grins.

And Satoru’s words had been running around in Suguru’s head — just like any annoying song on the radio — but he couldn’t let Satoru’s words stop from hanging out with you. He had just gotten you back in his life again — he couldn’t lose you, not again.

Geto: Are you free to watch a movie and have takeout?

You: sounds good - did you get back from your mission alright? No injuries I need to yell at you about?

He snorts, as he types his reply: no, not this time.

You: Let’s keep it that way! :)

He bites back his smile as the two of you decide to have you head over in an hour to his place — you preferred it that way since you were still settling into your place, boxes still unwittingly everywhere there should be actual furniture. Last time he came by to pick a report up, he found you eating your meal on a packed box, instead of a table.

And he catches himself smiling, before his face sours at the thought of Satoru again.

Satoru was right — and he hated to admit it, his knuckles pressed to his lips. A year under him, you had spent days with him, along with everyone else — you always waited for him with his favorite snacks when he would return from a mission. You sat with him sometimes when he would get sick from swallowing curses, helping him swallow some water and saltines after he turned his stomach inside out. You were the one that pushed him when he hid his disillusionment from everyone else — even from Satoru. You wouldn’t leave him alone, you wouldn’t stop dogging his every step with snacks and comfort and company, hounding him to sleep, to eat, to say something, anything.

Until he did — one late night you spent up together — he didn’t sleep much those days anyway. And he told you everything — the poison seeping from his body, and leeching onto yours, your frown and hurt was the whole reason he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone to begin with. But the frown wasn’t yourself — it was for him, as your arms only curled around him, and he let you hold him the entire night.

“You don’t always have to pretend to be strong, Suguru. You’re allowed to be upset, you’re allowed to be angry, you’re allowed to grieve — but don’t bottle it up,” your fingers raked through his wet hair, undoing the tangles gently before running the comb through it, “don’t let it kill you from the inside out,”

“I feel like I did die — along with Amanai,” and you pause, your arms curled around his shoulders, chin resting on his head before you pinched his cheek and he flinched.

“There, you’re definitely not dead,” you say, “so don’t act like you are. And don’t act like you’re alone — because you’re not. You have me, you have Satoru and Shoko — even Nanami and—“ you voice cuts off at the thought of Haibara — “Haibara wouldn’t want you to hide from us, he looked up to you — more than anyone else, even Satoru,”

“I don’t know why,” he mutters with a sigh.

“I do,” your fingers guide his face to meet your gaze, your face an inch or two from his, “because you’re kind, you’re intelligent, and you’re strong,”

He scoffs, “Satoru is the strongest,”

“And you think Satoru thinks any differently of you? That any of us feel differently? You’re the only person who can understand him — and he’s the only one who understands you,”

He gives a small chuckle, “not the only one,” and he tears his eyes away, hoping you don’t see the way his cheeks burned.

And when he found those two sorcerer girls locked up — you were the one who called. The rage and anger had built into murderous intent, but he could hear your words ringing in his ears and before he knew it, he had called you to come to him.

You saved them together — Nanako and Mimiko had fallen asleep in your respective laps after all was said and done on the ride back — without much bloodshed (not that the blood that was shed was worth much, in his opinion) — and with Gojo and you smoothing things over with the higher ups (mostly with veiled threats and petty remarks), you managed to allow the twins to grow up safe, under Geto’s care, and your own.

At least for a time. After you graduated, Nanami left — and you were the only one of your class left — and the absence of your best friends weighed on you, even if you didn’t show it.

“I’m leaving for Kyoto,” you told him one afternoon the two of you spent lazing around his dorm, you sat against the bottom of his bed, as he lounged on the mattress, his gaze snapping to you, only able to see the back of your head, “this place holds too many memories — i need perspective, I need space from all of this,”

He wants to ask if you have to, ask you if he could convince you to stay, if he could do something, anything to make you stay — ask if he wasn’t enough to make you stay. But he doesn’t, because it’s the best decision for you. So he instead slips off the bed, sitting beside you, his hand ruffling your hair, “You’ll come to visit right?”

He knows you’re blinking back tears, but he pretends not to notice, your lip quivering, and god, he knows he wants nothing more than to tilt your gaze toward him by your chin and brush his lips against yours, until every sad thought has evaporated under his touch.

But he knows that would only be one more thought that would make things far more difficult — for the both of you. It was better this way. And it was. Years had passed, the two of you had become teachers at the Tokyo and Kyoto schools respectively — but as the years had passed, your relationship grew more distant, as it always seemed to with time and distance.

But then you decided to come back to Tokyo, transferred over — Yaga explaining it was due to all the happenings in Tokyo with the special grades and emergence of Yuji as Sukuna’s vessel — and he found himself in your presence again. And it was as if no time had passed — your days off spent in his apartment — as yours had become a haven of unpacked boxes. And he couldn’t help but wonder — when he’d glance at you in the dark of his living room, the only illumination was the TV that played some shitty horror movie (your words not his) you had put on — if the special grades were the only reason you’d come back. Your fingers were so close to each other’s on the couch, but an inch felt like a ravine.

One he couldn’t dare to cross.

But It was fine, just as he told Satoru — you were just friends, until both of you decided otherwise. Not that it would ever happen — no, he thought that ship had sailed, even if his heart had stubbornly said that it hadn’t.

Until he decided to consume the curse — and his heart was no longer the problem.

Or at least, not his main problem.

He sat in his bathroom, towel in the shower rack, ready to shower after he dealt with this. He had discarded his uniform jacket and pants — only in a black t-shirt and boxers. He stood by the toilet — as he learned his lesson the first few months swallowing curses — he never knows when one will turn his stomach inside out.

He holds the balled curse in his palm — he could feel it squirm just underneath of his cursed energy — the thing keeping it contained at all, itching to be freed from his grasp — though it never would. He pressed the ball to his lips, bracing himself as he opened his mouth, nearly having to unhinge his jaw for how large this curse was and pressing it past his lips and into his mouth. His palms pressed against his mouth, as he swallowed, eyes squeezed shut.

It…wasn’t as bad as he thought. He frowned, brow knit as he stared at his empty palm — it was still appalling to consume, but it was….sweet? But it burned as it went down, heat remaining in the pit of his stomach, even as it should have faded.

That should have been his first clue.

Either way, he turned on the shower before he shed the rest of his clothes, and stepped in. The water felt warmer than usual, as he washed his body first, letting his hair grow wet under the shower head. His fingers reached for the shower handle, turning it even colder, but his body barely reacted to the water — was it even cold?

Even under the water, he felt like his body was burning — a slow fire that lingered under the surface of his skin, burning and aching, the frigid water barely doing enough to soothe it. Running his hands over his body seemingly helped, a shiver running down his spine as he washed himself, but he knew it would have felt even better if it was you.

….what? He tried to shake that thought from his head — it wasn’t the first time he had thought of you like this. There were many times where his mind would drift to you at night, the warmth of your touch from a few hours ago still lingered, as his hard-on pleaded for his touch. Guilty gnawed at his conscious when he indulged, the first time being after a particularly vivid dream of you pinning him down while training — your mouth kissing down his body, eager fingers tugging at his shorts until that smirk met—

This wasn’t helping.

The burning had traveled southward, as his blood did, and he glanced down at his raging hard-on.

Fuck.

No, he couldn’t.

But his fingers were possessed, already reaching for his aching cock, large beads of pre-cum leaving his slit just as hand closed around it. He hisses when he does, a gasp ripped from his throat, as he braces himself against the shower wall with his other hand.

He palms his erection, swallowing thickly, as he grunts, as he begins to pump his cock from base to tip, smearing his pre along his length. But his mind wanders to you, how pretty you’d look pressed against the wall of his shower, his hard cock dragging between your ass. Lovely moans parting your lips as his fingers would reach around to rub at your puffy clit.

“Suguru, please—“

“Tell me what you want baby, gotta use your words,” he’d murmur, teasing your slick entrance with the tip of his cock.

“Need your cock — need you to fuck me,” you would whine, words nearly enough to make him bust there and then. And he would sink into you just as he does his fist, but your sweet cunt would feel so much better than his hand does.

Fucking wet and tight and just for him, as he works his dick deeper and deeper, until his tip is nudging your cervix. And he’d fuck you hard, just like he’s fucking his fist now, skin slapping each time his hips met your ass.

You’d cum before he would, he would make sure of it — one hand rubbing harshly at your clit, the other toying with one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. And your walls would squeeze and wring him dry, just as he squeezed his own dick now.

He spilled all over the wall of his shower, white spurts kept coming, as he grunted, imagining he was painting your walls instead. He panted, but as the afterglow ebbed away, the heat only came back tenfold.

He panted, as his fingers left his cock, only to find it still hard — the tip red and angry, twitching as he stared back at it.

What the fuck is going on?

He finally left the shower, pulling on his shirt and boxers delicately — every inch of his body felt feverish and sensitive, even the rubbing of his clothes against his skin was almost too much for him.

He stood in front of the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain as he tried to will his erection away, but each thought was only chased away with thoughts of you — of the dress you loved to wear riding up, of your legs spreading for him, of the wet patch on your panties—

He was so fucked. Sweat dripped into the sink, as he glanced at himself in the mirror — skin a ruddy red flush, lips impossibly dry, pupils blown out with need — he was so fucked.

He called Shoko — the embarrassment of this situation far gone at this point fading into plain need of wanting this situation to be over. One ring, two rings — finally five rings and she picks up.

“It’s not like you to call—“

“I need your help,” he cuts her off, biting back the groan from his cock rubbing against his boxers the wrong way — “I don’t know what’s happening to me,”

Her voice shifts from curiosity to concern, “Slow down, Suguru, tell me what’s going on,” and he tells her his symptoms — and she’s silent on the other line for a moment, “you have been a teenage boy before right? You’re not really calling me because you’re horny and you don’t know what to do—“

“It’s not that—“ he hisses, running a slow hand down his face, “I already tried…solving the problem myself but it didn’t work. And I feel weird — it only made it worse. I can’t stop sweating or thinking about—“ he cuts off — he couldn’t stop lewd thoughts of you from springing before his eyes, the thoughts of your moans, how soft your flesh would be under his fingers, how you’d look when he— “what is this, Shoko?”

She pauses on the line for a moment, “When did it start?”

“Right before my shower I think,” his mind foggy with need, he could barely even comprehend a coherent thought.

“And what did you do before your shower? Anything different?” he’s swallowing the lump in his throat, as he resists the urge to brush his hand over his hard-on.

He’s barely hearing Shoko at this point — “I took off my clothes, I got my towel, and then I—“ and the realization struck him — the curse, “I consumed the curse I collected today from my mission,” he mutters, “fuck—“

And then there’s a knock at the door, “Suguru?” He heard you call through the door. His dick throbs at the sound of your voice.

Shoko’s voice cuts through the white noise, “Suguru, the curse you ate — was there something different about it?”

“It was a grade one — it seemed a little too easy to defeat — it formed in—“ he swallows thickly, “in a brothel,”

“I’ve heard of curses being lustful, but not of them becoming a stimulant,” she murmurs, and he can hear her sigh, “you could try extracting the curse from your body — I doubt that would be effective at this point. I assume the effects will linger until the symptoms pass — just as it does when you become nauseous or sick from swallowing other curses,”

His phone buzzed with texts from you:

You: I’m outside, I grabbed takeout for us this time since you always treat me!

You: are you home?

His mind swam, it wasn’t the takeout he was craving — it was you. But no, no — he couldn’t. Not like this, but he was fighting a losing battle and he just about lost the war along with it.

“I don’t know, how do I get it to pass?” he was desperate, the sounds of your knocks and messages ringing in his ear, along with your sweet voice — why do you sound so good with his name on your lips? So sweet — his boxers grow even tighter — bet you even taste even sweeter.

“If dealing with it yourself didn’t work, then,” she sighs, “you’re going to need a partner,”

Another knock.

“Shoko, I have to go,” and he hangs up before she can get another word — a thought to thank her and apologize shoved to the back of his mind, as he stumbles to his door, a thunk as he nearly tumbled into it, wood and hinges groaning under the force and weight.

“Suguru?” you’re so worried yet his name on your tongue was nearly enough to have him cumming in his boxers then, the wet patch of his boxers nearly making the fabric translucent, “are you okay?”

He says your name, “You should go home, I’m not feeling well—“

“What’s wrong? Do you need help?” And he’s biting his lip, teeth digging into his bottom lip, nearly drawing blood, “let me in,”

“I can’t—I can’t let you help with this,” he’s shaking his head, “please, sweetheart, you have to go—“ And he hears the clink of your key going into the door — fuck, that goddamn key he gave you, and the door pulls open, just as he braces himself against the doorframe.

Your brow furrowed in concern, takeout bag in hand, as your eyes examined him, until they found their way to his boxers.

“Suguru—“

“You should leave — I can’t explain, there’s a curse inside me—“

Your eyebrows knit together, “Suguru, a curse did this to you? What happened?” And he’s shaking his head, mind far too gone, as he forces himself away, “let me help—“

“You can’t help. I have to get out of my system but the only way is—“ he cuts off, as he groans again, body and mind railing against each other, as his body just seemingly burns from even being near you.

“There must be something—“ and you step closer, and he can barely hold back from grabbing you, fingers twitching to wrap around your waist, the other holding your neck, lips finding yours, as he fucking rips his own clothes off— “I want to help—“

He’s tugging at the collar of his shirt incessantly, as you step closer, closing the gap between your bodies, and he can only focus on the way your pretty lips part, the way your chest curves under your shirt, and the far too short shorts you choose to wear — fuck.

He was so fucked.

He can’t hold back, as he’s drawing close to you in a moment, his mind clouded with lust, the hitch of your breath only making him want you more — but he forced every muscle in his body to stop. He couldn’t. Not until you agreed.

“If you don’t want me to fuck you right now,” he says lowly, his lips nearly brushing your ear, “I want you — regardless of this, I’ve wanted you for so long,” the confession tumbles from his lips because he needs you to know, needs you know so you can either leave him to his fate or help him get through this, “but if you don’t feel the same—“

But to his surprise, you lean closer, breath warming his skin until it was left scalding, “who said I didn’t?”

And he can’t hold back.

His lips crash to yours, his hands holding your cheeks, as he grasps desperately to you, takeout boxes spilling from the plastic bag and your purse spilling your things when you drop it, your fingers grasping at his damp t-shirt.

And your touch alone even through the fabric is nearly enough to make him bust a nut there and then — and his mind hadn’t even felt so clear until he felt your touch. He could notice every little detail about you — the way your breath caught when his fingers ghosted down your sides, the way your lips parted for his tongue without hesitation, and the way your knees shook when he squeezed your hips.

“So pliant for me,” he murmurs, eager to touch more, to taste more, “such a good fucking girl, aren’t you?”

And you’re nodding wordlessly — lips kiss ruined and red, saliva clinging to your lips when he parted from your lips — and he wonders which one of you swallowed a glorified sex curse.

“Know how long I wanted to do this?” words said pressed with heated kisses down your neck — he was right, you tasted so sweet, he bet another part of you tasted even sweeter — “how many times I thought about this?” He nibbled at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, rewarded with a pretty gasp, “wanted to mark you up so many times — when that fucker tried to hit on you — I wanted to do more than just wrap my arm around you. Wanted to show him how he could never please you,” and he’s sucking a mark there, teeth grazing and pinching your skin before he soothes it with his tongue. He smiles against your skin, as he admires his handiwork.

You whine when he drags a thumb down your puffy lips, “Sugu, please, more,” and his lips find yours again, swallowing your complaints and moans eagerly, as his large palms slide down your back to rest on your ass, squeezing as he presses you flush to his body, hard on pressed against your body.

“Need my touch that much, Princess? Should’ve just fucked you in that club, huh? Let them see that you’re mine,” And he’s walking you backwards towards his room, as he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor of his living room. Your fingers running over his exposed flesh, thumbs teasing his sensitive nipples, pretty little lips pressing teasing kisses to both sides.

Fuck, the need to bury his cock in you grew by the second. But he wanted to feel good first — been waiting too long. He had all night to fuck you — but he only had one time to do it right the first time.

He’s walking you into the edge of his bed, as you both tumble onto the bed, his hands sliding under your shirt, tugging at the hem, and you help him take it off — and he hissed at the sight of nothing underneath.

“Were you always coming to my place with no bra on?” his lips curl, as your eyes look away, embarrassment painted on your expression, “wanted this as long as I did, Princess? Don’t get so shy now — you’re the one who insisted on helping me, so aren’t you going to fulfill your promise?” His lips brush against your earlobe, lips wrapping around it and sucking lightly.

You shiver, biting your lip, before you’re tugging him fully onto the bed, before slinking off of it and onto your knees for him, “Then let me help you,”

When your fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers, he’s ready to cum right there — he’s so sensitive still, he’s sure he won’t last long, but fuck, he doesn’t care with how pretty you look between his legs.

“Don’t be a tease, Princess, or I’ll pay you back later,” but your lips only curl, as you lean forward and press a kiss through the drenched fabric, tip of your tongue teasing his slit through his boxers.

“Oh I expect you to,” and you’re pulling his boxers down painfully slowly, letting the fabric of his boxers rub against his hard-on teasingly, a low hiss leaving the thin line of his lips, his balls aching with his release as his cock slaps against his stomach, “fuck, Sugu,” you murmur in almost reverence — he was thick, the tip flushed red with lovely beads of pre-cum already dripping down his length, your fingers already eager to trace those pretty veins, and feel the slight curve of his cock in your aching cunt, “how am I gonna fit you all in me?”

And his cock twitches at your words, as you pity him with a chaste kiss to the top, “Please,” he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, fingers knuckles white as they fisted the now creased sheets, “fuck—“ as you blow air along his length, “I’ll cum all over your face at this rate,”

“Oh I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sugu?” your point finger lightly follows the trail of his vein, as your lips continue to press butterfly kisses along his length, “paint my face with your cum,”

And his fingers thread themselves in your hair, pressing his length to your lips, and you smirk, looking up at him with half lidded gaze, as your lips part and his length slides in — that’s all it takes.

The coil in his stomach snaps, as he cums down your throat, hot seed spilling into your mouth, as his hips jerk against your mouth, his groans of your name sending a hot stripe of heat down to your cunt.

Despite that, his cock only seems to grow larger, twitching against your tongue, as you part for a moment, a trail of saliva and cum dripping from your lips, “Taste so good, Sugu — gotta have you one more time—“ you envelop him with your lips again — and he’s a mess of moans, head thrown back, thick haze of lust as his eyes finally meet yours. You swallow around him, tongue wrapped around his length, as your sinful fingers touch whatever can’t fit in your mouth.

“S’good baby, should’ve fucked this mouth a long time ago,” and he’s gone, as his hips begin to slowly roll against you, watching as you don’t resist, the tip of his cock brushing against your throat, “good fucking girl, never gonna go a day without these lips around my cock,” and god, he’s so close — twitching in your mouth, but what sends him over the edge is when he feels you moan, and spots your hand down your shorts.

Fuck, he’s pulling out, “can I—“ and you pump him in response, a grunt of your name as you let him cum all over your face and chest, the sight enough to make him hard all over again — his thick release slipping down your lips, as your tongue darts out to taste it again.

And he’s pulling you into a bruising kiss, tasting his own cum on your lips, before grabbing his discarded shirt to clean you off. His hand grabs your wrist and eases it from inside your cunt, tongue darting out to lick the release from your fingers, cleaning each of them.

In an instant, he’s got you spread on his bed, legs parted for him, “where’s that attitude now, pretty?” And his lithe fingers sneak under the elastic of your panties and snaps it against your skin, making you squirm, “seems like all those words fell out of your head just from sucking my cock,”

He’s slowly dragging your underwear down, before pulling at his bedside drawer to stuff your panties in, “for later use,” and you can’t managed a reply before his lips are pressing butterfly kisses up your thighs, before his teeth graze the soft flesh of your inner thigh, drawing a gasp from your lips, before sucking and soothing it with his tongue, “mine, all mine,” he’s already hard again — the feel of your soft skin under his lips was enough to have him cumming again like a virgin — the burning in the pit of his stomach only burned brighter for you — god, would he ever work his way out of this state? But as his gaze was met with your lovely dripping cunt with your puffy clit begging him for attention, he couldn’t seem to care.

You hiss when his fingers slowly spread your folds, “So fucking tight, baby, how am I gonna fit in you?” he clicks his tongue, inhaling, as his nose brushes against your clit, making your hips jump, “patience, gotta take my time with this princess cunt, gotta make sure you’re ready for me,” his dick twitching at his next sentence, “because I sink my cock in here, we’re not stopping at one round,”

Your cunt squeezes around nothing at his words, his breath warming your sensitive pussy, until he finally drags a stripe up your needy folds.

“Sugu, fuck,” his arms brace your thighs and hips down, as the tip of his tongue drags teasing circles around your clit, your slick gathering on his tongue, as he tastes it with a groan.

“Fucking, the best thing I’ve tasted,” and as much as he wants to bury his dick in you, he could live with his face between your thighs, “so perfect f’me,” and his tongue trails in tight circles around your clit, while his finger toys with your entrance, gathering your pre on his finger, teasing your entrance and delighting in the way your breath hitches.

He looks up at your face between half lidded eyes, you’re too fucking pretty — your hair a mess from, a sheen of sweat on your body, the lovely way your nipples were erect, and your eyes — pupils lost to lust and need. And all for him.

Fuck, he knows he won’t last long at this rate, he can already feel the urge to palm his raging cock, but he wants you to cum first, and he’s sinking a finger into your sweet cunt. He can almost imagine how your walls would feel fluttering around his cock — but he doubts his engorged tip would be even fit right now.

No, he needed to make this good for you — he slowly starts to finger fuck you as his tongue circles your clit in tighter circles, even sucking on it, and by the way your fingers grasped at the sheets, crumpling under your touch — you liked it.

Pretty moans left your lips, as your fingers found their way to his dark locks, still slightly damp from his shower — as he added a second finger inside. His name said between pants, as his fingers drag against your molten insides — the wet squelch rang in his ears as he fucked your cunt open. Knuckle deep in your sweet pussy, he knows he’s addicted — to the feeling of your molasses insides — warm and soft for him, his digits curling against your walls, looking for that one place that would make you fall apart.

“Sugu, please, please ‘m close—,” and he knows you need a little more, and he’s obliging with a chuckle, a third finger joining the other two, and he’s fucking you in earnest now — lips closing around your clit and sucking mercilessly, as his fingers find that spongy spot that has you seeing stars. Your back arches, as your nails dig into his scalp, as you cum around his fingers — walls fluttering as he eats you out through your high, his name leaving your lips again and again, as you slowly come down from your high, thighs twitching and chest heaving as you do.

As he finally pulls away, his chin and mouth glossy and drenched in a mixture of your cum and his spit — that he licks clean from where his tongue can reach, fingers collecting the rest, as he looks at your sticky cum gathered on his fingers.

Fuck, he could live in your cunt. Your sweet taste was the only thing he’d crave now after consuming curses — he wondered if you’d let him eat you out for hours after the curses he ate — he was sure your taste was the only thing that would erase that disgusting like nothing else ever would.

He’s giving you soft kisses after, dotting them up your body, murmuring praises, but you’re pulling him into a kiss, your fingers resting against the back of his neck, as your other hand finds his aching erection, swallowing his gasp with pleasure.

“Want you, Sugu, please,” and your words are enough to make him cum right there, as he tugs your hand away, “Sugu—”

“Won’t last long if you keep touching me and whining like that, Princess,” the heat only seems to lick at his skin like flames, engulfing him with every touch, and his cock was the epicenter of the wildfire, while you were the fuel that only made it consume you both to ash, “but I know it won’t be long until I’m fucking you again anyway,” Your cunt throbs at his words, as he draws close, dragging his weeping tip against your folds, watching his pre-cum smear against your slick with a grunt, “feels like you’re already trying to swallow me up, princess — you want this cock that bad?” fuck, he can’t hold back anymore, as he’s lining up himself up, and he’s sliding right into you with a groan, “know how long been waiting to do that?” his skin meeting yours as he bottoms out deliciously, stretching your walls out with his girth, pleasure ripping up your spine, “wanted to do this since the moment you walked through the door, but needed to do this right — when nothing about this was right,” he had so many things to say, while your mind had left you with not even a syllable, his cock twitched and pulsed inside your walls, dragging against it deliciously, “wish our first time wasn’t like this — but I’m so glad it’s finally happened, sweetheart,”

And you can’t help but smile up at him, lips parted with a small moan, as tears burned at your eyes from his size, “Me too, Sugu, wanted you for so long, needed you—” and he’s kissing your tears and words away with his lips,

Then he begins to fuck you — hard, the slapping of your skin and the wet squelch of your sex filling up most of the silence of the room, while both of your moans and grunts took up the rest. Your cunt was heaven to him — warm, wet walls wrapped around his aching cock — the slightest bit of relief was overcome with waves and waves of need — he needed to fuck you, needed to make you cum, needed to cum inside — he just needed you.

“S’big, Sugu, too big,” you whine, he was almost too much for you, the way his dick fucked places you only could imagine reaching, as his mouth leaned down to take a pert nipple between his lips — sucking and licking, as he couldn’t have enough of you, while his hand toyed with the other, “feels too good,”

“I know baby, gonna fuck your princess cunt so good — make sure its made just for me,” he’s murmuring, as his teeth graze your tit, as he pistons into you again and again, the tip of his cock brushing your cervix with each thrust, “all mine, baby, fuck — such a good girl for me,” and the praise has you keening against him, the knowing flutter of your cunt that tells him you’re all too close to the edge, as his hand reaches between your bodies to rub at your clit, “cum for me, pretty, need to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze me,”

And you do, falling apart as he fucks you through your orgasm, again and again — fuck, you felt so good, as he watched his cock slip in and out of you, a white ring of your release forming around his base. He’s fucking close too — can feel his balls tense, eager to blow his load, “where—”

You’re still moaning, eyes blown out in pleasure, as you watch him fuck you again and again, “Inside, Sugu, fill me up,” and that’s it, he’s gone — spurting his hot release, painting your walls, as he does, fucking it inside you — deeper, deeper, until he stills for a moment. And you’re twitching, eyes fluttering shut, when he pulls out, a groan parting his lips as he watches his seed spill from your cunt.

But then silence for several moments, the soft pants of your breathing only, before you hear him swearing and grunting, as your eyes open, and your pussy twitches at the sight before you. Suguru’s hand slid up and down his still erect cock, his eyes squeezed shut, as he groaned, “Suguru—”

“Wasn’t enough, need more,” he’s shaking his head, as his fingers squeeze around the base of his cock, “thought it would be enough to cum with you, but I can still feel it—” and he’s groaning, as you sit up, watching your mixed releases drip from you, “baby—”

And your lips kiss the tip of his weeping cock, “I told I’d help you,” and you ease his hand away, as you lick up his length, your eyes fixed on his, “just because we fucked, doesn’t mean we’re done,”

And in a moment, he’s got you flipped onto your hands and knees, as his cock slaps against your ass, his fingers squeezing the flesh, as he leans over to kiss your back, “Then I guess we’re gonna be up all night, sweetheart, because if you’re okay with this — I don’t think I’ll be satisfied with just a blowjob,” his tip drags against your messy cunt, “gonna need something a little tighter than your mouth,” and he’s sinking his thick cock into you again, balls slapping against your ass as he begins to fuck you, “better cancel any plans you have, pretty — because we’re not leaving this bed for a while.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me, baby,” his fingers grab your chin, and force you to meet his gaze, as he fucks into you, as you sit on his lap, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, “almost gonna cum, and don’t want you to be asleep for it,”

How many times had you fucked? You had lost count — but you knew you had done it in far too many positions — on your hands and knees, standing up, against the wall, from behind with his hand gripping your leg up, and far too many others — and now you were spread in his lap, cock deep in your pulsing pussy, his lips kissing your neck, as he fucked into you, his dick reaching a deeper angle from this position, easily able to hit the furthest parts of you.

He had cum in you more than you thought was humanly possible — and you supposed it wasn’t — it was only the curse that enabled this — it was animalistic even, the way he rutted into you desperately. He grabbed a water bottle only to take a swig, and find your lips again, forcing you to swallow the water.

“Good girl,” he’s grunting, his hips beginning to stutter, “I’m close baby, are you?” You hadn’t thought it was still possible to feel pleasure at this point, but it was — his cock dragged against your walls, his dark gaze finding yours, “tell me you wanna cum,” and your pussy twitches at his order, “use your words, pretty, or have I fucked them all out?”

“Please, Suguru, I wanna cum on your cock,” and you’re so fucking close again — the all too familiar knot in your stomach ready to snap any moment.

“Fuck, greedy pussy hasn’t enough of me? We’ve been fucking until the daylight now,” as his hand grabs your chin to make you see the first rays of light peaking over the horizon, and he’s making you bounce on him with each thrust of his dick — your orgasm building and building with every brush of his tip against your g-spot, “fuck, s’good for me, baby — been so good — just need one more and we can stop,” and tears stream down your cheek that only make him groan, his lips finding yours in a messy, sloppy kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth right as his cock hits at the deepest part of you—

And you squirt all over him, drenching his cock and lap as you cum, your lips parting from him, as your head is thrown back, boneless, as he fucks into you, your spasming walls pulling him over the edge as he paints your insides with his release, fucking it into you, until he finally slows, your body draped on his, head resting on his shoulder. Bodies sticky with sweat and cum, his cock finally softens inside you, the heat finally beginning to dull, as he presses soft kisses and gentle caresses to every inch of your skin, as he lays you down carefully, pulling himself from you.

“Thank you, princess, thank you,” and you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck, soft breaths cooling the sheen of sweat on his skin, “did so good for me,” and he slowly rises, grabbing his shirt and running it under water to clean you off, if only a little.

You’re already half asleep, eyes only fluttering half open to watch him, and he can’t help but bite his lip, “Sugu?”

“Yes, princess?” And you nod, fingers twitching for him, and his lips curl as he obliges, wrapping you up in his body, “know it was rough on you baby, I’ll make it up to you — don’t worry, just rest,” he grabs a water bottle, and lifts your head ever so slightly and helps you drink some water.

“I know you want to ask me something,” and he pauses, as he pulls the bottle away, “I can see the gears grinding in your head — you can ask me anything, y’know,” you had quite the way of embarrassing him, didn’t you?

“I know, I just,” he swallowed, “was there any other reason you came back to Tokyo, aside from the threats, did you come back for anything else?”

And your lips curl, raising an eyebrow knowingly, “Anything or anyone you mean?” and you chuckle when his eyes can’t meet yours, your fingers finding his again, “baby,” and your hand brushes against his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw, making his breath catch, “I did come back for someone — a very particular someone,” and he smiles, as your lips lean up to press a chaste kiss to your lips, “and my friends, of course,” you add, “I love Utahime, but I missed Shoko and Satoru, and you,”

“You did?” he murmurs, and you giggle, kissing him again, melting into his touch again, as your foreheads brushed against the other’s, “Sugu?” and it’s your turn to ask something now, chewing on your bottom lip, “can we do this again?” you murmur, before adding, “not like this but—“

And he laughs, pulling you impossibly closer, lips finding your leaping pulse, “Yes, we can, if you want to — because I know I do, because,” his thumb brushing the length of your cheek, “but I want all of you — want your body, your thoughts, your time, your heart and soul—“ and his lips quirk at the sight of your eyes widening ever so slightly, “is that okay?”

And your lips find his own as an answer, sweet kisses turn languid, heat stealing any doubts from either of your minds, “As long I have yours as well,” and the two of you share only a few more kisses, before you both finally drift off.

“If he’s fine, and I’m checking on him, I’m kicking his ass,” Satoru grumbled, as he held his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, Shoko sighing as he rooted through his pockets for his keys.

Shoko chewed her lip, she hadn’t heard from him in hours, “He was in bad shape, I can't find the time to go check and you were on your way home anyway,” Shoko says, wiping her brow, twisting a strand of her hair between her fingers.

“Yeah, on my way home back from a mission,” he finally finds his keys, sticking Suguru’s spare key into the lock and turning it, “If I have jet lag, and all I find is him jerked off and sleeping, you owe me,”

He twists the knob, and looks — he doesn’t see Suguru in the living room or kitchen — but he does see takeout containers spilled on the floor, along with a very familiar bag, and he blinks, before his lips curl. He asks if she’s heard from you, to which she says no,

He walks silently to Suguru’s bedroom, opening the door a crack to see you and Suguru curled up against each other, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, the comforter strewn about and covering the rest of your bodies.

Satoru only grins, before he pulls his phone from his ear and switches to the camera.

“Never mind, Shoko, I owe you one,” and he snaps a picture of the two of you, wondering how many missions he could pawn off to Suguru now, “I’ll treat you to lunch.”

✧ a/n: so this turned out way longer than i thought (story of my life). i had so much fun writing this - i've been writing this in conjunction with prof geto part 3 and its been funny darting back and forth between these two -- although the scenes i've been writing

✧ taglist: @peachyminx, @garfunklefield, @unicornqueen05, @hiyori-ii, @equikaz, @unoriginalidea, @forest-fruits-jam, @torusinfinity, @hellkaiserinphoenix, @loonimae, @gojoedd, @sugurufic, @glaceliy, @telvess, @kentocalls, @nayasch, @iluvvreze, @yamaguccitadashi, @faeismism, @hanxyy, @catsgomurp, @sukaibg, @sugurusdiscordmoderator, @gojorgeous, @getos-slvtt, @sirencholia, @teatreeoilll, @dewdropdive, @appysauc, @kobycetacean, @missroki, @fushitoru, @pricetagofficial, @that-goth-bisexual, @shoyosdoll, @regrettinglifechoices, @mostinsanegirl, @roseybean, @fayyyrieee, @gojobbg, @strangehuman101, @saccharine-nectarine, @i-belong-in-a-retirement-home, @spider-fan72

#sab [mlist]#geto suguru x reader #geto suguru smut #geto x reader #geto smut #suguru geto smut #geto suguru x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto x you #jjk x you

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all-purpose-dish-soap · 7 months ago

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TF141 & sexy clothes

Gaz absolutely supports you wearing whatever you feel sexy in. however, in his heart of hearts, he believes the sexiest thing you can wear around him is your pjs, your ratty old tees, your sleep shirts, your big hoodies, your slouchy garbage clothes. he just wants to know you're comfortable. not to mention the idea of you letting him see you the way nobody else gets to... letting yourself be totally vulnerable around him... that lights up a certain (slightly needy) (slightly possessive) part of his brain. interesting how easily his hands can slide past the hem of your clothes when they're bigger and slouchier, too.

Ghost loves lingerie, though. like wrapping a present just for him. it's less about the lace (or the bows, or the straps, or the leather, whatever you prefer) and more about the time and attention you're expending to make yourself look all sexy. all this work? for him? even if his usual compulsion is to act aloof and pretend it's no big deal, he can't hide the greedy way his eyes devour you--for me? don't mind if i do. it's a toss-up whether he decides to unwrap you completely or just push his calloused hands into your lil outfit and muss you up until it's not covering anything anymore. or maybe he'll just leave the wrapping on so he can keep admiring all your hard work while he pumps into you.

Price says he loves you in lingerie, and he does. he doesn't tell you how fucking crazy you drive him when you're dressed for business. that might mean the clothes you wear into the office every day; it might mean fatigues; it might mean a particular uniform; it might be sportswear. he's big into seeing you focused and in your element--your competence is sexy--while also knowing there are so few layers he'd need to peel off before he could have you completely forgetting yourself if he wanted. and hey! if the lace at the top of your thigh-highs happens to be peeking out from under your pencil skirt, or if your ass fills out your uniform just right? that's just fine with him. you do you. (for now. he'll do you later.)

Soap's preferences are simple. he likes access. skirts. dresses. obviously, if he could convince you to be naked 100% of the time, he would. sundresses are pretty, though. so are your studded black skirts if you're gothy. or your sharp, practical, form-fitting pencil skirts if you're professional. you can even wear a kilt if you'd like. his kilt. he doesn't mind. (he only asks that you wear it as it's meant to be worn--without a thing underneath.) on days you do wear a dress or skirt, you're lucky to make it out of the house without him darting after you, pulling the hem up your thighs, and wondering aloud how you managed to find any undergarments at all; he'd swear he hid every last pair. he peels your underwear off--don't protest, hen; you know how this works--and after that, your chances of getting out the door are slim to none.

...

more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

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slater130 · 1 year ago

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My favorite thing about this scene, besides the objective fact its cool and sexy when rivals with a promise that only the other is allowed to kill them accidently turning each other on while wresting, is how Taigen specifically reacts.

(Note: To be clear Mizu is referred to as female by the co creators/writers a mixed raced couple who based Mizu on there daughter so She/her is how I will refer to her, no disrespect to others with there own AU/headcanons for her gender)

Anyway, reminder, as this point Taigen still things Mizu is a boy, and his reaction is to be bashfully embarrassed, but not to deny it or try to defend his straightness.

Which means 1 of 3 things.

1. Taigen is Bi and already knows it, so he's more embarrassed by the circumstances then the act.

2. Taigen just realized he is Bi in that moment and had the calmest reaction to that revelation ever.

3. Taigen is Straight, but so secure in his Heterosexuality, that rolling around with someone he thinks is a man and the friction causing a hard on is just a matter of fact thing that happened and he's man enough to just admit it no fuss no muss.

All 3 options are a mix of both funny and really sweet, we stan a self secure fated Rival/Love Interest

#Blue Eye Samurai #blue eye samurai spoilers #Mizu #Taigen #Mizu x Taigen #Mizu/Taigen

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corroded-hellfire · 19 days ago

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I can't remember if you already answered or wrote this, but when was the first time Ryan and Luke called reader "mom"?

+ AYW request for ya--Eliza has started saying "mama," which prompts Ryan & Luke to discuss what they call Reader and whether or not they want to call her "mom."

+ When was the first time Reader referred to Luke & Ryan as her sons and when was the first time Luka & Ryan called Reader their mom?

+ What was the first time like when Ryan and Luke started calling Reader "mom"?

+ What was the first moment like when Ryan and Luke first called Reader "mom" or how did the Munson boys react when she called Ryan and Luke "my sons"?

I love how so many people wanted to see this 💜 This does get kind of cheesy and corny at the end (more so than usual), but I couldn't get the song out of my head while writing this, so it gets put in lol

Words: 4.3k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Say it again, say it again,” you gush, grinning at your daughter.

“Mama!” she gleefully replies.

You clap your hands together and she copies your motions with the same enthusiasm.

“Still making her say it, huh?”

You look up and see your husband leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest and a playful smile on his lips.

“Like you didn’t have her saying ‘dada’ over and over when she first learned it last month.”

“Dada!” Eliza chimes in.

“Hi, sweet pea.” Eddie steps into the room and leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

The little girl preens at all the attention she’s getting. Her short legs happily bounce as she wiggles from side to side on the couch.

“Mama, Dada, Mama, Dada,” Eliza singsongs.

“My little smarty pants!” You grin and gently tickle her soft belly.

“You girls have fun,” Eddie says, mussing up Eliza’s curls before heading down the hall.

“Well, do you want to?”

The shaky tone of Luke’s voice has Eddie coming to a halt a few feet away from the younger boy’s bedroom.

“I mean…yeah. I think so,” Ryan replies. “Do you think she would mind?”

“I don’t know,” Luke says. “I don’t think so. But it feels weird to ask.”

“We’ve said it a lot trying to get Eliza to say it. It felt…”

“Good,” Luke finishes for his brother.

Eddie’s brow furrows as he tries to piece together what’s troubling his boys. He doesn’t intend to eavesdrop on the two of them, but it’s become second nature to pay close attention whenever Luke is talking in case there is a scheme in the works that needs to be foiled.

“She’s always felt more like our mom than Mom does,” Ryan says.

The words are the key Eddie needed to unlock the stronghold. It makes complete sense now. The boys have been encouraging Eliza to say “Mama” for weeks now, so they’ve been referring to you in that way in front of their sister. Eddie feels like an idiot for never considering the internal storm that must’ve brewed in his sons. It’s no secret that they feel that you’re their mother more than Brittany ever was, but it’s become so normal for them to just refer to you by name. But Eddie can’t blame them for wanting to use the more official title they’d like to bestow on you.

Slowly, Eddie walks past Luke’s door, acting as if he was always going this way straight from the other room, without making a pitstop to solve a puzzle.

A long yawn further reminds you of how tired you are as you pull the blankets down on your bed. Curling up between the sheets is all you’ve been able to think about for the last hour.

Your husband walks into the room, unhooking the black watch from around his wrist. He’s already comfy in his green plaid pajama pants and holey Dio t-shirt.

“So, um, I wanted to talk to you about something,” Eddie says, placing his watch on his nightstand.

“What’s up? You climb into your shared bed and get comfortable on your side, facing him.

“Well, I heard the boys talking this afternoon.” Eddie lifts the blankets on his side of the bed and slips in right next to you. He clicks off his bedside lamp before getting comfortable and laying nose to nose with you. “They were talking about you.”

“Me?” you ask, a frown pinching your face. “Did I do something?”

“Not at all, baby,” Eddie is quick to assure you. He reaches out and gently trails the rough pads of his fingers against your jaw. “They were talking about how Eliza finally said “mama” and how they refer to you that way for her.”

Dread pools in your stomach.

“Oh no. Did that make them uncomfortable? I never asked them to, they just started saying it to help her learn. I feel so—”

“Baby, baby,” Eddie says, gently cupping the side of your face. “No, that’s not it at all. Actually, it’s kind of the opposite.”

“What do you mean?” Your face is still pinched up in concern, so Eddie gently rubs his thumb over your scrunched up forehead.

“They were saying that it felt good when they called you that. That you’ve always been their mom more than the witch ever was.”

Love’s warming touch cocoons you in an embrace as you process Luke and Ryan talking about calling you “mom.” It’s not something you ever would’ve forced on them. They call you by your name, it’s been that way since you’ve met.

“They were wondering if you’d mind. And that it would feel weird to ask you about it,” Eddie adds.

“The boys…” you trail off, needing to clear the emotion out of your throat before continuing. “The boys want to call me ‘mom’?”

“It looks that way.” Even in the dim lighting of the bedroom, you can see your husband’s grin. It’s contagious.

“I feel kind of speechless,” you admit. “I never expected it. I mean, they already have a mom. I guess I just thought that was her and I’m…me.”

“Do you not want them to call you that, princess?” Eddie asks, his tone completely devoid of judgment.

“No, no, it’s not that!” you’re quick to assure him. “I would be…so honored if they wanted to call me that. I just don’t want them to think I’m trying to overstep or take their mom’s place.”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says with a laugh, “they wish you would take their mother’s place. Brittany may have birthed them, but you’ve given them more maternal love today alone than she’s done their whole lives.”

“They’re my boys. My sons,” you say, unable to keep a smile off your face at the words.

“And you’re the mom they always wanted. The one they deserve.”

That causes the tears to finally spill over. You lean forward and bury your head in the juncture between Eddie’s neck and shoulder. He slips his lean arms around you and holds your body against his own.

“I’d be so happy if they called me that,” you whisper against Eddie’s skin. “Ecstatic. But I don’t want them to feel pressured to do it.”

Eddie nods, one hand rubbing up and down your back.

“Why don’t we wait to see if they bring it up? Luke said it would be weird to come out and ask, but they might bring it up in another way. I just wanted to talk to you about it so if they do bring it up, you’re not caught off guard.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” You tilt your head up to gaze at your husband through the pale moonlight shining into your room. “You raised such wonderful boys.”

“You mean, ‘we’ raised,” Eddie counters. “You’ve been around for more than half of their lives now.”

“Sometimes it feels like yesterday that Luke was four years old and trying to convince me he needed candy to live.” You chuckle at the memory. “They’re becoming little men now, though.”

“That they are,” Eddie says with a sigh. “Guess I should teach them how to use basic tools and shit then, huh?”

“Well, who’s going to teach you?” you tease with a playful smirk.

“Wiseass,” Eddie mumbles as he rolls you onto your back and hovers over you.

“I learned from the best!”

It takes just over two weeks for the subject to come up. Eddie is at work, Eliza is spending a little time with her grandpa before he has to get ready for work, and you’re picking the boys up from basketball practice at Hawkins Middle School.

You step into the gymnasium and are immediately choked by the stench of over a dozen boys going through puberty, and not all of them have discovered deodorant yet.

Luke is still running around on the court, where a few kids linger, and Ryan is sitting on the bench, talking to a friend. It doesn’t surprise you. Ryan was initially excited to join the basketball team when Luke first brought it up. But now, a few months in, Luke is loving it and Ryan would rather be doing almost anything else. But he made a commitment to the team and Eddie told him it’s the right thing to do, to honor that commitment. So, he’s counting the days until the end of the season.

You catch Ryan’s eye as you walk over to the sign out sheet, so he says goodbye to his friend and comes over to join you as you scribble down your name. One of the parent volunteers glances down and then smiles up at you.

“Munson?” The perky blonde woman asks in a chipper voice. “You must be Ryan and Luke’s mom.”

Just as she says this, Ryan reaches you and smiles up at you in greeting.

It’s not unusual for people to assume you’re Luke and Ryan’s mom, so navigating answers like that have become second nature, and in most cases, it’s just easier to say yes. But with this, you see an opportunity to broach the topic with the boys.

“Yeah, I’m their mom.” You grin and wrap your arm around Ryan’s shoulders. See? I’m saying it. I would love for you two to call me that.

You feel Ryan lean more into you and you breathe a sigh of relief that he’s acknowledging what you said as well.

“Luke!” The volunteer calls out onto the court. “Your mom’s here!”

The eleven-year-old turns his head in your direction, sweaty curls whipping around, and gives a smile when he sees you. He waves to his friends and jogs over.

“How was practice, boys?” you ask as you head with them toward the gym doors.

“Good!” Luke says, an extra spring in his step because he’s wearing the new sneakers he just had to have. “I’m getting better at shooting.”

“Atta boy.” You muss his hair, then have to wipe the sweat clinging to your hand on the side of your jeans. “What about you, Ry?”

“Was alright,” he replies with a shrug. “Got bored.”

“Where’s Liza?” Luke asks as the three of you get into the car.

“At Grandpa’s. We gotta go pick her up so he can get ready for work.”

Ryan buckles his seatbelt in the front passenger seat and turns on the radio. It’s quiet except for Stacy’s Mom coming from the speakers as you back out of your parking space and head off school property.

As you pull up to the first red light you’ve encountered, you turn down the music a few notches so the boys can hear you.

“Is that blonde lady from practice a team mom?” you ask.

“Who?” Luke asks.

“The lady who called out to you that your mom was there.” Why do you feel so nervous? This is Luke and Ryan. Your boys.

“Oh! Yeah, that’s Gavin’s mom,” Luke says. “I think she does sign-ups for if other moms wanna bring snacks or something.”

“Yeah?” you ask, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “Would you guys want me to do that sometime?” The light turns green, and you start down the main strip of Hawkins, towards Forest Hills.

“You wanna be a team mom?” Ryan asks, looking over at you.

“Hell yeah,” you say with a nod. “Show those other moms what it’s like to raise the two best boys in Hawkins. But I’ll only do it if you want me to. I don’t want to embarrass you guys or barge in on your activities or anything.”

“No, it’d be fun!” Luke interjects. “Whenever you bring snacks, everyone will go, ‘Thanks, Ryan and Luke’s Mom!’”

“Um, if you want them to call you that,” Ryan adds softly.

This is it. The opening you’ve been waiting for. So, why do you feel so tongue-tied all of a sudden?

“Guys,” you speak slowly and deliberately, wanting them to know just how much you mean this, and that it’s not some throw away comment, “I love when people call me your mom. But…does it bother you?”

“No!” They’re both quick to answer simultaneously.

“We like it, too,” Luke adds.

You nod and adjust your hands on the steering wheel, psyching yourself up to get the next words out.

“Listen.” You pause to clear your throat. “If you guys ever want to call me that yourselves, that is perfectly okay. I would never force you to call me that, of course. But if that’s something you’d like to do, that’s good with me.” It’s actually much more than good with you, but you don’t want to bear down too heavily on them.

“Really?” Luke asks, voice almost as soft as you’ve ever heard it. “We can?”

“Absolutely,” you assure them. “You’re my sons. You can call me whatever feels right to you.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asks.

“Yes.” You say the word with more confidence than you’ve ever said it before. The conviction of the answer rivals that of when you said “I do” to Eddie.

“I’d like that,” Ryan admits, a sheepish smile growing on his face.

“Me too,” Luke says.

“I think I just…” Ryan trails off, so you take a quick look at him before looking back to the road. “I think maybe another version of it. Because, like, when I think of calling someone ‘Mom,’ I can’t help but think of her.”

“Yeah, it’s like she ruined the name,” Luke agrees, nodding his head vigorously.

“That makes sense,” you tell them. “There are definitely different variations of the word. Whatever feels best for you is fine with me.”

“What about, ‘Mother-I-Wish-I-Always-Had?” Luke suggests with a small playful giggle.

“That’s quite a mouthful!” You laugh as well, looking at your younger boy in the rearview mirror again.

“I mean…” Once again, Ryan trails off, but this time he’s fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.

“What is it, Ry?” you ask. “You know you can tell me anything. Or ask me anything.”

“Well, it felt nice when we were trying to help Eliza say your name.”

“Yeah!” Luke seconds. “Calling you ‘Mama.’”

“Is that too childish?” Ryan asks, a slight tremble in his voice.

You turn the car into Forest Hills trailer park and wait until you come to a full and complete stop outside of Wayne’s place before speaking. Wanting to see both boys better, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn your body to look at them from your seat.

“It is not childish,” you assure him—assure both of them. “I liked hearing you guys call me that, too. When you were helping your sister.” You smile and tilt your head to the side. “I actually feel like that name suits me better than ‘mom,’ anyway. It feels right to me. Like, I’ve been waiting my whole life to be called that.”

“You’re better than ‘mom’.” Ryan confirms with a nod.

The urge to reach out for him is too strong, so you gently cup the side of Ryan’s face and gently rub your thumb back and forth over his cheek bone. Luke unbuckles his seatbelt and moves forward—closer to you, signaling he wants the same affection. You’re more than happy to give it to him.

“You’re my sons,” you tell them. “You’re my everything. You, your sister, and your dad. You guys are my whole world. And there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. So, if you ever want to talk about anything—and I truly mean anything, no matter how weird or uncomfortable you think it might be—you can come to me. I’ll always be in your corner, no matter what. And nothing you tell me will ever change the way that I feel about you. There’s not a force in this world that can do that. You guys are stuck with my love forever.”

Trying to drive home the point as much as you can, you look them straight in the eyes to make sure they know how serious you are. Ryan nods and gives you a small smile. Luke has unshed tears gathering at his lash line, and when he nods as well, they pool over and run down his cheeks. You’re quick to wipe them away for him.

“Is there anything else? Anything else you guys want to talk about while we’re here?” you ask.

“No,” Ryan says softly but strongly.

“Nothing for me,” Luke echoes. “Oh! Except that I love you.”

Now your eyes start to fill with moisture.

“I love you, too.” Your words are quiet because you know if you speak any louder, you’ll start full out crying. “Both of you. So much.”

“Mamaaaaaaaa!”

Little hands pound against the driver’s side window, and you look over your shoulder to see Wayne holding Eliza just on the other side of the car door. She’s leaning in towards you, possibly trying to figure out how to get through the glass.

With a soft chuckle, you roll down the window and raise an eyebrow at her.

“Is there something I can help you with, madam?” you ask.

“Mama!”

“That’s me,” you tell her. A pleasant buzz in your stomach reminds you of just how true that is.

“We were waiting for ya inside, but she knew you were out here and was adamant about seeing her mama,” Wayne says, adjusting the one-year-old in his arms.

“I am sorry I took so long, Your Majesty,” you tell the young toddler. “I was having a conversation with your brothers. Is that okay with you?”

“Mama!” is her only response. Then she pauses, thinks about it, and adds, “Dada!”

“He’s not here, squirt,” Ryan says. “But I think next we have to get you working on my name.”

“Mine’s easier,” Luke argues.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ryan says with a shake of his head. “She’s learning names from oldest to youngest.”

“She skipped me then!” Wayne laments.

“Cause ‘Grandpa’ is harder to say!” Luke informs him.

“Alright, Little Miss, let’s get you buckled in your seat so Grandpa isn’t late for work,” you say.

When you pop open your door, Wayne shakes his head and gestures to the back seat.

“You stay there, I can get her in,” he insists.

Luke leans across Eliza’s car seat to open the back door for his grandfather. Wayne leans in and Luke makes sure all the straps and snaps are out of the way, so Eliza won’t be sitting on any.

When Eliza realizes her brother is there in the backseat, she squeals in delight as Wayne sets her down. Between the older man and the youngest man, they’re able to secure Eliza snugly in her seat.

Wayne presses a kiss to Eliza’s head and reaches to rub over Luke’s curls before he stands up straight and closes the car door.

“See you kids later,” he says.

You’re included in that, you know. To Wayne, Eddie is still a kid, which means you’ll always be one in his eyes too. But that is something else that you are perfectly okay with.

“Everyone buckled in?” you ask.

The boys answer the affirmative and you shift the car into drive.

“Let’s go home.”

Eddie was running late at work, so he doesn’t walk through the front door until you’re setting dinner on the table.

He lets out a long sigh and rubs a grease-stained hand over his face.

“Hey, baby,” he greets you.

“Hi, gorgeous.”

You walk over and give him a proper kiss hello, which has his tired face pulling up into a small smile.

“Dinner’s ready. Why don’t you get cleaned up and then all you have to do the rest of the day is relax.”

Eddie grunts in agreement, nodding his head before he shuffles down the hallway.

You chuckle to yourself as you finish getting dinner on the table.

“Okay, Liza Bean!”

She’s happily roving around the kitchen and living room in her pink walker, but she scoots over to you at the sound of her name.

“Time for dinner.”

You scoop her up and bump the walker with your leg to make it roll into a corner and out of the way. Eliza gets set in her princess high chair and her tiny hands bang on the tray as she awaits her food.

“Gotta wait for the men of the family, you.”

She coos when you press a kiss to the top of her soft, downy baby hair. Eliza continues her drum solo as you take a few steps into the hallway and call, “Boys! Dinner!”

The middle schoolers make it to the table before their father, so you start doling out the food onto everyone’s plates. Eddie saunters out, looking much better and more energized now that he’s no longer covered in dirt and grime.

Eddie takes his seat at the head of the table and manages to give your ass a light swat as you walk past him. You giggle, despite hearing Luke pretending to gag.

Once you take your seat, you pick up your glass of water and take a sip.

“Want some peas, Liza?” You spoon a handful onto her plate, and she immediately grabs one and smooshes it into her mouth.

“Mama, can I have some more applesauce?” Luke asks.

Eddie’s breath hitches as his eyes meet yours. The warm and elated smile you give him tells him all that he needs to know for right now. Pressure forms behind his own eyes and he clears his throat before spearing a chunk of meatloaf with his fork. He does his best to push the emotions down for now, but he can’t help but beam from ear to ear.

“That depends,” you respond to Luke as you pick up the jar of cinnamon applesauce.

“On what?” Luke asks.

Your grin grows to match Eddie’s.

“Say it again.”

It takes Luke a second but then he laughs.

“Mama, can I have some more applesauce, please?”

“Mama! Mama!” Eliza cheers.

“You guys,” Ryan whines, giving an over-the-top roll of his eyes to show he’s not being serious. “You're gonna drive her crazy. Be nice to Mama.”

You feel as if you could explode from all the happiness growing inside of you. All three of your babies calling you “Mama” right in a row? A giddy light-headedness takes hold of you, and you can’t help but giggle girlishly.

“I’m Mama,” you say to no one in particular as you hand Luke the jar of applesauce.

“Well, now I feel left out,” Eddie says, letting his fork drop onto his plate.

“Mama,” Eliza says, looking at her father.

“Oh yeah, you little wisecracker? Rubbing it in?” Eddie narrows his eyes at her and the baby giggles.

“You can say, ‘mama’ too,” Ryan tells him.

“Ah, I’m not gonna say it just for the hell of it,” Eddie says with a dismissive hand wave. “There has to be a reason.”

He picks his fork back up, but as soon as he spears another piece of meatloaf, he drops it again, the utensil clinking against the ceramic dinner plate.

“Wait! I got it,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow at your husband as he sits up straighter and clears his throat. Whatever is about to happen should be interesting.

“Mamaaaa, just killed a man! Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he’s dead!”

Both you and the boys start laughing, which makes Eliza laugh as well.

“Mamaaaa, life had just begun!” Luke continues the song, “But now I’ve gone and thrown it all awaaaaay!”

“Mamaaaa, ooooooh!” Ryan picks up the next piece. “Didn’t mean to make you cry! If I’m not back again this time tomorrow, carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” you say as you stand up. “Bravo, everyone.”

You give a slow clap as you walk over to your iPod dock on the counter. Its music kept you company while you were making dinner, but now it’s about to serve another purpose. Little clicks fill the quiet as you scroll through your small silver iPod and make sure to increase the volume from where you had it before.

“If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to do this right,” you say as you come upon the correct song. “And we need to start teaching Eliza how to headbang, even if she doesn’t have a whole lot of hair to whip around yet.”

The moment you press play, the opening notes of Bohemian Rhapsody fill the air. As you walk back to your seat, you slowly wave your hands in front of you, as if you were conducting the tinkling music.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality

Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see

Luke slides off of his chair and walks on his knees over to you, hands clasped together just below his chin as he sings the next line to you.

“I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy.”

His theatrics make you chuckle, and you run your hand down the side of his face.

Because I'm easy come, easy go

Little high, little low

Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me

“Okay, we all ready for the next line?” you ask, tugging Luke up off the floor and half onto your lap.

Ryan nods and you grin as Luke wraps an arm around your shoulders and leans his head against yours.

“Two, three…” Eddie counts down before everyone at the table—sans the very confused and entertained baby—belts out the next line.”

“Mamaaaaaaaaa!”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #older!eddie #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #dad!eddie #eddie munson imagine #AYW #AYWS #request

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ma1dita · 7 months ago

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BABEEE happy birthday!! (i'm so terribly late i'm so sorry) congrats on 23💖

🐥 so i'm having thoughts right now about luke x reader and physical affection. like maybe one of them being touch starved and always craving the other person's touch and the other person noticing it and doing it more? maybe from platonic (i will go down with best friends to lovers) to romantic, i'm just on this brainrot tonight

🐥🐥🐥🐥🐥

luke castellan x reader

a/n: back from the klerb but here with a classic 4am post 🥂 but the hangxiety wont let me rest until this is out! ill edit this in the morning... or not 😗

wc: 1.1k

—

It’s hard to miss what you’ve never had.

Luke Castellan was never a touchy guy. Sure, he’ll hold a new camper’s hand during welcome tours (especially the little ones who can barely keep up with his long legs; if they’re lucky they get a piggy back ride), and he won’t shy away from a clap on the back when his strategies for capture the flag bring his team to victory (they always do, mind you), and when he feels like it, he’ll even shove Annabeth playfully to show her he adores her (but she packs a punch now that she’s older).

It never really goes past that, and he’s never had to think too hard about it—physical touch.

He’s the one who takes care of others—a part of his nature like it is for Hermes’ cabin to take in unclaimed demigods. But something changed in the months that he’s gotten closer to you. At first, he’d bite his tongue at the way you’re so open to patting his cheek when he does something funny (which he doesn’t try to make a show of, but now…), how you choose to sit so close to him during bonfires that your knees touch (the Apollo kids could be singing about the heavens falling down on them for all he cares but he zeroes in on every word that leaves your lips), and the way you’d lock your fingers with him for a pinky promise after every little thing ‘to make sure it’s real’ (Luke didn’t understand the merit of a pinky promise over whether you could have his dessert for the next week if you took over arts and crafts with the kiddie campers for him; truthfully he’d give it to you anyway). It was unusual for him to have someone comfort him, to show care without a true reason. But he didn’t realize how much more it bothered him now that you wouldn’t even look him in the eye.

Silena and some of the other Aphrodite children had asked you the very defining question of, “Do you like Luke Castellan?” and having never thought of it that way, or being able to put your feelings for him in words instead of fingers in his belt loops or in the muss of his curls—that shit was terrifying!

You spent all Saturday afternoon at the docks with them belly down under the glare of the sun’s rays as they explained to you what the five love languages are. By the end of it, sunburn wasn’t the only reason you felt hot.

“Your love language is physical touch,” one of Silena’s older half-siblings—Connelly, says like he’s explaining that the sky is blue, “And Luke’s not that type of guy! Think he’s more acts of service…”

“Ooh, or words of affirmation….” another one of them muses, but the sound of your heartbeat tunes it all out. Well shit, have you been sending him the wrong signals? Or are there even any signals you want to send him?

Nevertheless, in the matters of love or even the tiniest whisper of it—maybe there’s no one else you can trust with this stuff besides Cabin 10.

Wrong.

Absolutely wrong. Whatever the hell you’ve been convinced or whatever’s changed since last weekend—Luke just knows he hates it, and he’s angry. He’s angry at how you gasp in surprise every time you brush shoulders during archery practice when you used to let him fix your form, he’s angry at how you’ll squeeze campers’ shoulders to tell them they’re doing a good job carrying the strawberry crates—and all he gets is a mumbled ‘Thanks, Castellan’ when he stacks them up and takes your load.

Luke’s so terribly angry that Travis told him he’s been walking around like a big strawberry, face red and irritated—but not at you.

He realizes he’s also angry at the fact that he can’t protect you from the onslaught of a rain cloud—or maybe it was the fact that you’re so okay with the rain touching your skin and seeping through your orange shirt like he wishes you’d let him. He’s angry at the way the wind blows your hair into your face and your fingers brush the strands away like he wishes he can. Most of all, Luke Castellan is angry that he didn’t know how good a simple touch could be until he lost it—before he even really got to appreciate yours.

You’re sitting on the opposite end of the row in the amphitheater laughing with your friends and the furrow in his thick brow is a tell-tale sign of his discomfort. Luke doesn’t dare to remember what it’s like before you to be honest—he’d rather give up Elysium instead of having you ignore him like this. He calls your name, a tinge of both anger and desperation until you look over at him, eyelashes kissing your cheeks. The hold you have on him transcends the physical touch of your fingers but he wants, no—needs you next to him.

“C’mere! Why are you so far away?”

Luke hopes it doesn’t sound pathetic, but a crooked grin splits across his face as soon as you make your way over, sitting down and crossing your legs away from him. It’s still too far, even if he can feel your breath on his shoulder.

“Did I do something to make you angry? I…” The words escape his mouth in a jumble—quick wit from his father escaping him, though he knows not to rely on that asshole, god or not. You mutter words that almost escape him too, and he leans in, chasing your hands and putting them in his own until they’re gentle and soft in his lap.

“No, no…. I just… don’t want to push your boundaries. I know you don’t like it when I’m too touchy,” and he thinks his heart clenches a little like how you’re squeezing his hands. Luke shouldn’t feel instant gratification from a subconscious action. He wants to know you mean it with him—that’s what he can’t put into words.

“I….like it when you do.”

You notice the way his fingers tangle tighter with yours, pinkys interlocking with yours. When he lets go, Luke wraps his arm around your shoulders until you’re able to laugh in the crook of his neck. He chooses to place a kiss on the corner of your mouth when your head sways to face him at the silly tune about centaurs and then you realize that Luke loves the way you love him. You wonder if he accidentally missed meeting your lips, but then the noise in your head quiets down when he pulls you closer, lips locking tenderly, intentionally—as they were always meant to.

You both hear a giggle that sounds a lot like tinkling bells belonging to children of Aphrodite.

For once they were wrong about love.

Luke’s tongue parts through your lips and meets your own like they’re in a long awaited embrace, dancing and devouring you from the inside out but this, you— are what he can rely on. This, your touch, and how he chooses to let it consume him, never letting go.

#jo's 23rd birthday bash ⋆｡°✩#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan fanfic #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader #made by ma1dita ♥︎

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suzypfonne · 1 year ago

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I think the *implied offscreen intimate shenanigans* trope would be so cute on GO.

Just like, Crowley and Aziraphale are called in from another room and arrive disheveled: buttons are mismatched, hair is mussed, and someone's pants are on backwards. I'm especially giddy at the thought of Aziraphale's eye-pencil-mustache being smudged all over Crowley's face, and them just trying to "act normal" in the worst way.

--------

Maggie: Mr Crowley, you have something on your cheek.

Crowley: I don't. *sniff*

Nina, snidely: And your trousers are on the wrong way round.

Crowley: Ngk 'S'stylish.

Aziraphale, with half a mustache: 😳

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #gomens #david tennant #michael sheen #ineffable idiots #tv tropes #they were getting messy offscreen #lipstick on your collar #adorable #so much squee #ineffable chatfics

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pochaccoups · 5 months ago

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cw — sfw, fluff, mingi is sick and sulky, reader is smaller than mingi

It’s not entirely weird for Mingi to be waking up at 11:27 a.m. Sure, he’ll get up at seven or eight on a day full of schedules, but there’s also days where he sleeps until two, three, four p.m whether it’s from jet lag or after staying up late writing. What is weird is the fact that he’s been asleep since eight p.m. yesterday.

A text from your boyfriend is what lets you know he’s finally awake, and you’re up from the sitting room couch in an instant, darting to your shared bedroom.

He’s got the covers pulled halfway up his face with just his eyes poking out to stare at his phone screen and you wonder how a six-foot-something man can look so small.

“Morning, baby,” you say, slinking over to his side of the bed so you can sit on the edge next to him.

“Morning,” he replies, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was quite literally in front of you, you’d be convinced that someone had kidnapped your boyfriend and replaced him with a complete stranger—one with a voice so deep that it rumbles when he speaks.

Your eyes widen and you giggle, but you can’t say you’re surprised at how he sounds. His voice is notorious for dropping several octaves in the morning. Usually it’s sexy, but given that he’d spent the entire day before complaining about a sore throat, you can’t find it in you to feel anything but pity for the poor boy.

“So, I called your doctor and he said you need to stay home for the next four to five days at the least,” you tell him, reaching for his muss of silver hair to tangle your fingers through it softly.

“What-no, I’m really fine!” he whines, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. “I have to practice for the comeback, I can’t take a break right now.”

“You’re not taking a break, Gi, you’re going on sick leave. You kept me up all night with your sneezing and coughing,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, only to melt as soon as he gives you his big, round, puppy eyes.

“But it’s just a cold…”

“Well, the doctor ordered it. Besides, I’ve already called Hongjoong and your managers. And I took work off today and tomorrow so I can stay home with you.”

For a split second you swear his eyes well up with tears. “You did?”

“Of course,” you tell him. When Mingi is sick, he turns into a four week old puppy because he can’t be left alone, or a newborn baby who needs a pair of eyes on him at all times so that he doesn’t suffocate to death. So when you tell him you’ll go make him some food and tea, he wraps his excessively giant hands around your body and clings to you, like letting go of you would mean he’ll succumb to his illness.

“Gi, you need fluids. Please let me go,” you remind him, but he only holds you tighter and you know it’s partly out of spite and partly because he’s just like this—a velcro boyfriend.

“Mingi, I’ll be two minutes, then I’ll come right back, okay?” you tell him.

“No, you won’t, I know you,” he says, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s pouting. It’s a permanent feature of his face by now.

“I will! Why else do you think I took work off, huh?”

He’s silent then, and a moment later his arms fall loose, and he lets you go, but you leave a kiss on his forehead as an act of promise to him and shuffle back out to your kitchen.

Spurred by your boyfriend’s neediness, you gather leftover rice from the fridge, chicken broth, and a handful of vegetables with haste and start to boil the concoction that your mother taught you how to make, the one that got you through not just fevers but through heartbreaks, losses, and cold winters.

“The most important ingredient,” she would say, “is a sprinkle of your heart”—though Mingi deserved more than just a sprinkle.

The kettle boils away and your stew bubbles with life in no time. It’s also no time before a giant, warm, sniffling body plasters itself to your back and buries his face into your neck, practically bending in half to do so.

You can’t say you don’t see it coming. Still, the spirit of your mother possesses you when you drag out his name to scold him.

“Why aren’t you in bed, dummy?” you question, though you’re careful not to have any real aggravation in your voice toward him. Admittedly, you adore the way his body heat wraps around you like a blanket, although you’re sure that’s just his fever.

“Missed you too much,” he mumbles, nuzzling his nose and lips against your shoulder.

“I told you I’d be two minutes,” you sigh.

“It’s been more than that already. You lied. I knew you’d lie.”

“It was hyperbole for ‘I’ll be super quick’.”

“Then you should have said that.”

You place your wooden spoon down on the counter, turning to face your boyfriend with a fond smile on your face.

He looks adorable. Unbelievably so. Mussed up white hair, a dusting of pink on the apples of his cheeks and the pointy tip of his nose, puffy eyes that still sparkle at the sight of you. You might be the luckiest human on the planet.

You bring your hands up to his face, grabbing at each of his cheeks and squishing them gently between your fingers.

“My poor, sick princess,” you coo, watching his dimples make an appearance when he gives you a goofy, content smile. “Do you wanna watch a movie? Or a show maybe?”

He nods his head, still smiling so sweetly.

“Go pick something and I’ll finish up your soup,” you offer.

“Can I have a kiss first?”

You stare at him, unamused, though you know this very well—Song Mingi cannot live without your kisses. It’s why he was crafted with the softest, prettiest, heart-shaped lips, so that you could kiss them over and over and over again until the end of time. There are exceptions, however.

“I’m not catching your virus! Is that what you want?”

“No, no, on my forehead again!” he clarifies, his features suddenly muddled with worry because he would suffer from this cold for the rest of his life if it meant you would be healthy for the rest of yours. You wonder, though, if he knows how badly you wish you could take his cold and suffer it for him.

“Oh, well then yeah, duh,” you say, standing on your tip toes and gently pulling Mingi’s face towards you so that you can plant an overly long kiss on his burning forehead and pull away with a “mwah!” that leaves him utterly beaming.

Finally satisfied, he shuffles off back to the room, leaving you to brew his tea and serve up the stew into two bowls.

You grab flu tablets from the medicine cabinet, noting that they’re almost all gone and you’ll need to go to the pharmacy to get more. For today you have enough, so you place them on the tray along with the stews and tea and make your way back to your bedroom.

Mingi is curled up under the covers again and it’s so cute that you hate to disturb him, but he unfurls himself and sits up as soon as he sees you with a tray in hand.

“What are we watching?” you ask, slowly settling on the bed next to him and laying the tray down on the mattress.

“I think Attack on Titan, if you want to,” he says, full of fondness as you hand him two tablets to take.

“Oh, right, you’ve been wanting to watch that! Of course I want to,” you tell him, because you could never pass up the opportunity to see Jean Kirschtein in action again. You’ve missed him dearly since the show ended, though you have no doubt of the sulking and pouting you’ll get from Mingi when he comes onscreen.

Your boyfriend’s eyes go comically wide when he tries your soup and you laugh because he almost chokes on it.

“Is it that good?” you chuckle.

“It’s really good,” he responds.

“Good, because I put all my love into it.”

He hums, his face glowing pink as he eats another spoonful. “I can tell. Thank you for making this. And thank you for taking care of me. And for putting up with me.”

“Anything for my princess,” you giggle. “But I’m not ‘putting up with you’, idiot. Is it hard to comprehend that someone cares about you, Mingi?”

He stares up at you with his shiny eyes as though you hand-crafted the very sun, moon, and stars and placed them in the sky yourself.

“I love you,” he says, a mere whisper. It’s three words he’s said to you a million times, but right now, with his walls down and him vulnerable, it’s worth a million times more.

“I love you too,” you reply, leaning over to smack your lips against his temple. “Now watch the show!”

And he tries, he really does—but your little hospital patient is fast asleep by the third episode.

#mingi x reader #song mingi x reader #mingi imagines #mingi x you #mingi fanfic #song mingi x you #song mingi imagine #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #[୨୧] — starring: mingi

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ckret2 · 4 months ago

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Chapter 59 of human Bill Cipher possibly not being the Mystery Shack's prisoner because he got executed two chapters ago:

Everything you haven't wondered about how Bill survived his execution.

7:27 a.m.

Mabel didn't know why, but figuring out when to ask Mrs. Grendinator to pull over had felt as stressful as trying to throw a ping pong ball into a passing car's open fuel door to land in the little fuel pipe. All she had to do was ask to pull over after they'd passed everything but the last truck stop, but before it was too late for Mrs. Grendinator to make the turn into the Triple Digit parking lot. That was a large window. It wasn't easy to miss. Somehow Mabel still dreaded that she'd speak up too late and Mrs. Grendinator would say she'd have to wait for the next rest stop—by which point Bill would have splatted like a bug against the weirdness barrier while everyone else passed safely through.

But she'd managed to blurt out "I forgot to use the bathroom at home. Can we pull over?"; they'd stopped at the Triple Digit Truck Stop; and Mabel made it inside before her friends could catch her.

She locked the unisex restroom door, set her backpack on the ground, opened it up, and sighed with relief when she saw Bill sitting on her sweater. She carefully pulled him out, set him on the floor, and pointed the height-altering flashlight at him.

For a moment after returning to his true size, he remained seated on the floor, legs bent, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Worriedly, Mabel asked, "You okay?"

"Think I learned what motion sickness is," Bill groaned. "Just—gimme a sec."

"Aww, I'm sorry." Mabel surreptitiously checked in her backpack to make sure Bill hadn't been sick on her sweater. (It was a cool one. It had kissing parrots.)

After a few deep breaths, Bill lifted his head enough to look at Mabel. The first thing he said was, "'Cool big brother-slash-sister,' huh?" He gave her a queasy, but cheeky, grin.

"Shut uuup you weren't supposed to hear that!" She'd just about died with embarrassment when Candy had repeated that where she knew Bill could hear.

"I'm flattered." Bill uncurled himself from his nauseous half-fetal position; and then, gripping onto the sink for support, got back to his feet. "Being smaller again was nice, but I'm never traveling like that again."

"You're such a whiner."

"Yeah, yeah. I have a lot to whine about. I'm dead and about to be executed. Talk about... lose your cake and... not-eat it, too."

Mabel laughed. Bill mussed her hair, grinning, and said, "Hey, you've got no room to laugh, you're the one with the not-setting-houses-on-fire bit."

"Arrrgh, don't remind me!" She pushed Bill to the side so she could use the mirror to straighten out her hair again.

"You did pretty well, though! I'd say that was some of the best acting I've ever seen out of you."

"You too! They definitely bought it," Mabel said. "Even Grunkle Stan was getting worried."

"Especially back in the kitchen, wow! That was really convincing." He paused. "Really, really convincing."

Something heavy hung in the air. Mabel focused on her hair in the mirror.

Bill said, "That bit in the kitchen about me 'depending' on you." He exaggerated the air quotes around the word, distancing himself from the concept. "It wasn't on our list."

"Yeah. It just kinda... seemed right. Improv." Mabel waved unenthusiastic jazz hands.

"It bothers you."

Mabel winced. "I mean... I'm not actually mad at you. But. I want to help, but I don't know what to do for..." She gestured at Bill. "The whole being dead on an alien planet issue."

"Believe it or not, the hoodie helps," Bill said. "Listening helps." But he couldn't meet her gaze; he was fiddling with his friendship bracelet instead. He had to know how heavy even just listening to him could be.

"I'm glad, but... I just... wish you had more friends you could talk to."

Bill nodded morosely. "So do I." It wasn't like he'd chosen to only have one friend, was it? Prisoners didn't get to make those kinds of decisions.

Mabel asked, "Do you really think I think you're just a summer fix-it project?"

"I... pfff... come on, I watched you spend all last summer handing out makeovers and dating advice. You've already done my makeup, taken me clothes shopping, and tried to pump me for info on what kinds of freaks I'm into."

(Mabel quietly filed away the fact that Bill referred to "freaks" as his preferred romantic targets.)

"That's how your summer was going to end," Bill said. "You tame the monster, go home triumphant, and don't worry about it anymore. Like how you patched up Broken Heart's love life and left him to sort out the consequences."

"No!" Mabel huffed, "I mean—maybe a little at the beginning, but... you're really my friend now, I'd hate it if I never saw you again. I don't give friendship bracelets to just anybody!"

Bill kind of thought she did; but he wasn't about to argue. "Well, I've only given one person a bracelet, and I meant it." (Even more now than when he'd originally made it.) "You're never getting rid of me now, star girl. You're stuck with me forever!"

Coming out of Bill Cipher, the promise should have filled her with dread. A month ago it would have filled her with dread. But Mabel just found it comforting. "Good."

(And Ford hadn't felt any dread when he'd sworn "until the end of time," either.)

Bill took off his backpack and rummaged through it. "Now let me make sure I can keep that promise."

He took out a map of the mountains and forest around Gravity Falls and spread it out on the floor for them to kneel in front of. "You know about the spaceship buried under town? When its ring cut through the mountain, a few chunks of the ship dislodged and were buried in one of the mountains. No human has ever found them before, not even your great uncle. That's where I'll hide."

"Are the chunks big enough to hide in?"

"Sure! There's one that'd serve as a decent studio apartment. Well—the cheapest studio apartment in Manhattan, maybe. But, hey, I don't have much furniture."

On the map, he showed Mabel a route to reach the base of the cliff, tracing it with his finger. She couldn't afford to take a map with the route marked; if the adults discovered Bill's escape and confiscated Mabel's possessions, a marked map would lead them straight to him. She'd just have to do her best to memorize the route he described. "When and if the coast is clear, you can come find me there."

"How do I get up the cliff?"

"Don't worry about that. You make it that far, I'll take care of the rest."

And that was all they could afford to discuss. Mabel couldn't hide in here for long. As Bill refolded the map (and Mabel was awed to learn he was the kind of person who could refold maps correctly on the first try), and he packed the map and the height-altering flashlight in his backpack, they each tried separately to figure out how to get around to saying goodbye.

"I uh... I know you're sticking your neck out for me, kid." (Bill wasn't used to this, wasn't used to people who didn't help him due to fear or duty or lies, wasn't used to people who still wanted to help him after they knew what he was really like.) "So, thanks—"

Mabel flung her arms around him. Her voice thick, she said, "I think your manners are getting better."

"Shut up, I've always known how to say thanks." It was gratitude that was new.

"Be safe out there," Mabel said. "Don't die, or else. Remember to eat. And drink water! And do laundry sometimes."

"All right, all right. You'll find me in better health than you left me. All the sunshine and fresh air this body can take."

"I'll miss you."

Keep it together, Cipher. He swallowed hard. "Have you ever heard the song 'We'll Meet Again'?"

"Uh-uh?"

"Old war song. Look it up once you're in Portland, when you aren't busy having synthesizers pumped in your ears."

"Is it about... how we'll meet again?"

"Yes, smartypants. Look it up anyway," Bill said. "I'll miss you too."

Mabel washed her face, left the restroom, and shut the door behind her; and Bill waited in the dark while everyone left.

####

7:45 a.m.

A woman with two children opened the unisex restroom door, and gasped in shock when she saw a human silhouette lurking in the dark, one eye shining.

"Hey, thanks, lady! Couldn't get the door for some reason." He breezed past her. "Careful, it sticks from the inside."

He grabbed an empty backpack for sale, and loaded it up with supplies, food, and drinks. (The good stuff, not the weak cider he got in the Mystery Shack. He was making margaritas tonight.) He headed up to the cash register... veered to a currently-unmanned register, stole a handful of loose change out of a tip jar, and timed his exit so he walked out just as a man walked in and kindly held the door for him.

####

7:55 a.m.

It was a fair walk from Triple Digit back to the cliffs around Gravity Falls. When Bill was a safe distance into the woods, he unzipped his first backpack, retrieved his flattened top hat, and popped it out; and then continued on, behatted and using his umbrella like a cane.

Even with no sleep, even just a couple of days after the worst hiking trip in history, even tired and sore from an hour of frenzied dancing, even carrying two full backpacks with one strap slung over each shoulder, even with the sky gloomy and overcast—this was the best he'd felt since Weirdmageddon.

His steps were sure, his body was unchained, and the future had opened up for him again.

####

8:00 a.m.

Mabel kept glancing out the window, back in the direction of Gravity Falls, waiting and waiting to see the light of some kind of killer laser cut through the sky.

Maybe the Quantum Destabilizer's beam just wasn't visible from this far. Maybe they'd decided to wait to execute Bill. Maybe they hadn't wasted their shot because they'd already discovered Bill and Mabel's ruse. Maybe the "enchantment" Bill had written hadn't done its job.

But if they had discovered Bill was missing, they would've called Mabel immediately, trying to find out what she'd done and where he'd gone.

Her phone sat hard and heavy and silent in her pocket.

The butterflies in her stomach didn't stop fluttering until long after they reached Portland.

####

10:30 a.m.

Plus or minus a few trees, the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff was just how Bill had remembered last seeing it millennia ago. The Trilazzx Betan proximity sensor that had been embedded in the cliff face since the ship crash was still there and still sensing, even after millions of years and a layer of stone had closed around it. He could see it behind the face of the cliff; and it could see him.

He took out the multi-tool pocket knife Dipper had "donated" to Bill's supplies, flipped out the blade, and carved his face in a tree far enough from the rendezvous point to avoid notice by anyone who found this spot, but near enough it could see anyone who showed up. He made it as accurate as he could—hat, bow, limbs, eyelashes. That would unfortunately make it easier for humans to identify the face if anyone happened to walk by, but his ability to connect to his other eyes was still weak, he needed as much of a boost as he could get. He licked the bark, leaving his saliva to connect the eye on the tree to him.

And then he returned to the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff, and, beneath the watchful eye of the proximity sensor, began digging in the dirt with his hands.

Beneath the soil, fortunately not buried too deep, was a stone shaped like a small tombstone with several symbols carved into its surface that superficially resembled common runes. Bill brushed the dirt off of his leggings and rubbed it out of the carved lines in the stone. It was lucky that today was overcast; it would make this thing a lot easier to control.

Bill took out the flashlight, removed the height-altering crystal, turned it on, and aimed the beam at the topmost rune.

The runes began glowing an eerie green.

The ground shuddered; and then a patch of ground five feet in diameter lifted up into the air, carrying Bill with it, tearing the grass at the edge of the circle, propelled by a long-forgotten enchanted stone platform concealed in the clump of dirt.

He rose to the gouge that the spaceship had carved into the mountain; and then he moved his flashlight's beam to another rune. The platform smoothly shifted to moving sideways, gliding beneath the ancient overhang. When he turned off the flashlight, the stone stopped glowing and gently settled to the ground. Bill stepped off, fished a spare shirt out of his backpack, and pulled it over the rune-covered stone so it couldn't take off if the sun came out. There was a reason this buried stone was the only platform of its kind left in the area outside of the deep mountain caverns: leave one outside on a sunny day where the light can hit its runes, and next thing you know it's zoomed out over the Pacific and is quickly rising toward space.

He surveyed the area. Every once in a while humans climbed up here just for the challenge of it, delightful little explorers they were; but he doubted anyone had been up here in decades. He stood in front of what was, to all appearances, a completely nondescript patch of stony ground; and he said, in heavily accented but intelligible Trilazzx Betan, "Let me in, you hunk of junk. Activate emergency crash protocols."

A fragment of ship deep beneath the ground stirred awake, registered the command, analyzed itself and concluded from the fact that it wasn't in space and was separated from 99% of the rest of itself that it had indeed crashed, and activated emergency crash protocols. In acknowledgment of the dire situation, it deactivated its usual authorized personnel list—there was no sense in waiting for the captain to approve new orders if the captain might be dead—accepted the command given by the unknown being above it, and opened its hatch.

Millions of years of solid stone groaned and buckled in protest at being moved; but Trilazzx Betan engineering was strong enough for the framework of a portal capable of ripping a hole between dimensions without being ripped apart itself. The stone yielded first. A hatch swung up, revealing a tilted chamber descending into the cliff.

Bill strolled confidently down the walkway. "Cancel distress signal. Disable life support's air filtering." The fragment of a ship beeped a warning, and Bill responded, "I'm aware of this planet's high oxygen content. You worry about your health, I'll worry about mine. Disable air filtering." The ship beeped a confirmation. "Reconnect to all external proximity sensors in range and display on screens one, two, and three." This broken part of the ship had once handled communications. It had a whole wall of screens. He wondered whether he could jury rig this thing to pick up human satellite TV. Nah, probably not worth the effort.

He slung off his backpacks and started unpacking.

####

12:04 p.m.

It was time.

Dipper sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. He felt sick.

He was dead. In just a few seconds Ford would discover that Bill was gone—Dipper was sure he was gone, they hadn't heard a peep from the room, Mabel must've snuck him out or left him some escape route—and then Ford would know that someone had warned Bill and Mabel, and then Dipper was dead—

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Dipper waved Ford off. "Just... didn't get much sleep. Little dizzy." Ford would never trust him again. Stan would be furious. They'd both be furious.

"You can go downstairs if you..."

"No no, I'm fine, I..." Dipper took a deep breath and lifted his head. "I'll face it." Better to get it over with now than to hide downstairs and wait for it.

Stan nodded. "Good man." He wouldn't be so proud of Dipper in a moment.

Ford nodded, stood, opened the door—and Dipper buried his face in his hands again.

####

12:06 p.m.

Ford could see Bill up in the loft, hood up and shoulders hunched, back to the room. Ford could shoot Bill in the back without him ever waking up.

He climbed into the loft. Bill lay curled up in a ball, a small as Ford had ever seen him.

But it only took a moment for Ford's eyes to adjust to the dark; and even in the dim light through the stained glass window, he could tell:

The shape in front of him wasn't human. Just lumpy clothes.

Ford whipped around, heart pounding, clutching the Quantum Destabilizer's carrying case against his chest, searching for the real Bill lurking somewhere in the shadows. No sign of him. Ford had already looked on the floor level. Was he gone? How?

He was too dumbfounded to be outraged. He walked up to the dummy to pull it apart—

And saw the paper, folded in quarters, floating in the air above it. Four symbols in a cipher were written atop the paper. Ford recognized them: it was the alien alphabet of an interdimensional pidgin used as a written lingua franca throughout the Nightmare Realm and its bordering regions; it was so widespread that Ford had learned the alphabet before he ever left Earth.

The four letters read, "F O R D".

Ford plucked the paper out of the air and unfolded it.

Stanford–

I'll cut to the chase. I need your help. I don't want to die.

I'm banking on the hope that, in spite of everything you've said and done, part of you also doesn't want me to die.

You have a choice. You can walk out there, tell them I escaped, rally an angry mob, and comb everything under the weirdness barrier for me. This town's not that big and I'll need to eat eventually. We both know I can't hide forever.

Or you can tell them you finished the job. No one looks for me. No one knows but you and me.

I don't have rewards or deals to offer. You already know what I bring to the table. If that hasn't persuaded you to side with me by now, it never will. I'm not bargaining. I'm begging.

I'm asking you, as my friend, to help me survive.

Please.

· –·-– -–

Of course.

How dare he.

Had Bill planned this all along? Was this why he'd insisted he wanted to be Ford's friend? Was this why he'd saved his life? Maybe the entire rescue had been staged—the rescue, the performance of fear over a harmless phenomenon, the mental breakdown, all of it. For all Ford knew, maybe the accursed Axolotl was in on the scheme! How clairvoyant was Bill? Had he seen this moment coming?

But if he'd seen this moment coming, wouldn't it have been easier to just let Ford, his executioner-to-be, die? Ford and Dipper both, so Dipper wouldn't figure out how to synthesize NowUSeeitNowUDontium? If he'd saved them in spite of that, didn't that make it a sincere gesture?

But implication was clear: I've been a friend to you, now be one to me. A life for a life. There was nothing sincere in that. It was pure self interest.

(For just a couple of days, Ford really had thought it was sincere.)

But if the only reason Bill had saved Ford was to save himself—then why had Bill endangered his own life in the process?

With every thought Ford's paranoia pendulumed.

He should get Stan. Call the cops, confess who they'd been harboring for the past month, tell them everything, get a manhunt going before Bill could make it any further away. Even if he couldn't leave the weirdness barrier, there were probably hundreds of hidden hidey-holes Bill could dig himself into that humans had never seen—unexplored hallways in Crash Site Omega, uncharted caverns behind Trembley Falls where Bill didn't even need light to see. They could drag him back into the light, tie him up, aim the Quantum Destabilizer straight at him...

But. In spite of himself, he could still see Mabel's drawing hopefully reassigning Bill the role of a superhero. He could still see the crumpled drawing in his pocket—"I BELIEVE IN YOU. YOU CAN CHANGE!" He could still see Dipper tentatively asking whether they might need Bill someday. He could still see Bill playing teacher in the living room. And for a moment, for just a moment, Bill had been so good. He could be so good.

Why couldn't you have been this person?

Why can't you be this person?

What if he could be better? What if he could be decent? What if he could be a friend?

Ford didn't believe Bill was any better today than he had been the day he died. But—at some point, something had slowly turned over in Ford's mind. He believed that Bill could change. Not would change, not is changing, but could. And if Ford started a manhunt, Bill would never be a threat again—but he'd also never be better.

There was a point where the doubt and hope built up to a critical mass—when they became enough, just enough, to stay the trigger finger. Because once Ford fired on Bill, that was it. All chances were gone forever. It was over. If Bill was alive they could always try again to kill him later; but if Bill was dead, they could never try again to better him.

And for the first time in thirty years, Ford wanted Bill to be better more than he wanted Bill to be dead.

Ford looked at the dummy. Looked at the note.

And then he lay the note on the dummy, knelt by the edge of the loft, opened his case, and removed the Quantum Destabilizer.

####

12:09 p.m.

Ten minutes ago, Bill had been in the process of emptying out his backpacks and finding nooks and cubbies amongst the alien communication workstations where he could tuck his supplies, when he'd glanced out the open hatch and noticed the beforeimage of the shot lighting up the sky.

He'd come out of his shelter to watch the moment approach; but he hadn't quite believed it until it was in the present and actually happening. The blue-white beam of the Quantum Destabilizer—its one and only shot—screamed off into the sky.

"Well, what do you know," he murmured, standing at the edge of the cliff, hands on his hips, staring out in wonder over the town. "I really didn't think you'd do it."

Ford had saved his life.

Bill crossed his arms tight and tried to convince himself he didn't wonder why.

####

12:10 p.m.

Ford heard Dipper and Stan come into the bedroom and climb the ladder. He was seized by an urge to sweep away the ashes and the evidence of his trick before they could realize what he'd done.

"Grunkle Ford...?"

He forced himself to speak. "It's done."

"So... Bill is...?"

Ford suddenly realized: Dipper knew Bill wasn't in here. He must have warned Mabel, and Mabel had arranged for Bill to be alone in their room long enough to escape.

Which meant Dipper knew Bill was alive.

(Bill had written, "No one knows but you and me." Bill was covering for the kids.)

Ford turned to look him in the eyes. "Yes, he's dead."

Which meant Dipper knew what Ford had done—and knew Ford knew what he had done.

Neither one of them needed to say anything else to know what the other was thinking. They just shared a look—the two most miserable co-conspirators in Gravity Falls.

####

12:25 p.m.

Bill sat cross-legged at the edge of the cliff and watched until the afterimage of the Quantum Destabilizer's shot had faded from the sky; and then he went inside his shelter, mixed the world's lamest margarita in a coffee mug, took it outside, sat again, and toasted toward the town and the Mystery Shack.

Here's to survival.

He sat outside until the gash the Quantum Destabilizer had cut in the clouds closed and it began to rain.

####

1:10 p.m.

Stan had come and gone a few minutes ago, and already Ford had forgotten everything he'd said, if he'd even registered it in the first place.

His fingers had itched until he'd finally had a moment to steal down to his study, retrieve Journal 5, and bring it up to the guest room; and now for over half an hour he'd been feverishly writing down every single thing he could remember learning about Bill over the last two days. The drawing of his homeworld. His lecture on biangles and psychic powers. How polygons inherited their sides. (Their royalty sounded nigh on Habsburgian; had their political system ever changed?) What little details Bill had let slip about where Edward Bishop Bishop's book was wrong. (Had he told Mabel more about their relationship? He'd have to ask when she was home.) How Bill signed his letter: "· -·-- --", Morse code for "EYM," was it an acronym, was it a code, what did it mean, why did he write it in two colors? How Bill spelled Mabel's name in alien alphabets: Mabelle, Maybell, the varying extra letters. How Bill danced: how he struggled to cross his ankles, how he turned out his feet, how his spine and shoulders never bent, how the complex ways he tilted his legs and pelvis compensated for his stiff spine.

If Bill was sticking around a while longer, then these details still mattered.

He refused to forget a thing.

####

Sunday, 12:02 a.m.

As "We'll Meet Again" finished playing, Mabel turned off her phone, put it back on her nightstand, and wiped her eyes again. Big stupid dork couldn't even say this himself, he had to hide it behind a song.

Yes. They would meet again. Law of attraction. Believing it was the first step to making it come true.

####

10:20 a.m.

The fearful butterflies in Mabel's stomach had slowly returned during the drive home from Portland. No one had texted her—was that a good sign?—but she was afraid it just meant they'd decided to let her enjoy the rest of her trip before letting her know she was grounded forever for helping Bill escape. When they'd all greeted her at the door, looking so somber, and she was sure she was about to get the bad news, she'd just had to keep acting normal and hope she wasn't gonna get in more trouble for playing dumb.

The last thing she expected Stan to say was, "Weshotim."

"Say wha?"

"We got that—space gun of Ford's working. We shot him. He's... I'm sorry, sweetie."

Mabel stared at Stan. That was impossible—there was no way they'd found Bill. But—if Stan believed he was dead...

She dragged her gaze from his face to Dipper's. Dipper bit his lips, staring at his feet. He wouldn't meet her eyes—too afraid that even looking at her would give something away.

She looked from Dipper to Ford. "Grunkle Ford?" She tried not to hope. "Is it true?"

There was no way he'd believed the dummy was real. The moment she'd read Bill's so-called "enchantment," she'd known making it believable was never the point. Bill's only real plan had always been to get Ford on their side.

For a long moment, Ford said nothing. He dragged his eyes up to meet her stare, took a deep breath, and nodded. "He's dead."

Mabel's eyes widened. Two days ago, Ford had been the one arguing that killing Bill was their only choice. If he'd changed his mind...

If anyone said anything else, she didn't register it in her excitement. She backed out of the doorway, leaped off the porch, and ran around the shack, looking for her bike.

She had to see Bill immediately.

####

10:21 a.m.

Quietly, Dipper asked, "Did we do the right thing?"

Ford didn't know. His stomach had been twisting with guilt and doubt since yesterday. His conscience had kept him up half the night. "I hope so."

He feared they'd have second-guessed themselves no matter what.

####

2:30 p.m.

Bill was asleep. He'd been sleeping off and on for most of the past day. This was the first time since he'd died that he had somewhere safe to sleep—somewhere nobody could touch his vulnerable body, nobody could move him, drown him, kill him.

And this was the first time he hadn't been helpless and sightless.

In his sleep, he saw his own body, curled up on the tilted floor against a wall, on top of the sleeping bag and under the Pony Heist bedsheet, from an eye he'd drawn on the ceiling.

From another eye he'd drawn on the wall, he saw the ship's open hatch, the overhang above, a small sliver of the gray drizzly sky over Gravity Falls.

And from his eye on the tree, blurry and fading as the rain washed away his saliva, he saw a human-shaped mass of raucous colors exploring the pit in the ground left behind by his hovering platform.

A human? He sat up with a gasp and looked at the screen displaying the proximity sensors. Sure enough, the sensor at the base of the cliff was displaying a Mabel-shaped silhouette.

He grabbed his flashlight and climbed out of his shelter.

####

"Kid, what are you doing out out here?!"

Mabel looked up. Bill was some twenty feet above her and quickly descending on what looked like a chunk of flying dirt the same size as the pit in the ground she'd been inspecting. "Bill!" She leaned her bike against the cliff face. Finally—she'd been wandering around in the trees forever trying to figure out where Bill's rendezvous point was hidden.

"It's pouring rain," Bill scolded. "You could lose your immune system or—or slip in the mud or something."

"Wow, nice to see you too, mom." Mabel ran up as Bill landed his floating chunk of ground.

"Hey, I don't want anything happening to my favorite human!" He scooted over to make room for her on the platform. "Just couldn't wait for a sunny day to meet again, huh?"

"Psh, come on! Like you meant that literally." Near Bill, the rain had mysteriously stopped landing on Mabel. She looked up and saw the rain simply parting in the air over Bill's head.

He noticed her glance and said, "Did I ever teach you the spell to repel rain? Remind me to do that before you go." He pointed his flashlight's beam at a rune on a stone rising from the platform, and it lifted off again. "Nice sweater today." He poked one parrot-winged sleeve, its bright colors darkened by the soaking rain. "It probably looked better dry."

Mabel smacked away his hand. "Bill, guess what! Grunkle Ford decided to protect you!"

"I know, I saw the wasted shot from here." He steered the platform onto the cliff. He landed it next to a hatch that opened into a subterranean tunnel. "Of course, I always knew he would. Didn't I say we'd pull this off?"

Sure he'd known. That was why he'd lied about what the "enchanted" paper really was so Mabel wouldn't worry.

Mabel followed him down into the metal tunnel. "Do you know what this means? You can come back to the shack!"

Bill turned to stare at her in bewilderment. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because... it's safe now? They're not gonna kill you?" Mabel squinted. "Why's it so dark in here?"

"Oh, right. You need this." Bill offered the flashlight.

Mabel turned it on. They were in a metal chamber, about half the size of the Mystery Shack's floor room and nowhere near as tall. One end of it had been torn off and dirt and stone served as the new wall. Most of the walls were dominated by heavy metal consoles, curved metal chairs, and screens, a few of which were on but flickered irritatingly. One chair still had a fossilized alien skeleton in it. Bill had put his top hat on it.

His supplies were piled haphazardly on consoles and the floor; all Mabel saw in his food pile was shelf-stable junk food and drinks. The air somehow felt more damp in here than it did outside with the rain. The chairs didn't have cushions, the floor didn't have carpet; everything was hard and cold and dark. She didn't even see a door for a bathroom in here. This was where Bill was staying?

"The Mystery Shack is safe for now," Bill said. "Just wait until Stanley decides to take another swing at me, or Dolores poisons my dinner again—or Ford changes his mind, dunks me in the bathtub, and doesn't let me back out."

"They wouldn't..." Mabel trailed off. She tried to imagine how mad Stan would be when he found out Bill was alive, and had to concede he might.

"Even if it was safe—why would I go back to that sorry makeshift prison?" Bill hopped up into one of the tilted alien chairs. There was a weird extended bit designed for alien anatomy that curved up at the end of the seat and forced Bill to straddle the chair rather than sit in it normally; it didn't look comfortable. "After almost a month and a half, I'm finally free!"

"Free inside a tiny bubble around the town," Mabel protested. "To live in a... weird little metal dirt room."

"Freely moving inside the entire barrier is a lot better than freely moving through half a shack! Surrounded by people who want me dead! I don't even get full privacy when I'm using the toilet—that's the bare minimum humans offer as basic respect! You don't know how many times I've been walked in on!"

"Do you even have a toilet here?"

Bill hesitated. "There's a—there are gas stations within walking distance."

"How are you gonna get into the restroom?"

"Fine, I'll dig a pit or something, all right? The point is, whatever I do, at least I can do it in freedom!"

He hadn't planned this through at all, Mabel realized. He'd only thought as far ahead as finding food and shelter that would last him the next couple of days. "But..." She gestured at the pathetic room around them. "The shack's got a proper roof and a shower and real food—wouldn't that be better than this?"

Bill scoffed "Only humans care about roofs and showers, and the idea of 'real' food is a social construct I reject!"

He'd be miserable here. Mabel couldn't let Bill do this to himself. "Then don't you wanna be in the shack with your only friend on Earth?" She gave him a pleading look. "Would you really rather spend the rest of summer in some dumb old busted alien ship?"

There was a flash of light reflected in the dark as Bill's eyes turned away from Mabel.

"Bill?"

He didn't respond. He trudged past her, halfway up the walkway out of the ship, and stopped there, his back to Mabel, hands on his hips, staring out into the rain. He sighed. "Kid, you're trying to give me Stockholm syndrome."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means I'll think about it," Bill said, voice flat. "Go back to the shack."

Before Mabel could move, Bill said, "Hold on. Let me teach you that umbrella spell first." He turned and descended back into the ship. "And when's the last time you ate? Human bodies act pathetic if they don't get glucose every three hours. Get some lunch, it's a long bike back to the shack." He gestured at his meager food supplies.

She rummaged through the foil bags and colorful boxes and grabbed some Chipackers and sour gummy dolphins.

Bill sat near her, grabbed a bag of jerky for himself, and said, "And tell me about that concert you abandoned me to my doom for."

####

4:00 p.m.

Bill escorted Mabel down off the cliff—and, at her request, let her borrow the flashlight and wiggle the floating platform back and forth a little as they descended. He took back the flashlight when she nearly crashed the platform and killed them both.

"Where'd this come from?" Mabel asked, poking the stone. "Did the aliens make this, too?"

"Nope! This is good old local Earth magic. Ever hear of Caterpillar Man?"

"Is that some kind of superhero?"

"Afraid not. Well—ever hear of Grendel?"

"Uh-uh."

They were nearly at the ground now. "I think I'll tell you next time."

As the platform lifted him back up, Bill watched Mabel wheel her bike through the trees, slowly heading toward the main road back into town.

For a midsummer day, it was chilly in the rain.

####

Monday, 1:03 a.m.

And it was even chillier in the post-midnight dark when he knocked on the Mystery Shack's door.

####

(Eager to hear what y'all think now that you've seen the full story of how Bill survived—last week once Dipper and Mabel's roles were revealed, I think most folks thought that fully explained how Bill faked his death. ;) Next week is probably a double length chapter, because there's no graceful way to break it in half and also it'd be nice to get this plot arc wrapped up before The Book of Bill comes out lmao.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #grunkle ford #stanford pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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poppy-metal · 5 months ago

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moot said sm abt art letting out a moan when he pisses in the morning and now im thinking of having that be your fantasy - wanting art to piss on you - but he's so embarrassed about it, the act so degrading he doesn't know if he can bring himself to do it - but he wants to please you so bad and you look genuinely discouraged when he makes a face when you bring it up, he's quick to reassure you its just something he has to think about more. honestly, he'd be more into you pissing on him - that feels more right, in his eyes. it also kinda brings the curtain down around this shiny image he held of you, this sweet girl who liked missionary sex and holding hands - you were secretly touching yourself to the sound of him pissing into the toilet every morning? he doesn't know what to do with that.

arts done alot to keep patrick out of his relationship with you - hes stingy about it. protective of you - for what, he doesn't know now - some deep rooted worry that you'd want patrick more, like every girl does. but he can't stop thinking about it. and patrick notices him brooding. and art knows - knows patrick is, well. more liberated when it comes to sex than art is. has more experience. is less romantic about the whole thing. so he caves.

"have you ever...... um. has a girl ever wanted you to - you know -" he makes a gesture with his hands, flushing.

"cum on her tits? yeah, loads of tim-"

"no not cum - the other. the other thing. that, uh. comes out."

"piss? you mean piss?"

"yeah."

patrick stares at art long enough for art to squirm. "fuck off. it was a question, alright? forget it."

but patrick is grinning now - "holy shit."

"stop it."

"your girlfriend wants a golden shower?"

"that's disgusting - "

"give me your phone."

"what? no. why?"

"i need to see this chick."

"i introduced you months ago, patrick."

"yeah, and i fucking forgot. hand it over -"

art pretends hes annoyed but he surrenders his phone regardless into patricks outstretched hand. thumbs flying over the keypads to find his gallery. art scratches behind his ear, still blushing, wondering if it was a mistake to bring it up. he feels guilty he basically outted this kink of yours to his friends when its private. he wonders if you tell your friends he likes it when you spit in his mouth. flushes more at the thought. god, is he a shit boyfriend?

patrick lets out a low whistle. "shit - how'd i forget those tits -"

"alright -" art snatches his phone back, pocketing it. "lets just drop it, yeah?"

patrick doesn't drop it though. in fact he has a long conversation with art that evening.

and the next time you're in the college cafě, getting a blueberry scone, you jolt when you feel an arm brush yours. are startled to look up and see patrick zweig already looking down at you. he nudges your shoulder with his. nods to your scone, and then his plate. "I got it."

you're not one to argue with free stuff. patricks loaded anyway, so you nod. you look around him. "is art with you?" he was supposed to meet you for lunch.

"we're going to meet him." patrick pays for your stuff and turns to you, walking backwards into the cafeteria. he jerks his head, "come with me."

you do, hesitantly. as you walk beside him, you catalog him. of course, you know him. but you dont really know him, know him. he's arts best friend, and a bit of a tennis prodigy, if one that might burn out too quickly if he doesn't regulate himself soon.

still. you aren't around him much, you think because arts worried you'll cheat on him if left alone with patrick for too long. and you get patricks appeal - hes tall and athletic - more filled out than art is yet, he has that whole devil may care kind of look to him, mussed up hair. a smirking pink mouth. something about the way he carries himself, too. confident and assured. its..... hot. you can admit that.

but you love are. you're in love with art. and its for the ways that hes opposite to patrick, that you do. hes a golden aura. a beam of sunlight where patrick screams night - he's soft and kind and he cares about you. he thinks about you. he considers you. he's not shy, but he's soft spoken. he listens. he's like a lazy river - or a fluffy cloud.

patrick leads you up the bleachers to one of the outside tennis cours, and you look out - spot art practicing with someone on the other side of the net. he doesn't see either of you yet, and you dont call out to him. you like watching him play. his precision and grace.

you sit near the top row of metal slats and patrick sits one row below you, so he can prop his legs out and spread his arms behind him on the one you're sitting on. "you sit like a third grader." you tell him, which is true. all sprawled out with his big long limbs.

patrick tips his head back to look at you. green eyes spark - he has a water bottle that he tips back and pulls a long swallow from. you dont watch his adams apple bob.

"i need alot of space to air my shit out." he parts his thighs wider as if to cement that statement and you try not to notice the way his shorts slide down his thick tan legs. they bunch all the way nearly down to his crotch.

"classy." you tell him. picking at your muffin as you stare out at art again. when he hits the ball, he jumps. his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of pale skin and you rub your bottom lip. mouth filling with saliva because you know what that skin tastes like, feels like, under your tongue. like faint salt, and soft toned muscle.

"you'd know all about being classy wouldn't you?"

something about the way he says it - like there's a hidden meaning, makes you glance back down at him. hes still looking at you.

he's rolling his water bottle sideways up and down his thigh, and he looks like he wants to say something else, but it'll make him laugh, so he doesn't.

you squint. "huh?"

one side of his mouth quirks up. he takes another swig from his bottle - looks out over the courts and shrugs.

well, no.

you swat at his shoulder, irritated, he's pulled you in somehow. "what does that mean?"

he shrugs again - holding a mouthful of water. he swishes it from side to side as he looks up at you. swallows it slowly. holds his mostly empty bottle up and taps your knee with the open lid - "just means you're not as innocent as we all thought."

your eyebrows draw together. your stomach does a little flip. you have the distinct feeling he's making fun of you. like hes in on something you're not apart of.

you settle on, "whose we?"

green eyes flit back to the court - you follow and you find art again. he's turned from his opponent, using the end of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. he fishes a sports drink from his bag and downs nearly all of it in one go. as hes wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he turns slightly, casually taking in his surroundings. you can tell the moment he spots you and patrick because he freezes. his wrist still at his lips. he doesn't wave. you dont either.

you look back at patrick. hes still looking out at art.

"you and art...." you start. "you talk about me? together?"

patrick takes his time turning back to look at you. he seems to be communicating something across the distance to art. he says, without looking "uh huh." and when you shove his shoulder with your knee, he finally gives you his full attention. bad idea. something about him - you feel - like prey or something. you dont know. pinned under his gaze. "art tells me everything."

he puts emphasis on everything, and lets that sink in for you, which it does. slowly.

because there's really only one thing you've brought up with art recently that would be anything worth the dramatics of this. you feel your cheeks fill with blood. your gut pitch with shame.

"i -" you look down at your shoes. pink sneakers. with a frog sticker art had given you, because you like frogs and you told him that and so he got you a sticker of one. "um."

"hey, its cool." a warm hand pats your knee. "its why i wanted to talk to you."

your head jerks up. you shy away from his touch. you want to look out for art and signal him over but you dont know what to feel about him talking about that..... with patrick.

"really." patrick says your name, softly this time so you'll look at him. "im not making fun of you." he tongues the inside of his cheek, half smiling. "i think its hot, actually."

you do glance out for art now. he's back in position, but he keeps shooting glances over where you sit. you swallow. "you do?"

"fuck yeah -" he says it with such conviction that you believe him. "the way you look like you read five verses of the bible before bed and sign the cross over your chest before you give head just makes the fact that you want some depraved shit like that fucking sexy."

you shift around on the bench. you feel at once, buoyant with the praise and wrong for liking it so much.

"i dont know if art sees me that way." you fiddle with your fingers. "i think he thinks its gross - that im. weird."

"art is very repressed sexually." patrick states this like he knows this very well. and well, yeah, you cant exactly dispute it, can you. "but he's a fucking freak, trust me. I've seen his porn history."

you want to see his porn history. god. you want to know every depraved undignified thought arts ever had.

"i think that's why i want him to-" you flush. "to do that. because he's so.... good. and i want. i dunno - i guess i want him to act more shameless with me - maybe that weird - like i want to corrupt him or something -"

"it's hot." patrick interrupts. and you look at eachother. and you see a kind of kinship in him, thats in you. a kind of.... love for the depravity. of wanting to introduce people like art to it. "give me your phone."

he takes it from you before you even hand it to him. he fiddles with it, and you take the time to admire all the freckles on his sunkissed cheeks. he slips it back to you. grins.

"what did you do?"

"gave you my number." he stands. shoulders his own bag - caps his waterbottle. "art's gonna chew your ass out in a minute, sorry about that. I'll be in touch, though." and he's bounding down the bleachers before you can say anything, giving art one of those aggressive, half hug, half wrestle moves as he passes.

you blink - startled to realize art has finished up. his bag is over his shoulder and he's making his way up to you. he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"did you give patrick your number?"

"he wanted it for notes he forgot to take, i think." you lie. stand up. greet your boyfriend who you want to piss in your mouth and on your tits, with a kiss. "hes a nice guy."

"mm" is all art says.

and maybe you should have been more mad that art went behind your back to talk about something you shared in confidence. maybe you would have been, if you hadn't shared something secret with patrick too - a plan of sorts. you'd feel more guilty about it if you weren't so turned on by the thought.

and can you really be mad, when it works out so beautifully. after one of arts matches - where you'd so sweetly been on the sidelines to give art water between his sets. when patrick had rushed him out the door in the morning with no time for a bathroom break.

its almost too perfect the way you both corner him in the locker room after. when hes desperate and about to burst. bladder full and heavy from all the water he'd consumed.

when patrick blocks him and corners him in the shower, twists his arms behind his naked back, you're there in a flash. a look of betrayal flashes in arts eyes, but its quickly replaced by desperation when patrick reaches around him and grips his cock.

the whine he lets out is long and pained. "no - dont -" he gasps.

you cant really be mad at art for going behind your back at all because you aren't sure if he could ever bring himself to do this on his own. you tell him that, with coaxing hands up his trembling thighs. looking up at him in utter adoration as you tongue the pink slit of his cock. "its okay, baby." you tell him. naked and kneeling before him, licking licking licking at his tip, until you coax out a bead of piss, just a drop. and you moan as you close your lips around his head and suck it into your mouth like honey.

art sobs. he knees wobbling with the force to keep his urine from flooding out into your mouth. "stop -" he pants. "i cant hold it it - if you - if you keep - oh god -"

"she said its okay, man." patrick coos. licks the shell of arts ear. his hand comes down to press against arts pelvis. "look at her." art forces himself to. "thats your girlfriend, dude. she's fucking hot - and shes naked on her knees for you in a lockeroom shower after you fucking dominated that match. and all she wants." the heel of patricks hand digs in. "is to soak up all that piss you've been holding onto for her."

another little drop of piss slides down your throat and art gasps. his hands weakly come to press on your head, fingers curling in your hair. hes giving in. looking down at you with near awe in his expression instead of his earlier fear and panic. pink lips parted.

"dont you wanna see her swallow it?" patrick breathes. "fuckin rub it into her tits - you can do anything to her. she's fucking yours man - so why dont you be a man and fucking stake your claim, huh?"

that's what does it.

art groans, eyes nearly rolling back in ecstacy. right before he releases, he knock away patricks hand from his dick, grips himself by the base, and uses his other hand to keep a grip on your hair.

the tip of his cock, flushed and throbbing, rests on your fat bottom lip, "its coming - " he chokes, tightens his grip on your hair, "fucking take it -"

and then it explodes out of him all at once. a thick pulsing stream of hot piss pours into your mouth, half of it going right down your throat, while the other half splashes down your chin, flooding down your chest, between the valley of your breasts.

the moan art lets out if pornographic. his legs weak as jelly as his bladder unloads in a yellow stream that soaks you nearly from head to foot.

it seems to go on forever. both art and patrick seem entranced by the sight. the way you moan and swallow what initially went down your throat. gasp when it hits your chest like it actually feels good.

art feels another part of his brain click on. whir to life.

"s-stick your fucking tits out." he grunts, still whiney. but you listen anyway. pushing your chest out towards them, your nipples hard and on display.

art bites his lip. angles his cock so the rest of his stream splashes wetly over your hard nipples. he trails the rest of it down your stomach and - most blodly - the last of it hits your pussy - you whine when it does.

"of fuck." patrick grunts when he sees it.

when the flow peeders out, you pant like you ran a marathon. buzzing with electricity.

art looks down at you like you're the most beautiful thing hes ever seen in his life. on your knees soaked in his filth.

patrick has to reach down and grip himself.

"c'mere" art calls to you, holding out his arms. you fumble and stumble into them. wet chest smashing into his. he doesn't seem to care. his hands are feverish as they run down your back. cup and squeeze the globes of your ass. he licks into your mouth and you're both moaning into eachother. tongues smacking wetly.

patrick rolls his eyes. turns on the shower to its hottest setting. which is just warm for a lockeroom shower.

"you two freaks come over here," he calls out, stepping into the warm spray. "you both smell like fucking piss."

you giggle against arts mouth.

yeah. maybe you're glad he told your secret after all.

#poppy speaks #WHY IS THIS SO LONG ??????#piss does something to a woman.#patrick zweig smut #art donaldson smut #tw: piss

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starsinscript · 5 months ago

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⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ acts of service boyfriend ; cl16

summary ; you, and your boyfriend, charles, who loves performing acts of service, get ready for a night out.

tiktok ; yourusername

yourusername cuts from my recent grwm 😆 (yes we were late)

[video description: in the first clip, you're looking through your jewelry, when charles walks into the room. his voice is heard softly as his arms comes into frame, picking out a few bracelets. "i like these, ma chérie," he says, holding out the bracelets in your preferred metal, ones you had already been thinking of. "tu veux que je les mette pour toi?" he asks, slipping them on your wrist at your blushy smile. he squeezes your wrist, walking behind you to pick out a necklace. "this is nice, no?" he grins, the necklace unable to be seen in frame. you giggle, rolling your eyes playfully. "it's very nice, cha." he walks behind you, moving your styled hair onto one of your shoulders to easily put the necklace on. you fiddle with the charm on the necklace, and when you move your hand to bring charles down for a kiss, the charm is out for all to see. 16. you cup charles' face and kiss him, pulling away giggling. "go get ready, cha." you say, pushing him away gently.

in the second clip, you're in front of your camera in your outfit, checking yourself out. charles walks back into the room, 'ooh'-ing at your outfit. he places his cup on your vanity, walking over to you. "une si jolie fille." he says, hands on your hips, thumbs rubbing softly. he kisses your cheek before humming. "this is a nice fabric," he comments. "feels soft." you giggle, turning around to face him. his hands slide to the small of your back, pushing you closer. "you think?" charles hums, kissing you softly. "have you picked out your shoes?" he wonders, looking at your closet. you pull yourself away to show charles you two shoe choices. a pair of flats that match your dress or a pair of heels that match your jewelry more. "i like the flats," he says and frowns as you go to slip them on. "no, no, let me," he takes the shoes, sitting you at the edge of the bed and kneeling in front of you. he softly kisses the curve of your knee after slipping on the first flat, then does the same after the second.

in the last clip, you're in the hallway of your apartment, fixing your hair in the mirror above your phone. charles walks in, finally ready. his hair is mussed in an attractive fashion, thick black glasses on his face. charles doesn't wear necklaces often, but you got him to wear a simple chain, that pokes out of the undone buttons of his dress shirt. the color of his button up matches your dress subtly, and his dress pants suits the color of his top. "very nice, mr leclerc," you comment, kissing his lips softly as he wraps his arms around your waist. he moves you from side to side slowly, like a soft lullaby. "come on, we have to go," you laugh, kissing the corner of his mouth before grabbing your phone.]

comments

username WAS NOT EXPECTING CHARLES?

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-> username 'ma chérie' 'jolie fille' BRUH

-> username I WANNA BE HER SO BAD

username why is no talking about y/n caling charles 'cha'

-> username they're so hot they make me want to combust

username can't believe they've been hiding this

-> username that's mom and dad fr

username THE MATCHING OUTFITS!!!!

username currently glitching because charles leclerc is on my fyp kissing the knees of his girlfriend and helping her put on her shoes and jewlery

-> username i screeched i'm being so fr

-> username ACTS OF SERVICE BOYFRIEND 🗣️🗣️

-> yourusername true 😊

-> username Y/N TELL US MORE

-> yourusername 🤫

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fluff #cl16 x reader #cl16 fic #cl16 fluff

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silentgravesdontexist · 2 months ago

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I'm rlly over here just making these random Ace posts that I come up on the fly while my drafts are side-eyeing me so hard rn... Anyways! Here's a fluffy drabble that involves Ace and kisses. No editing just brain rot, type, and post. Here's my masterlist if you liked this~

Portgas D. Ace x GN!Reader

CW: None. Tooth-rotting fluff (i just think Ace and kisses go well together ok?)

Word Count: 885

Ace always adored how sweet and affectionate you were. Not just to him but to your loved ones as well. Ofc, with the exception that you treat him even more affectionately given that he is your boyfriend. The man melts each time you give him that warm smile of yours. He'd look grumpy and brooding at times, but he'd always smile whenever he sees you.

Most of the time, he does his best to be of service to you. It makes him feel like if he does things like that, he'll be more deserving of your love and presence. Basically an acts of service kind of guy. He also loves physical affections you shower him with. But his favorite at the moment when you kiss him after he helps you out with something.

He helped you carry some of the crates? A kiss on the cheek. Helping you out with your duties? A kiss on the tip of his nose. You were on nightwatch, and he accompanied you and even brought your favorite drink/snack? A kiss on the lips.

You trained this man for it like he was Pavlov's dog salivating at the sound of that bell. And Ace didn't even mind. He loved it. Grinning at you with that smile of his so bright it would put the sun to shame. It encouraged him all the while making him feel so appreciated and wanted in your presence.

Now, he's gotten so used to it that he will lean in for you— fully expecting that kiss already. Just like now that he helped you sort out your duties for the day and even taught you a few things in the process. A dopey-smile on his lips as he awaits for his reward.

But it doesn't come.

You said goodnight, yawned, and left to your quarters. It was already late into the night and you were exhausted. The day was a lot tiring for some reason that all you just wanted was to crash down and sleep the fatigue off. Your warm bunk already calling you as you guide through the halls.

He just stood there. Couldn't even say good night. It takes a few moments for it to settle in. You didn't kiss him. You didn't. Now, his mind is in overdrive. Questioning and wondering what, why, or how. Did he upset you somehow? No, you were probably just too tired, right? But you never forget to kiss him. Was he overthinking it or was your tone more flat?

Oh, no, it's replaying in his mind, and he's convinced he did something wrong.

Poor guy couldn't sleep a wink. Did he tease you too much? Was he careless in teaching you? Did he sound impatient? It was that look in face. Definitely. He probably looked like he was frustrated at you, didn't he? Sure, it occured to him you were probably just tired— but what if it wasn't?

Unable to take it, he jumps off his own bunk and rushed towards yours. Immediately, he's knocking on your door. Part of him did feel guilty for disturbing your sleep. The idea that he might have done something to upset you outweighed it.

You're sleepily at the door to face Ace. Hair mussed from sleep and eyes barely open while you rub the sleep away. Oh, how he wanted to cup your cheeks and pepper you with kisses bc you looked adorable— Focus, Portgas. Focus. He starts babbling on apologies about random things that might've upset you (he won't directly say he's worried you didn't kiss him bc he has a reputation to somewhat maintain).

Ofc, you barely understand him. It was what? Past midnight? And you just woke up? Eventually, it does dawn on you that you didn't kiss him earlier as you usually did whenever he helps you out. A soft and sleepy chuckle leaves your lips. Your hands hold his and press kisses on his knuckles.

"I'm not upset." With that, you guide him inside and pull him down to bed with you. "Just tired." You mumble while cupping his cheek and start peppering kisses over his face. Just trailing your soft lips over his freckles. "I'm sorry. It just slipped my mind."

Ace melting like putty in your hands. Arms wrapped around your waist as he pulls you close. He's leaning into your touch like an overgrown pet yearning for more of your affection. His lingering doubts and worries fading away at your affections.

"Does this make up for it?" You ask, pulling away to meet his gaze. A warm yet drowsy smile adorns your lips and he finds himself falling for you all over again. You were so good to him. So good. He'd do anything to keep you in his life.

"It does." Ace responds, leaning closer to capture your lips with his. The kiss is sweet and languid. As if pouring every emotion he couldn't put into words to express just how much you meant to him.

~~~~

Taglist: @captainportgasdace @that-student-that-has-homework (if its ok 'cuz you guys interact with my fics a lot)

#one piece #fluff piece #portgas d ace x reader #portgas ace x reader #portgas ace x you #portgas d ace x y/n #portgas d ace x you #ace one piece #one piece ace #portgas ace #portgas d ace

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willowser · 1 year ago

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really what prompted my double boy dad bakugou post was the idea of his older son — who is six, nearing seven — coming out of his room with messy, sleep-mussed hair and wandering into the kitchen on an early morning when katsuki's getting ready for work.

and your youngest is a little terror. spoiled rotten, katsuki thinks, was too babied and that's why he doesn't listen and has temper tantrums in the middle of the floor and is already throwing punches at three. katsuki's old witch of a mother thinks he'll be bulkier than his older son and twice as mean, prone to pinning his brother to the ground until he's declared the greatest.

(katsuki feels both horror and pride, at the very thought.)

it hasn't always been easy for your oldest; becoming a big brother never is. not that katsuki would know what that's like, but he hated to even share a playground with deku, much less share his one and only mommy, so he can only imagine what his own son went through when his brother arrived.

but he's been great about it, which comes as no surprise because his oldest has always been great about everything. gets his little brother out of bed and reminds him of his manners—even as he's getting whacked—gives up his toys just so the baby won't cry. he's too smart for his own good, acting like a big boy now—and it makes katsuki nostalgic in a way that hurts.

there hasn't been a lot of time for just the two of them. not like there used to be.

so when his firstborn comes to stand beside him in the kitchen, to lean his head against his dad's hip and rub at his sleepy eyes—katsuki just ruffles his already messy hair, before giving his ear a little tug.

"should be asleep," he grumbles to him, "sun's not even up yet."

his son only shrugs, yawns hard; despite this, he says, "'m not tired."

katsuki snorts and continues with his routine: finishes his protein shake, gives the kid a sip when he thinks he wants one (he doesn't really, though he tries not to make a face at the taste as he nods, as if he likes it), makes sure he's got all his work shit in his bag for patrol later. and his son is mostly quiet, content to share in the morning just between the two of them after katsuki sits him on the counter.

and then he asks, "can i come to work with you?"

on instinct, katsuki glances at his shut bedroom door, where you're still fast asleep, on the other side, and then down the hallway to where his youngest is sleeping, too.

technically, the kid probably could because you're off work today, and you could come pick him up later before katsuki has to head out, but—

"your brother won't be happy if i take you and not him."

and your oldest is a good big brother. has more patience than katsuki ever did, knows how to share—but on this morning that the two of them are indulging in, he only shrugs.

"well," he sighs—and he sounds so grown up, sounds like you when you're leveling with katsuki. "if he wanted to go then he should have got up, too."

"that why you're awake?" katsuki frowns, though his son only shrugs again. the idea that he's gotten up way too early, at the ass-crack of dawn just to have some extra time with his dad is too—

"yeah," katsuki murmurs, nodding at him to hop off the counter. "get your socks on so we can go."

there won't be anything for him to do in the agency office, besides get an endless amount of cups of water from the dispenser and all the candy in the receptionist's bowl and attention from the older ladies that thinks he's just so stinking cute.

but at least they'll be together, just the two of them. like old times.

#idk !! i just had this picture in my head of katsuki feeling bad bc he doesnt get enough time with his oldest son 🥺#enough time with his kids at all but 🥺 definitely less with his firstborn after his brother comes along 🥺#and so sometimes they do little things like this #take a quick run to the grocery store together or he'll walk around the neighborhood with his dad #or he'll take him to work just to have some extra quality time 🥺 just the two of them 🥺#and it seemed so sweet !! so here it is hehe #cw children #✿ willow writes #✿ thoughts: bakugou #✿ theme: dad bakugou #✿ theme: domestic bakugou

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ryescapades · 1 month ago

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cw: none, maybe a bit suggestive

wc: <800 | no beta we die like my will to wake up tmr (i have an 8am class)

thinking about model!hoshina / narumi (orrr your fave bcs anyone works well in this i think) who's recently signed a contract with a cosmetic brand, and when he's called in for the scheduled shooting for the promotional advertisements, he requests that you come along with him to the studio.

"remind me again why i'm here with you?" you say, feeling out of place in a room full of professional photographers, makeup artists, hair stylists and other sophisticated and flamboyant-looking people you don't know the name of their jobs to.

you send a questioning look to your boyfriend, who has been cleaned up well by his stylist team; clad in a long-sleeved shirt unbuttoned at the top to expose that gorgeous smooth skin and sinewy muscles underneath along with a pair of loose trousers. shiny metal rings adorn his lithe fingers and a thin silver chain hangs on his collarbones. his hair is handsomely mussed up, the rugged and messy style acting as the final touch to his already good looks.

the two of you are already standing at the shooting set, with him sitting leisurely on a square-shaped prop seat, a few of the staffs scurrying around to fix the lightings and other props alike.

giving you a lopsided smile, he answers, "you're doing the photoshoot with me, of course." you raise a confused eyebrow before glancing down at your outfit, then back at him. "i'm literally in a t-shirt and sweatpants right now." you flatly say.

he grins and pulls you to stand between his spread legs, hands comfortable on your waist before he deliberately trails them down to the side of your hips, sneaking under the oversized shirt that he knows you'd stolen from his wardrobe. he smiles at the thought, something akin to possessiveness swelling in his chest.

"you still look good like this, baby... but then again, you look good all the time," he drawls, staring up at you with those heavy lidded eyes, causing you to playfully roll yours. his thumbs rub gentle circles on your skin as you settle your hands on his shoulders, gazing back at him like magnets of unlike poles being pulled towards each other.

the tension between you breaks when a staff walks up, a tube of... lipstick? in her hand as she approaches. wordlessly, he takes the tube from her and turns to you with a pointed look. "is that what you're shooting for?" you ask, noting the cosmetic's pretty shade of crimson as he rolls it up.

"mhm," he hums low in affirmation, and as he brings it up to your face is when you stop his hand, confusion taking over your expression. "wait, what are you doing?"

"putting this on you?" he cutely frowns like the answer isn't obvious enough already, the sight a bit of a contrast to his manly appearance. you chuckle slightly in response. "i know, i can see that. but why?"

"you'll figure it out later."

when you finally did put the lipstick on (he insisted that he help you with it, of course), the man had to resist from pulling you to the backroom somewhere lest he starts a sloppy make out session with you right then and there but instead he says, "'kay, now give me a peck."

it takes you a few blinks to finally register what his photoshoot's concept is. no less than a second later, you lean in, hands cradling his sharp jawlines as you press a kiss against the corner of his mouth, firm, intimate and just shy from his plush lips.

you can hear the faint, sharp intake of his breath as you slowly drag your lips to his, planting a sweet peck that results in a soft yet audible smooching sound when you pull away. you take in his final look, and your eyes were nearly filled with hearts then.

the new addition of the red pigment smeared on his skin makes him look all the more alluring and wild, downright sexy the longer you stare at it.

you don't even realize that your boyfriend had said his thanks for your quote unquote contribution, nor do you realize he had gently pushed you away to the side so he could proceed with the photoshoot, a smirk curling at his lips at your dazed and mesmerized eyes.

as if madly hypnotized, you ogle him from out of the camera frame like a sailor being lured in by a siren. it feels... satisfying somehow, to see him with marks like that. your marks, to be specific. it just further emphasizes his willingness and desire to be openly claimed by you, to have a reminder of you on whatever part of his skin.

guess you technically are doing the photoshoot with him...

yea so i had a thought.

taglist: @maruflix @iamjellyfish @ouiouimochi @yueliie @justwinginglife @lumiambrose @minasfwoopyponytail @17020 @bgyuus @moon-cakiie

#🥣 rye works #omg wait other than hsn nrm #do share who yall think of when ure reading this tho i wanna know #anime x reader #kn8 x reader #kaiju no 8 x reader #narumi gen x reader #gen narumi x reader #hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina x reader

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bestofmultiverse · 2 days ago

Text

Between the pages || 2

Aubrey plaza x fem!reader

" I was half in love with her by the time we sat down. That’s the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they’re not much to look at, or even if they’re sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. "

- J.D. Salinger, The catcher in the rye

Part 1

Y/N blinked, trying to get her bearings in the soft morning light streaming into her bedroom. She wasn’t on the sofa anymore, and she certainly hadn’t fallen asleep in her bed last night. But here she was, tucked neatly under her comforter, and beside her, separated by a few pillows, lay Aubrey. She was asleep, her face softened by rest, her features even more striking in the early morning calm.

A smile crept across Y/N’s face as she studied Aubrey’s peaceful expression. She was undeniably beautiful—not just beautiful for her age, but in a way that felt timeless and grounded. It made Y/N’s stomach flutter, and a slight pang of insecurity hit her; Aubrey was everything Y/N admired—confident, talented, and effortlessly alluring.

Feeling her heart race at the thought of Aubrey waking up to see her staring, Y/N slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, padding to the bathroom for a quick shower. When she returned, she busied herself in the kitchen, quietly making breakfast. The faint hum of the radio kept her company as she toasted bread and scrambled eggs, relishing the simple, cozy act.

“Good morning,” a familiar voice murmured, soft and sleepy, breaking Y/N out of her thoughts.

Y/N turned, catching sight of Aubrey leaning against the doorway, her hair still mussed from sleep. She looked comfortable, yet somehow effortlessly poised, even in Y/N’s small kitchen. Y/N blushed, realizing how close they were.

“Good morning! Do you want something to drink?” Y/N asked, smiling. “I don’t really drink coffee, but I can go grab you some from the café around the corner if you’d like.”

Aubrey’s lips curved into a warm smile. “No need, this is perfect. I’m just happy to be here.” She stepped closer, glancing at the plates Y/N was setting up.

“So… not to rush you out, but I have a mountain of work today,” Y/N said with a small, guilty grin. “You’re welcome to stay, but just a heads-up—I might be a little boring.”

Aubrey laughed, her expression softening. “That’s okay, I get it. I have some things to get to anyway.” She hesitated, then continued, “But… I’d love to see you again, if you’d like that.”

Y/N’s face lit up, her smile wide and genuine. “I’d love that too.”

From then on, their connection only grew. They read together, taking turns with books y/n recommended, and spent hours talking about everything from their childhood dreams to favorite movies. After their third date—a late-night visit to a bookstore followed by a stroll through a quiet park—Aubrey walked Y/N home. They held hands, a shared warmth between them, and when they reached Y/N’s door, Aubrey leaned in, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to her lips. It was careful, as if reading Y/N’s shyness and matching it with tenderness.

As the days turned into weeks, they grew more comfortable, falling into each other’s lives seamlessly. Aubrey was patient, taking her time to get to know Y/N. She made Y/N feel safe, and Y/N adored every minute they spent together. Soon, they were FaceTiming in between meetings, texting about little things that made them think of each other, and finding moments to be together whenever they could.

When they finally crossed that last boundary, sharing their first night together, it was both gentle and passionate. They communicated, both eager yet considerate, learning each other’s wants and needs. Aubrey’s natural confidence took over, her assertiveness balanced by her desire to make Y/N feel loved and respected. Y/N, in turn, was just as attentive, savoring every moment with Aubrey, discovering a balance between playful and deeply intimate.

Two months into their relationship, it wasn’t just the two of them who noticed how special their connection was. After a dinner date, a paparazzi photographer managed to capture a candid shot of them leaving the restaurant hand in hand. By morning, the image was everywhere, spreading faster than Y/N could have imagined.

Aubrey’s publicist called with the news, explaining that the story had already taken off. Y/N knew Aubrey was a public figure, but she hadn’t expected their private moments to become public conversation so suddenly. Their little bubble was shattered, and suddenly her face was online, next to Aubrey’s in articles and tabloid stories speculating about their relationship.

The attention was overwhelming. Y/N’s friends started teasing her about dating “the Aubrey Plaza,” while her family’s reaction was more complicated. They had always known she was queer, but the age difference gave them pause, making them wonder if Y/N was really ready for such a serious relationship.

As the media frenzy grew, it was hard for Y/N to brush off the harsh comments online—insinuations about why Aubrey would date someone younger, or assumptions about Y/N’s motives. It felt as if the world was intruding into their private life, prying apart the joy they had found together.

But Aubrey was her anchor through it all. Late one evening, after Y/N shared how overwhelmed she felt, Aubrey wrapped her arms around her and whispered, “Forget them. I know who you are, and you know who I am. The rest… it doesn’t matter.”

They held each other close that night, letting the world outside fade, finding comfort in each other’s presence. And as they lay there, Y/N knew that, no matter the scrutiny, what she shared with Aubrey was real, something worth fighting for—even if they’d have to face the world together, one step at a time.

As days went on, the intensity of the media attention didn’t exactly die down, but Y/N and Aubrey learned to adjust. Aubrey handled it with practiced ease, guiding Y/N with little tips on how to ignore the comments and dodge prying eyes. Despite the pressure, they found solace in each other, learning to carve out quiet moments that felt like their own little world.

One evening, they decided to stay in for a movie night at Y/N’s apartment. Y/N had loaded up a few of Aubrey’s favorite old films, trying her best to make it feel special—a few candles, some popcorn, and a cozy blanket they could share.

“You know,” Aubrey said, settling down next to Y/N, “I don’t think I’ve had a better night in ages.” She glanced around, smiling at the thoughtful touches Y/N had put together. “You really went all out.”

Y/N blushed, nudging her playfully. “It’s just popcorn and candles. Hardly a red carpet.”

Aubrey smirked, tilting her head. “It’s the thought, and you, that make it perfect.” She reached for Y/N’s hand, entwining their fingers, and squeezed gently.

As the movie started, they fell into a comfortable silence, Y/N nestled into Aubrey’s side. The world outside felt far away, reduced to nothing more than the faint city hum in the distance. Halfway through the film, Aubrey leaned over and softly kissed Y/N’s forehead, her lips lingering just a little longer than usual. Y/N looked up, her heart skipping as she met Aubrey’s gentle gaze.

“Thank you for sticking with me through all of this,” Aubrey murmured, tucking a loose strand of Y/N’s hair behind her ear.

Y/N’s hand found its way to Aubrey’s cheek, tracing the soft lines of her face. “I’m not going anywhere. I knew this might be hard, but… you’re worth it.” She offered a small, reassuring smile. “And I’m learning. I mean, I’ve got the best teacher.”

Aubrey chuckled, pulling Y/N closer. “Flattery will get you everywhere, just so you know.”

They spent the rest of the night laughing, sharing stories, and talking about the little things they hadn’t yet told each other. Y/N felt a kind of warmth she hadn’t felt before—a love that was both grounding and freeing, as if Aubrey had opened up parts of herself she didn’t know existed.

A few weeks later, they decided to spend a weekend out of the city, heading to a secluded cabin by the lake. Aubrey had rented it on a whim, sensing that they both needed a little time to breathe away from the constant hum of the city.

On their first morning there, Y/N woke up to the smell of coffee and soft music playing. She wandered out to find Aubrey on the deck, wrapped in a flannel blanket with two mugs steaming in her hands. The sun was just rising, casting a soft pink glow over the lake.

Aubrey turned when she heard Y/N approach, her eyes lighting up. “Morning, sleepyhead. Thought you’d like to join me for the sunrise.” She handed Y/N a mug of tea, remembering she didn’t drink coffee.

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the sun climb slowly above the horizon, casting a shimmering path across the water. It was quiet, almost surreal, and Y/N felt the weight of everything slip away, replaced with the calm of being completely at peace in the moment.

After a while, Aubrey shifted, turning toward Y/N. “You know,” she said softly, “this is the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

Y/N looked at her, her heart swelling at the sincerity in Aubrey’s eyes. “I feel the same way,” she whispered. Then, unable to resist, she leaned in, capturing Aubrey’s lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

As they pulled away, Aubrey grinned, her eyes shining with something close to wonder. “I don’t care about the noise, Y/N. As long as I have you, I’m exactly where I need to be.”

Y/n beamed at her

"So, what are we reading today?" Aubrey asked after a few seconds of comfortable silence

"I thought maybe 'the catcher in the rye, its a classic"

Aubrey nodded before pulling the younger woman into another soft kiss.

They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other and the quiet beauty of the morning, with their book and hot drinks, feeling as if, just for that moment, they were the only two people in the world.

_____

Just a quick note:

i dont really think itll be a series, maybe a bunch of chapters that might actually work as a full story or at least the same like universe, but im not sure if ill continue to write it regularly or not so just an heads up.

Also im in love with Aubrey plaza.

#fic writing #aubrey plaza x reader #aubrey plaza #agatha all along #agatha x rio #agatha harkness x rio vidal #agathario

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