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lovemomhatepolice · 6 months ago

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i'll make it fit - rafe cameron

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pairing: rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings: sexual overtones, established relationship, fingering, teasing, unprotected sex (PROTECTED YOURSELF), this damn tiny polo!!, English is my second language!, NO SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4

belonging: NO NUT NOVEMBER!

type: totally smut (this is the first time i've written something like this, which has practically no plot at all, just sex itself. keep my fingers crossed that it didn't turn out badly!!!), small plot but really small

word count: 1,8k

summary: rafe cameron likes things too small for him.

more content: obx masterlist, rafe cameron masterlist

Mornings in Tannyhill were mostly quiet. Since Ward Cameron was dead and his entire family had moved to a house in the Bahamas, it was quiet there. Hearing of Sarah had disappeared - she was probably somewhere with her friends, again putting her life at risk, nothing new. And the only one who lived there was Rafe, who had taken over the company from his father and decided to return to the “old garbage.” Well, and you lived there too, by the side of your beloved. You couldn't have dreamed of a better life.

You were awakened by the bright rays of the sun, which rudely crept through the slightly parted curtains into your shared bedroom. You dragged yourself lightly and glanced at the clock, which was on the bedside table and, as usual, was making that unbearable sound.

After muttered under your breath, you slipped out from under the warm quilt, which, to say the least, wasn't all that necessary - after all, it was summer. But by the fact that you were in just a lace petticoat, it definitely enveloped you with a warmth that was missing.

You didn't know what time it was, but by the fact that Rafe wasn't next to you, you knew it was probably after nine o'clock. You didn't have to look for him for long, because as soon as you stepped out into the hallway from your bedroom, you heard his voice. You looked out the balcony door, which was gently open, and smiled at the sight. Rafe, in a freshly stitched buzzcut, was sitting on the couch talking on the phone. In front of him on the coffee table he had papers spread out and a laptop in which he was busily tapping something. As soon as he noticed you he sent you a slight smile, but he was so engaged in the conversation that he did nothing more. And you couldn't be passive, after all, he was wearing a beautiful blue and damn tight polo that exposed his perfectly shaped biceps. You laughed quietly, seeing him nervously tweak them as they rolled up higher and higher each time, not covering as much of his arm as they should.

Despite his serious tone on the call, his eyes would flicker toward you every few moments, his smile softening just enough to let you know he was glad you were there.

Not one to resist temptation, you decided to have a little fun. You strolled over to him, moving slowly, letting your fingers trail along the back of the couch as you circled around to where he was sitting. Rafe’s eyes darted up, narrowing slightly in a silent warning.

You didn’t make it easy for him. With a mischievous smile, you leaned over and whispered into his ear, "That polo looks a little tight, don’t you think? You might need help taking it off later."

“Uh, yeah… sure,” he said to the person on the other end of the call, clearing his throat as if to regain his composure. “Send it to the office, they'll take care of it,” he muttered, hanging up.

You moved your hands over his shoulders, gently massaging them. Rafe put the phone down on the table, closed the laptop and leaned his head against the back of the couch, looking at you.

“You know what you're doing, huh?” he parroted under his breath.

“Maybe I do,” you whispered, letting your breath tickle his skin. “Just trying to make sure my man relaxes after handling all that business.”

“And what am I supposed to do with you?” he muttered, covering yours with his hands. “Whatever you want,” you muttered, going down with your palms on his chest. “Oh, but this polo is really too small for you.” Rafe laughed under his breath and gracefully helped you past the couch so that you were now standing in front of him, between his legs. You were in just a white lace slip that didn't cover much underneath, so Rafe could immediately see your hardening nipples.

You let out a soft laugh as Rafe’s strong hands gripped your thighs, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap. You straddled him, your knees sinking into the plush cushions of the couch on either side of his hips. The way he looked up at you—like you were the only thing in the world that could hold his attention—sent a warm rush through your veins.

"So needy" He muttered, stroking your hair and putting it behind your ears. “Who would have thought that you would beg for my attentions so much?”

“I'm not begging,” you muttered, swallowing your saliva loudly.

You could have sworn that in that moment Rafe heard your loud heartbeat. And even though you had been together for more than a year, he continued to trigger the same feelings in you. “No?” he asked ironically, his hand touching your pussy, which was covered only by a thong. “I would say something else.”

“Rafe,” you muttered, gently pushing your hips out to meet him as his nimble fingers pressed your clit harder. “So wet,” he mumbled, moving your panties aside and nimbly sliding his ring and middle finger into you.

You brought your face closer to his and grabbed his jaw, bringing your lips together in a sweet kiss. It was still quiet around you, the only things you could hear were the birds and your moans, drowned out by your boyfriend's mouth.

His thumb moved to your clit, the touch was light, teasing, his fingers tracing slow circles that sent tingles up your spine. And his fingers didn't stop moving up and down, each time hitting the exact same spot. Rafe knew what the fuck he was doing, he always knew how to make you in heaven in a moment by his precise movements. He knew your body like no one else, just like you knew his.

“Cum for me, baby,” he said, moving his lips to your naked neck. You felt you were close - Rafe did the same, following the feeling as you pulsed on his fingers. You didn't have to wait long until your body shook with pleasant and familiar reflexes, and you came on his fingers, burying your head in his neck.

Rafe took his fingers out of you and put them in his mouth, sucking on them. Oh this sight and Rafe in his damn tight blue polo, was something too strong for you to go through. You moved against his lap, letting him know that this was not what you wanted. “Still eager, huh?” he laughed throatily, but you didn't have to wait long. Rafe always knew what you needed and you got it right away. "You taste so good, baby"

“Rafe please,” you muttered, clasping your small hand over his large cock, which was getting harder and harder under you. “Anything for you,” he muttered, quickly getting rid of his pants.

Without much warning, he entered you. Slowly at first, because you knew very well that he was big. And even after so many times together, you continued to feel a slight discomfort at first. But Rafe always made it fit. He couldn't resist your tight pussy, which was even screaming for his attention. “Fuck, tight as ever,” he whispered, correcting himself on the couch so that you were more comfortable. “But don't worry, I'll make it fit.”

And as he said, so he did. With agility, he began to move inside you, making both of you nothing but moaning messes.

“Wait, I want,” you said, putting your hand on his chest. On that damn sexy polo. “Oh, a princess wants to take control?” he laughed under his breath, catching you under the thighs, but as if on cue he stopped moving inside you, making you feel again how big he was inside you. You groaned involuntarily, but didn't give in. You moved nimbly on top of him, practically taking him out of your pussy every now and then, and then lowering yourself all the way down again.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Rafe groaned, his head falling back against the couch, exposing the strong line of his throat. His eyes were hooded, his lips parted as he watched you, completely entranced by the way you were moving, the way you were making him feel.

You could tell he was trying to hold back, trying to let you set the pace, but the way his fingers flexed against your skin told you just how badly he wanted to take control.

“Not yet, Rafey,” you muttered, moving even closer to him. “You deserve the best. Especially, when you're in that slutty polo"

You increased your pace, but Rafe couldn't stand it anymore either, and came against you, entering your pussy from below. At that moment your bodies were merging at the perfect moments and places, so you were already not far from orgasm. And with that, he captured your lips again, his kiss rougher this time, more urgent. There was no more teasing now-just the raw, unfiltered need that always simmered between you both, threatening to spill over the edges.

“I'm so close,” you whispered into his mouth, clamping your pussy against him every so often. “I know, baby, I can feel it,” he muttered into your mouth, gently biting your lip to reach inside again. "Mmm, so good for me"

Rafe grabbed your buttocks and with even more force began to pound his cock into you. Your tongues fought for dominance, and your hands couldn't find room on his body, clamping down on the collars of his shirt.

"Shit" he murmured into your lips, feeling as his cum shot into your pussy, making quite a mess.

Not much later you too reach climax, clenching around his dick. Exhausted, you leaned on his shoulder kissing his neck. Rafe stroked your back, still calming down after the orgasm that hit you surprisingly hard this time. You felt him smiling over your shoulder, so you shared his happiness, smiling too. You moved your head off his shoulder, looking him straight in the eyes now. He was still inside you, so every movement, made quiet sighs come out of your throats.

“What's so funny?” you asked, stroking his jaw and kissing the corner of his mouth gently.

“Maybe I should wear that tight polo more often, just to find yourself in your tight cunt again?” he laughed lightly, returning your kiss.

“Oh shut up, asshole,” you muttered, lowering yourself on top of him once more until he groaned and settled his head on the back of the couch, pulling you against him.

A/N: I know there's a lot of Rafe or Drew here lately, but I swear, when I see this man, I feel so ungodly that oh jesus, i hope you enjoyed this

please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)

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bjlipss · 23 days ago

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— until the quiet finds you;

༉‧₊˚. synopsis: you’re 24, a single mom just trying to survive off of temporary jobs—until a chance elevator ride with gojo satoru, the too-charming ceo of gojo industries, shifts everything. what starts as coffee and kindness slowly turns into something real. but when you’ve spent the last 2 years in survival mode, learning to trust might be the hardest thing of all.

contents: ceo!gojo x single mom!reader, slow burn-ish, slice of life maybe? fluff, some angst, trust issues ig, very exhausted reader, eventual smut, office setting, i will add warnings as the story goes on! current word count: 4,4k. header art: @_3aem on X.

miyan’s notes: hopefully i don’t abandon this lmao. enjoy!

chapter 1 -> chapter 2

you’re running late.

you’re always running late now.

your sneakers slap against the glossy marble of the building’s lobby as you rush across it, breath already hitching in your chest. tomo is tucked tight against you in his wrap, warm and wiggling, his little fists occasionally jabbing you like tiny, accusing reminders of how little sleep either of you got last night. your diaper bag swings wildly from your shoulder, half-unzipped and threatening to spill its chaotic contents—an ominous mix of crushed formula packets, mismatched socks, and a pacifier you’re pretty sure tomo has already rejected three times today.

your purse is dangling off the other arm. your keys are stabbing into your hip. your cardigan—thrown on to appear “presentable” for the office—is wrinkled and milk-stained and clinging to your back with sweat from the subway. and somewhere, probably at the bottom of the bag or on the floor of your apartment, you’re convinced you left your last shred of dignity.

but you made it.

you slow to a stop in front of the elevator, panting slightly, hand slapping the up button with more force than necessary. tomo lets out a soft grumble and rubs his face against your chest, mouth wobbling, clearly on the verge of his next baby meltdown. his face is flushed and tired, the soft tips of his ears warm against your collarbone.

you start bouncing him gently, whispering soft hushes against the top of his fuzzy little head.

“i know, baby. we’re almost there. just hang on for mama, yeah?”

the elevator dings.

you lurch forward—too fast—and nearly trip over your own shoelaces. with a sharp inhale, you catch yourself, shifting your balance quickly to keep tomo snug against your chest. the doors slide open—

and someone’s already inside.

a man.

he’s tall, annoyingly so. and striking in that way that makes you feel like you’ve just walked into the pages of a fashion magazine by accident. he’s leaning casually against the mirrored wall of the elevator, hands in his pockets, ankles crossed, like it’s a photoshoot and not, you know, a monday.

he wears a tailored navy suit that fits him too perfectly to be anything but custom-made. snowy white hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed but still somehow looks intentional. and sunglasses—sleek, black, and very much unnecessary indoors.

you freeze.

so does he.

he tilts his head just slightly in your direction. his gaze—hidden behind those stupidly dramatic sunglasses—somehow lands on you anyway. heavy. curious.

“you getting in?” he asks, voice low, amused, just a little drawling. “or just enjoying the view?”

your face burns instantly.

you tighten your hold on tomo, huff a breath through your nose, and step in quickly, brushing past him. your shoulder grazes his arm, the fabric of his suit smooth and crisp.

“sorry,” you mutter, trying not to wince at your own awkwardness. “wasn’t expecting… anyone.”

“same,” he says easily, like this is just any other conversation, like you’re not currently vibrating with embarrassment and sweat. his eyes flick down toward the bundle at your chest. “he yours?”

you nod once, instinctively bracing yourself. you’ve heard that tone before. the subtle, patronizing pity. the judgment hidden in polite smiles. young mom, flustered, clearly overwhelmed—how irresponsible, how sad, how predictable.

but instead, he just grins.

“cute kid.”

you blink.

“…thanks.”

the elevator hums upward, the air thick with that slightly awkward silence that feels too loud in a small space. tomo shifts again, starting to squirm in his wrap, and you feel it before it happens—the growing tension in his little body, the hiccuping inhale, the inevitable explosion.

he wails.

a loud, guttural cry that echoes like a siren off the metal walls. god, this is embarrassing. not even ten minutes into this fancy building and you’re already the disheveled stereotype.

you freeze for a moment, mortified. your hands fly to the wrap, bouncing him in frantic, practiced motions, patting his back and whispering frantically.

“i’m so sorry,” you blurt, heat rushing to your face. “he’s usually—well, no, he’s always like this, but i swear i’m trying.” you don’t even know why that comes out of your mouth.

you expect the man to recoil. to sigh. to edge away like most people do when a baby starts crying in an enclosed space. but he doesn’t.

“bad day?” the man asks. he doesn’t look annoyed. in fact, he looks… interested. amused. his sunglasses have slipped down his nose a bit, revealing startlingly bright blue eyes that seem to flicker with something soft when they glance at your baby.

“bad month,” you answer, too tired to lie. “sorry about the noise.”

“what’s his name?” he asks, gesturing lightly toward the red-faced bundle in your arms.

“tomo,” you say, eyes narrowing slightly. “why?”

“just wondering,” he shrugs. “he’s got a good set of lungs. he’ll go far.”

your lips twitch, despite everything. he crouches smoothly, leaning in a little without getting too close. his voice drops to something quieter, gentler—almost conspiratorial.

“hey there, little guy,” he says. “you mad about mondays too?”

tomo pauses.

just for a beat.

then blinks at the stranger, confused but curious, his tiny brow furrowed.

the crying falters. the elevator hums upward, floor after floor, and tomo starts to settle again, comforted by the motion or maybe by the stranger’s low, calm voice.

your mouth falls open. “how did you do that?”

the man straightens with a smug smile, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “babies love me.”

you squint at him. “that’s deeply unfair.”

he laughs. the sound is warm. unpretentious. and somehow, it actually makes your chest ache a little.

“maybe,” he says. “or maybe i’m just naturally charming.”

you try to glare, but it falters halfway through. “and you are…?”

“gojo,” he says. “satoru. top floor.”

your stomach dips slightly.

gojo satoru.

as in gojo industries.

as in the man whose name is literally printed in gold on the glass doors you just kicked open with your foot five minutes ago while juggling your screaming baby.

and here you are—sweaty, milk-stained, five minutes late—making a mess in his elevator.

“oh,” you say faintly, cheeks heating. “i didn’t realize.”

“you’re not supposed to,” he says with a shrug. “half the time i sneak down here to avoid meetings. easier when no one recognizes you.”

you glance at him, incredulous, but the words come out easier than you expect. “you’re wearing sunglasses inside.”

“exactly,” he grins. “a perfect disguise.”

you snort despite yourself. it slips out, ungraceful and exhausted, but real. tomo is calm now—suspiciously so—gurgling like nothing ever happened.

gojo glances at him, then back at you.

“you new here?” he asks, and there’s something in his tone that doesn’t feel like small talk.

“just temping,” you say after a moment. “reception on floor fifteen. friend called in a favor so i could pick up a couple shifts.”

“hm. what’s your name?” you tell him, abruptly cut off by the tiny boy in your arms.

tomo fusses again—an impatient little whimper pressed against your collarbone. you don’t even have to think about it; your body moves before your brain does, bouncing him gently, one hand rubbing slow circles across his back. it’s second nature now, stitched into your muscles, something you do without looking, without pausing, like breathing.

you glance at the floor display.

still six floors to go.

“he’s not usually this cranky,” you murmur, voice low, mostly to yourself. “it’s just been a long week… or something like that.”

your laugh is dry, tired. too tired to mask the exhaustion that seeps through your whole body.

gojo shifts slightly beside you. not away, but closer—like he’s listening.

“you don’t have to apologize,” he says after a beat. his tone is different now—less teasing, more grounded. “i’ve sat through board meetings louder than that. at least he doesn’t have a pie chart about quarterly losses.”

you snort again, surprised by the joke. “tempting. if he could weaponize his scream during financial reviews, i might actually get a promotion.”

he huffs a laugh, and for a second, the elevator feels a little less like a steel trap and more like something gentler. the kind of quiet you don’t have to fill with apologies.

you glance sideways at him. his jaw is sharp and clean, framed by that ridiculous white hair that somehow works for him. but it’s not the sharpness that holds your attention—it’s the way his expression softens when he looks at tomo. like he’s not just tolerating the noise or waiting out the ride. he’s here, present, calm.

you look down at your son, still fussing quietly, rubbing his little fists against his eyes like the world’s too much. you get it. you really do.

“still,” you say softly, your voice catching a bit. “i know people don’t really want to deal with this. with me.”

gojo turns toward you slightly. “what do you mean?”

you gesture vaguely, a quick sweep of your hand that could mean anything—your baby, your messy hair, your oversized bag, your creased clothes and tired eyes. “this,” you say. “all of it. the crying, the—the walking chaos. i get looks, you know? like i don’t belong here or… anywhere.”

he watches you for a long moment. not pitying or patronizing. just… watching. like he’s taking you in for real. his gaze is uncomfortably perceptive and you have to brace yourself to not shift away from the discomfort you feel.

“i believe it,” he says, watching tomo, who yawns dramatically. “you’re doing good, though.”

you blink at him.

“what?”

“you heard me,” he says, not even missing a beat. “juggling work and a baby? showing up even when it’s clear you’ve barely slept? that’s impressive.”

your throat tightens. you weren’t expecting that. people don’t usually say those words to you. they offer advice, concern, sometimes even backhanded praise—but never that. there’s weight of honesty behind his words. your fingers twitch where they rest on tomo’s back.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. just the sharp burn of unshed tears pressing behind your eyes, the tired part of you that so badly wants to believe him.

the elevator dings. your floor.

you straighten up instinctively, readjusting tomo in his wrap and trying not to look like your heart just tripped over itself. you tighten the strap of the diaper bag on your shoulder, all too aware of how frayed it looks next to the man in the suit beside you.

“thanks,” you say, clearing your throat.

gojo shrugs a little, watching you with something unreadable in his expression.

“you ever get a break,” he says, just as the doors start to slide open, “come by the top floor. coffee’s decent. and i’ve got a stash of sugar cookies i may or may not be hiding from my assistant.”

you pause, half-in, half-out of the elevator. “you’re bribing me with snacks?”

“depends,” he says with a grin. “is it working?”

your eyebrow lifts, skeptical but amused. “do temps even have access to the executive floor?”

he flashes a lopsided smile, too charming for his own good. “technically? no. but if anyone asks, tell them it’s an emergency strategy meeting. highly confidential.”

“with tomo?”

“of course. who else?” he leans against the back wall again, relaxed as ever. “kid’s clearly got vision.”

“he can’t even hold his head up half the time.”

“neither can half my execs,” he says without missing a beat.

you laugh—genuinely, this time. it slips out before you can stop it. quiet, surprised. the kind of sound you didn’t realize you hadn’t made in days.

you glance down at your baby—who is now drooling contentedly, totally unbothered—and then back at gojo, whose smile hasn’t faded.

“i’ll keep the cookies warm,” he calls.

“…i’ll think about it.”

the doors begin to close. he lifts two fingers in a lazy farewell.

“i’ll be waiting.”

you shake your head, stepping out into the hall, heart still doing something ridiculous in your chest.

──────────────────────

by the time noon rolls around, you’re just about ready to cry.

the phones at reception haven’t stopped ringing. every call blurs into the next: wrong numbers, impatient clients, one woman who spent seven full minutes telling you about her boss’s astrological incompatibility with her cat. your friend’s login doesn’t work, and IT is ignoring your tickets, so the front desk system keeps locking you out every ten minutes. each time, you have to retype your credentials while tomo lets out a bloodcurdling shriek because you dared to stop rocking him.

an intern—not older than nineteen, probably still thinking this job is going to lead to something important—asked you to order “gluten-free air-fried kelp chips” for a VIP client meeting. you don’t even know what that means. you don’t care. you said yes anyway.

tomo—bless his tiny, growing teeth—is going through a phase that involves shrieking every time he’s not being held. no bouncer. no stroller. not even the wrap works unless you’re moving. constant movement. always.

you’ve been rocking him in the wrap while pretending to sound professional, typing with one hand, shushing with the other. your body aches, your back is sore, and you’re down to the last functional nerve in your entire soul. you’ve barely touched your coffee—it’s cold now, bitter. acidic. just like your mood.

you glance at the clock. 12:07.

you’re not sure if the ticking in your head is from sleep deprivation or your own heartbeat echoing gojo’s ridiculous parting words from this morning:

i’ll be waiting.

you scoff under your breath, rubbing your temples. he was probably just being nice. people like him are always just being nice. they toss charm around like it’s nothing because it doesn’t cost them anything. billionaires don’t actually invite single moms to drink coffee on the top floor of their buildings. they especially don’t follow through.

but then—

ding.

you glance up from your monitor, startled, as the elevator doors slide open with a polished whisper of motion.

and out walks gojo satoru.

again.

same tailored suit. same disarmingly white hair. same sunglasses. except now he’s carrying two takeout cups of coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other. the scent of warm pastry hits your nose instantly—buttery, flaky, real. not vending machine lies.

he looks like he does own the world. or maybe just the building. (which he does). his presence is loud, even though he’s not saying anything yet. and he walks like nothing in this world could possibly surprise or rattle him.

your breath hitches. tomo coos softly in his wrap, sleepy and content for once. traitor.

“you again,” you say, blinking at him.

“me again,” he replies, grinning like he planned this moment in a mirror. “was in the neighborhood.”

“this is your building.”

“and yet,” he says smoothly, “i still had to walk all the way from my office to this desk. grueling journey. i deserve a medal.”

you snort, half-exhausted, half-amused—but before you can protest and remind him of the elevator he walked out of, he sets the coffee down gently on the reception desk, followed by the paper bag. you glance at the label on the cup—your name written in messy handwriting with a little smiley face underneath. it’s hot. still steaming. the kind of cup you used to treat yourself to back when you had the luxury of treating yourself.

“thought you might be hungry,” he says, casually. “figured cold vending machine crackers weren’t gonna cut it.”

your stomach growls audibly. you want to disappear. you shoot a look at him like it’s his fault for having working ears.

“you didn’t have to—”

“i know,” he cuts in, removing his sunglasses with one hand and slipping them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. his eyes are absurdly blue. open. curious. warm in a way that feels dangerous. “but i wanted to.”

you hesitate.

no one just wants to. not for you. not unless there’s something else beneath it—some favor, some guilt, some expectation. you’ve learned that the hard way.

“is this… charity?” you ask, a little sharper than you mean to.

gojo doesn’t flinch. doesn’t shift. just tilts his head slightly, as if he’s considering you from a new angle. the distrust in your tone might have been even more palpable than back in the morning.

“nah. if this were charity, i’d bring a camera crew and write it off as a tax deduction.” he smiles, tilting his head. “this is coffee. for a tired mom. who’s doing her best. and still looks like she could kick someone’s ass if she needed to.”

your lips twitch. damn it.

“that’s a weird compliment.” no, it’s one of the nicest things someone ever said to you. and the bastard didn’t even make it sound obnoxious.

“it’s an honest one.”

tomo stirs again, making a soft gurgling sound—somewhere between a sigh and a protest—and gojo leans in. not obnoxiously, not like a man trying to impress you. he just leans forward a little to peek over the edge of the desk, like he’s talking to a tiny prince instead of a drooling infant.

“still the cutest ceo in the building,” he murmurs to your son. “don’t tell my board.”

tomo kicks slightly and—god help you—smiles. a real one. soft, gummy, sunbeam-bright. you quickly memorize it and try not to think of the reason behind it.

you exhale a laugh before you can stop yourself. it bubbles out, tired but real, pulling your shoulders down from your ears for the first time in hours. it’s been a long time since someone made you laugh in a way that didn’t feel forced.

gojo straightens, leaning on the desk with a grin. he’s watching you now—not just looking, but seeing. like he’s memorizing the way your expression changes when you let your guard down. it should be unnerving. instead, it’s… grounding.

“so. what’s the deal? you always this hard to impress?”

you raise a brow.

“you always show up unannounced like a caffeine-bearing fairy godmother?”

“only when the receptionist is this pretty.”

you roll your eyes.

“that’s a terrible line.”

“and yet it got a smile.” he looks far too pleased with himself.

you sip the coffee slowly, grateful for the heat, the caffeine, and the brief illusion that you’re not hanging on by a thread. it’s good. rich. something with hazelnut notes. he remembered your name. got you a nice cup of coffee and pastries softer than anything you’ve tasted in a while.

for a few quiet seconds, it’s just the two of you, the soft hum of the lobby, the gentle breath of your baby against your chest—and no chaos. no judgment. no expectations.

and then, because you need to say it, because you have to:

“i’m not looking for anything, you know,” you say, cautiously, mid-sip and contemplating whether you should have said it before drinking the coffee. “in case that’s what this is.”

there’s a beat. he doesn’t look surprised. doesn’t lean away, either.

“good,” he says, voice softer now. “because i’m not offering anything. not really.”

you blink at him.

what does that mean?

“i just… wanted to see you again,” he adds. “maybe get to know the person who made me smile before noon for the first time in weeks.”

you don’t say anything at first.

but you don’t tell him to leave, either.

──────────────────────

by the time your shift ends, you’re running on fumes.

your back is killing you. tomo is finally asleep, tucked tight against your chest, his tiny hand curled in the fabric of your cardigan. you smell like formula and dry-cleaned carpet. your brain feels like scrambled eggs. and yet—despite all that—there’s still a little something warm sitting in your chest.

gojo didn’t stay long after dropping off the coffee and pastries, but he lingered just long enough to make you laugh again. enough to watch tomo like he wasn’t just humoring you. enough to make the day feel slightly less like drowning. like maybe you were treading water, not sinking.

you turn off the desk monitor, lock the cabinet, and double-check the lobby is cleared out. it’s that quiet part of early evening where the lights buzz a little too loud and everything feels still, like the city is catching its breath.

your legs ache. your bag is too heavy. your stomach is a cavern of missed meals and vending machine regrets. you just want to get home, collapse into bed, and pray tomo gives you three uninterrupted hours of sleep.

you don’t expect anyone to be waiting for you.

but there he is.

leaning against the marble wall by the elevators like he has all the time in the world. sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tie loosened, suit jacket folded neatly over his arm. no sunglasses this time. no jokes. just that unreadable expression—somewhere between calm and something else. something softer.

he straightens when he sees you.

“figured you’d clock out right on the dot,” he says, voice easy. “very punctual. i respect that.”

you blink, momentarily thrown. “i’ve got a baby who turns into a siren after six. punctuality is survival.”

he chuckles, stepping toward the elevator and pressing the button. “fair enough.”

the doors slide open with a soft ding. you hesitate. something is coming.

he gestures inside, face neutral. “come up with me for a sec?”

you tilt your head. “you always invite exhausted single moms up to your office at the end of the day?”

“only the cool ones,” he says casually, already stepping in, as if he knows you’ll follow.

you pause for a heartbeat longer, glance down at tomo—still asleep, curled tight in the wrap like he’s dreaming something peaceful—and then step in after him.

what could it hurt?

the ride up is smooth. quiet. the kind of quiet that feels intentional, not awkward. the kind of elevator that doesn’t creak or hum, just glides upward like a thought. you rock on your heels out of habit, one hand resting over tomo’s back. gojo doesn’t speak. doesn’t push. he just watches the numbers tick upward.

his office is… not what you expected.

open and clean, minimalist without being cold. warm-toned wood floors. a low leather couch. wide, tall windows that stretch from wall to wall, casting golden light across the space like something out of a movie. the skyline glows outside, bathed in the soft orange of a spring sunset.

you blink, overwhelmed for a second by how surreal it all feels.

gojo sets his jacket down on the back of a chair and gestures for you to sit on the couch. he moves like this is normal. like this isn’t strange. like inviting the front desk temp into his office after hours is just another tuesday.

“i wanted to ask you something,” he says, walking to a sleek side cabinet. he pulls out two cold bottles of water, offers you one with a nudge of his chin.

you take it, relishing in the coolness of the bottle. “if it’s about gluten-free kelp chips, i swear to god…”

he grins, settling into the armchair across from you. “no kelp. promise.”

you sit on the edge of the couch, adjusting tomo carefully. he stirs for a moment but stays asleep, face tucked to your chest, one chubby cheek pressed against your skin.

gojo leans forward, elbows on his knees, bottle turning slowly in his hands.

“i looked you up,” he says.

your spine stiffens. “…you what?”

“i googled you,” he says, with a one-shouldered shrug. “nothing weird. just… curious.”

you look around again, cautious in case you missed something, every muscle going tense. “you said you weren’t offering anything.”

“i wasn’t. then. but i couldn’t stop thinking about you after that elevator ride. and after today, i… just wanted to know more. you said you weren’t looking for anything, but i was. and i wanted to know who we had answering phones at reception.”

you wait. brace yourself. for the pity. for the soft, disappointed eyes and the “you’re doing your best” speech.

but that’s not what comes.

“you’re extremely overqualified for temp work,” he says instead, voice calm. thoughtful. “your resume’s stacked. your GPA’s ridiculous. you’ve got a double major. experience managing multi-departmental projects. fluent in two languages. there’s a whole chapter on nonprofit grant-writing that made me feel like i was reading an academic journal.”

you blink. hard. you haven’t even updated that stuff.

“how did you even find that stuff?”

“i own the company,” he says with a shrug. “i asked the right people. and i read the cover letter you submitted two years ago. it was… impressive, to say the least.”

you stare at him. the thudding in your chest isn’t panic. not really. but it is something close to fear. because you’ve heard nice things before. you’ve been told you were capable. once. before life happened. before the plan changed.

“i’m offering you a full-time position,” he says, watching you carefully for the changes in your expressions and body language. “not reception. operations. it’s a junior role, but it’s salaried. benefits. flexible hours.”

you open your mouth, but he holds up a hand.

“you don’t have to say yes. but i’m asking. officially.”

you shake your head. “you don’t have to do that. you don’t have to feel bad for me.”

“this isn’t pity,” he says firmly, eyes locked on yours. “this is simple recruitment. you’re smart. you’re capable. you’ve been underestimated and underpaid, and i’m not going to pretend i’m doing you a favor. you’d be doing us one. we need people like you.”

you swallow hard. your throat feels tight. everything feels unreal, but reality’s weight hardens on your shoulders once again as you take a shaky breath.

“i can’t,” you say. quietly. “i can’t afford a sitter. i can’t leave tomo alone. daycare costs more than i make in a week, and even if i could, i don’t trust anyone to—”

“then don’t.”

you blink. “what?”

“bring him,” gojo says, simply. “we have the space. i’ll make it part of your contract. we’ll cover on-site childcare. or remote work. whatever you need. you shouldn’t have to choose between your kid and your career.”

you’re stunned silent. this morning you were juggling phone calls and teething screams, dreaming of vending machine crackers. now he’s handing you… what? a door? a way out?

you hesitate, the weight of everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the aching hope—tight in your chest.

“i don’t know,” you admit. “it’s a lot.”

because that’s the thing no one says. that’s the thing they don’t mean even when they do say it.

the sincerity of his words make you want to accept immediately because you can see it in his face, the way he tries not to push you into choosing something even though it is better. this isn’t about guilt. it’s not about charity. it’s just… belief.

you look down at tomo—soft, warm, safe against your chest. his tiny fingers still curled in the knit of your sweater.

“why?” you whisper. “why are you doing this?”

he leans back slightly, eyes steady.

“because i can,” he says. “and because someone should.”

your eyes sting before you can stop them. you blink quickly, focus on a spot on the wall. you won’t cry. not here. not in front of him.

he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small business card. he scribbles something on the back before holding it out.

“you don’t have to decide now,” he says. “but if you think about it—and you want to say yes—text me.”

you flip the card over. his name is printed in silver foil on one side. on the other, in bold, messy handwriting: his personal number, and the words “only if you say yes.”

you nod once, unable to speak.

he doesn’t push. just stands, smooth and quiet, walking you back to the elevator like nothing about this moment is extraordinary. says “see you, tomo” and winks at you right before the doors close with an uncertain hiss.

but when you step outside, into the soft, dusky air, you know better.

you know something shifted.

and as you press the card into your coat pocket and start the long walk to the bus stop, tomo still dozing gently on your chest—

you feel something strange.

not safety. not yet.

but something like the possibility of it.

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sttoru · 1 year ago

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‘if there’s anyone in this world who loves being a girl dad the most, it must be your husband — gojo satoru.’

☀︎｜tags. girl dad!gojo x female reader. fluff. you’re married. reader gets called ‘mama, sweetheart’. wrote this at work so not beta read. fic one out of two for satoru’s birthday!

giggles fill the living room — familiar laughter that sounded like your daughters’. a more sultry and manly voice also resonates in the background. one that you could recognise from miles away.

your curiosity leads you to investigate the source of the joyful sounds and soon enough, you find your dear husband and daughters sitting on the couch. though, in a situation you hadn’t quite foreseen.

satoru was talking on the phone about important business whilst your little girls were giving him a rather sparkly makeover. the most heartwarming thing was satoru’s surrender to your daughters’ antics — allowing them to do whatever to his face and hair.

“mhm, yeah..” the white-haired sorcerer hums over the phone, not having the slightest idea about what ijichi was yapping about. probably something that has to do with the recent sighting of a special grade curse in the city.

but, that wasn’t satoru’s priority at the moment at all (even if it should have been). his focus was all on his two daughters that were enjoying their playtime with him.

“papa’s so pretty.” one of them comments with a big smile — a smile satoru wishes to protect until his last moment on earth. her fingers push and pull on a small strand of his hair, trying to tug it into another ponytail.

satoru had already lost count of how many messy and half-done ponytails his snowy hair got divided into. the same goes for the amount of stickers on his face and neck.

the two sisters work together to put another pink and glittery sticker on satoru’s chin — though were no match to their father’s playful attitude. he jerks his head forwards and teasingly nibbles on their tiny hands that came in touch with his face.

this causes almost ear deafening squeals to reverberate through his ears. not that he’s complaining — satoru loves to hear them.

“. . .gojo, are you listening?” ijichi’s shaky voice over the phone interrupts the squeals. satoru doesn’t even try giving a proper response and only mutters a quick ‘yeah’ between snickers. that was enough of a sign for ichiji to understand that he couldn't get through.

everyone knew how much satoru loved his little family. he cherished them and put them above everything, including his work. sometimes it was necessary for you to remind satoru that he's needed outside your home - that he was and will keep being the strongest sorcerer that people depend on.

"wow, you two really made papa super pretty!" satoru coos as his daughters bring him a hand mirror. his phone had already been discarded somewhere on the couch - not even bothering to hang up on ijichi first.

your husband effortlessly picks the children up and cuddles them close to his body, smothering them both in sloppy wet kisses on their cheeks and necks - making them giggle uncontrollably. "y'know, papa will give you both a nice little reward for making me so beautifu—”

a faint cough echoing from the mobile device next to them reminds satoru that he was still on call. he reaches out and grabs his phone, rolling his eyes in a sassy way before clearing his throat;

"i need to attend important business. see ya." the sorcerer declares and hangs up right after. to him, playing around and taking care of his daughters was more than necessary. even in comparison with an actual critical situation: it wasn't like there weren't any other special grade sorcerers that could take on the mission.

the second his phone plops back down on the couch, satoru's hands fly over to tickle his little girls' bellies. they wriggle and squirm around in his lap - squealing for help from their mama.

you had been watching the scene unfold from the doorway and decide to join in on the fun once you hear your daughters’ call. you gasp dramatically before scurrying over to the couch, acting like you were genuinely scolding your husband for his 'torturuos' tickles;

"oh no, my little girls!" you pout, taking in the way your daughters laugh and outstretch their tiny arms towards you, searching for an escape in your arms. you gladly help them away from their dad's grasp, though not without getting a whine out of satoru.

one of your daughters sticks out her tongue at the sulky sorcerer on the couch, the other mimicking her sister's actions. you chuckle and decide to do the same; frowning and sticking your tongue out.

"ack!" satoru clutches his chest, fingers curling around the material of his shirt like he just got shot. he topples over on the couch and acts dead with his eyes half closed, "i can't. . . believe. . . it. my girls hate me. ugh, my heart - can't take it."

you scoff at his exaggerated act. you were used to it after years of dating and marriage, but your daughters seemed to still take the bait. they writhe around in your arms and once you put them down on the floor again, they run back to their 'fallen' dad.

they shake him by his shoulders and harshly pat his cheeks in attempt to bring him back to life. a constant loop of 'papa!'s and 'wake up!'-s echo throughout the house. even some 'we're sworry!'-s thrown in-between.

satoru couldn't take it anymore and his arms move at the speed of light so he could pull both of his daughters in a big hug. he squeezes them a bit too tight to his chest, causing them to shriek and laugh.

"are you not joining us, sweetheart?" satoru asks with a shit-eating grin. it's then that you realise that he was blushing from pure joy — his cheeks rosy. well, you couldn't possibly deny his request when he was this ecstatic.

the high-pitched 'mama too! mama too!' coming from both girls mellowed your heart even more. and thus, you give in.

you happily join the pile - climbing on top of your husband and between your daughters which lay on each of his sides. your head rests on his chest, your eyes closed and your ears filled with laughter.

satoru eventually relaxes, however that genuine smile never leaves his lips. this is where he belongs. with his family - the most important thing of all.

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #gojo x you #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff

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vanillefawnn · 18 days ago

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Leather & Lace 𖹭.ᐟ

Dean winchester x fem!reader

Warnings: suggestive content, Sam being the poor third wheel and getting stuck between you Dean's freakness, language

Summary: You like to leave Dean little trinkets when he goes on hunts, just little things to help keep you in his head when he's out on the road.

Authors note: I'm gonna tackle this man and get him PREGNANT !! (I also did NAWT proof read this sooo ye)

Dean wasn't a sentimental guy—not really. Not in the way people wrote sonnets about or cried over in movies. But there was something about you that rewired the whole system, made him soft in places he'd spent his whole life keeping armored.

It started with a polaroid.

The two of you at a diner somewhere in Missouri, your face squished against his shoulder, both of you grinning like idiots. He found it one morning tucked into the crease of Baby's dashboard, right between the speedometer and the gas gauge.

"Figured you'd miss my face," your neat hand writing read on the back.

He chuckled, thumb brushing over the image as he slid it into the glovebox. He would miss your face, hell, he already did.

From then on, it became a thing.

Every time Dean left for a hunt—wether it be with Sam or solo—there was always something left behind. A sticky note on the steering wheel that said "Drive safe, handsome. I'll be thinking about you." Sometimes, a folded square of paper that smelled just like you, perfume soaked into the fibers until it clung to the leather seats like memory.

Dean had never told you how much it meant. He didn't have to.

But then—somewhere along the line—it stopped being just sweet.

One week, he found a photograph.

And not the diner kind, either.

It was tasteful, if not exactly safe-for-work—your body clad in soft, black lacy lingerie, all curves and skin and confidence. Dean found it when he was rummaging for a cassette tape. Sam was two feet away, completely unaware.

Dean coughed—choked, really—and shoved it into his jacket pocket like it was a contraband. His ears were pink the entire drive to Minnesota.

The next time, it was a lipstick kiss on the rearview mirror. A perfectly formed pout of crimson that made his gut twist in all the right ways. He sat there for a moment, hand resting against the glass like he could somehow hold it.

Sam noticed that one.

"Oh my god," he'd muttered "Can you two not?"

Dean just smirked and peeled out of the parking lot.

But nothing—not one thing—compared to what he found this time.

He was loading up the impala, tossing a duffle into the trunk, shotgun shells rattling in his pocket. Sam was still inside. Grabbing coffee, grumbling something to himself about early mornings and the lore of the case they were working on.

Dean slide into the driver's seat, ready to start the engine—and froze.

There they were.

Hanging from the rearview mirror like the worlds most scandalous charm.

Baby blue lace panties.

Your panties.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Nope. Still there.

Delicate, floral patterns, tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand. His name was stitched in tiny cursive into the inner waistband—Dean, in pale silver thread. His jaw clenched.

The fuck were you trying to do to him?

He practically snatched them off the mirror, glancing around like some cop was gonna pull up and arrest him for public indecency. His fingers brushed the lace. Soft. Still warm from wherever you'd hidden them. Maybe even your skin. His brain was officially out of commission.

You'd attached a note to them, of course.

"Thought you might like to keep a little peice of me with you."

Dean was gonna die.

Actually, no—Sam was gonna die. Because the second he saw these? it was over.

Dean shoved them into the glovebox like they were ticking explosives, slamming it shut just as Sam rounded the corner with two cups.

"Something wrong?" Sam asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

Dean cleared his throat. "Nope."

"Your face is red."

"It's hot."

"It's forty degrees."

Dean started the car. "Shut up."

Sam blinked. "Why does it smell like her perfume in here again?"

Dean said nothing.

Sam groaned, leaning back in his seat, already regretting this entire trip. "You two are disgusting."

Dean just smirked, hand resting on the wheel.

But later, that night, when they checked into a ratty motel, Dean opened the glovebox again—just to see them. To touch the lace. Hold them against his chest, breathe you in.

And that night, when he slipped between the sheets. He tucked the panties beneath his pillow and fell asleep to the ghost of your perfume and the sound of your voice in his head.

Yeah.

Maybe he was sentimental, after all.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester supernatural #dean x reader #dw #supernatural x reader #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #need him #gonna get him prego #tumblr #omg #gimme #pls #goodGAWD

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ghostlycamil4 · 1 month ago

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𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜, 𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑒, 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝐽𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑂𝑓𝑓 𝐴𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦

ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴵᴺᴳ⠃ ¹⁸⁺ ᶜᴼᴺᵀᴱᴺᵀ

The sun was just starting to creep through the curtains when Bakugo woke up with that all-too-familiar tension between his legs. Not the first time, sure—but that didn’t make it any less fucking annoying. With a low growl, he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles before dragging a hand down under the sheets, where a very obvious tent made his situation clear.

“This is a fucking joke…” he muttered, yanking the blanket up again just to glare at the clear evidence of his problem.

It wasn’t like his sex drive was out of control most of the time, but some days, his own damn body seemed hell-bent on betraying him—pushing him to the edge without any fucking warning. And today was one of those goddamn days.

Worst part? You weren’t there.

You’d left town for some family thing, three whole fucking days away. And while Bakugo would never admit it out loud, your absence had him in a foul mood. But today—of all fucking days—when he needed you most, in the filthiest way possible, you were miles out of reach.

With an exasperated sigh, he dropped back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer some kind of answer. He could take care of it himself—of course he could—but it wasn’t the same. Not even close. Not without your hands on him, dragging down his chest, your nails digging into his back, and fuck—your sweet little moans in his ear.

He unlocked his phone without thinking, thumbed into your chat, and froze. What the fuck was I even gonna say? The dial tone rang before he could hang up, and Bakugo cursed under his breath—he hadn’t meant to call. Too late now.

Then your voice came through, soft and easy.

“Morning, babe.”

Shit. Right in the fucking dick.

“Morning,” he muttered, trying to sound casual as his grip tightened on the phone. “When’re you back?”

“Flight’s on Wednesday,” you said, distracted—blender whirring in the background.

He pictured it instantly: you in his kitchen, that damn sweater slipping off your shoulder, bare legs, tiny shorts…

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growled, mostly to himself.

“Miss me already?” you teased, voice dripping with smug playfulness. You were doing this on purpose—he knew it, and it pissed him off how well it worked.

There was a pause. Just his shaky breathing filling the silence.

Then you got it.

“Oh.”

That one fucking word hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Shut up,” he growled, low and rough—but there was no heat behind it. He was already too far gone.

“That bad, huh?” you purred, voice dipping low—smooth, seductive. Like you were right up against the mic just to mess with his head. “Want me to help you out, babe?”

He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth.

“You’re not here,” he snapped, like it was your damn fault. His voice came out raw, strained. You could practically see it—his hand trailing lower, muscles tight, jaw clenched. “Fuck you.”

“Well… I could just hang up.”

Your tone was syrupy sweet, fake-innocent, and he hated how much it turned him on. You knew exactly what you were doing.

Silence.

One beat. Then another.

“Close your eyes.”

Your voice changed—sharper, darker. A command. And for once, he didn’t argue. He just did it.

And then, a sigh.

“What else?” His voice was rough—gritty, caught somewhere between resistance and surrender. You could picture him perfectly: eyes shut tight, brows drawn in frustration, jaw clenched like he was barely holding it together. Fingers probably digging into the side of his thigh, like he needed to anchor himself to something before he snapped.

“Imagine it’s my hand down there… What would I do first, huh? Would I go slow—make you suffer? Or would you be the one too fucking desperate to wait?”

A strangled growl. “Fuck.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, but that thrill—hot and victorious—rushed through your veins like fire.

“You like it, don’t you? Thinking about me there, lips brushing over you, not giving you what you want…”

“You’re a fucking tease,” he spat. But his voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.

“Ah, but you haven’t told me to stop.”

It was too much.

With a guttural noise, Bakugo arched off the bed, his hand jerking under the sheets with desperate urgency.

“Shut the fuck up and keep talking!”

And so, you did. Slowly, deliberately. Every word like a drop of gasoline on an open flame. You painted filthy little pictures in his head—your hands sliding down his chest, your mouth following right after, teeth scraping over his skin. You told him how wet you were just watching him lose it like that. All because of you.

Every breathless moan, every half-swallowed curse from his end was fucking music.

Then—

“Y/N, sweetie, can you help me with this?”

Your mother. Cheerful. Oblivious.

Ice water.

“Just a sec, Mom!” you answered way too fast, scrambling, the mic shifting as you choked back laughter and panic.

“Yeah, Mom! Coming!” you repeated, followed by a hurried whisper into the phone, “Shit, babe, I gotta—”

Click.

The call dropped before you could even finish the sentence.

Bakugo sat frozen, phone still pressed to his ear, knuckles white, body wound tighter than a goddamn wire.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“This fucking women—!” he snarled into the empty room, but even his rage couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice.

Frustration, hot and raw, coiled in his gut like a bomb that didn’t go off.

The silence in the room was now a cruel joke. The sheets, messy and damp, still smelled like you—that stupidly delicious perfume you wore just to drive him insane. And he was still there, throbbing, left halfway to ruin.

His breath hitched as his hand slid lower, wrapping around himself with a firm, practiced grip.

"You need it that bad?"

Your voice echoed in his head, tangled with the wet, obscene sound of his fist working him with growing urgency. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would be—because it wasn’t you. Because he couldn’t hear your moans, couldn’t feel you squirming beneath his hands.

*"You like knowing I cum just for you, don’t you?"*

“Shut up…” he growled under his breath, but his pulse only spiked higher. The image of your body arched over him was so vivid it hurt.

His hand moved faster, rougher, as if he could fuck the thought of you out of his head—bury it under friction and sheer will.

But god, how he tried to make up for it.

He bit his lip, hard, imagining it was you doing it.

Your teeth sinking into his neck.

Your tongue licking the sweat off his collarbone.

Your mouth trailing down his torso, kissing every scar, every muscle, until you reached exactly where he needed you most.

"If you were here…"

He could almost hear the wet sounds of your mouth on him, your fingers digging into his thighs, the filthy things you’d say when you were just as lost in pleasure as he was.

“God…”

He twisted, hips jerking, hand moving faster—more desperate.

The moan tore from his throat, rough and guttural, as the orgasm crashed over him like a relentless wave. His body arched violently, neck tendons straining to their limit. A ragged curse, a shudder-then heat spilling over his fingers, his stomach, his thoughts going blissfully blank.

“Fuck—!”

When he came back to himself, his half-lidded eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind foggy, limbs heavy as lead.

“You’re a fucking bitch...” he muttered, but there was no anger in his voice—just a hoarse, drowsy satisfaction.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

• MASTERLIST

#bakugo smut #bnha smut #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo x y/n #bakugo x you #mha x y/n #bnha x you #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki x you #katsuki x y/n #katsuki smut #anime smut

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loganlermanstanaccount · 2 years ago

Note

hear me out..what abt u and miguel in a hotub trying to hide that fact that you guys are literally screwing eachother in front of the others🤭🤭and he’s talking u through it..whispering in ur ear..telling u to be quiet while he’s literally roaming his hands all over u! 😋😋

this is a leeetle bit funny to me bc in real life, sex is the last thing i'd wanna do in a hot tub. But for Miguel..... 😍😍

Wandering Hands

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: Husband!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: You're on a trip away with your husband, Miguel. He gets handsy. (Hot tub sex + Husband!Miguel)

warnings: 18+ , fingering, p in v, instructional, Miguel talks you through it, teeny tiny bit of f!dom, exhibitionism, semi-public sex, very very sappy. Minors DNI

a/n: this is disgustingly sappy and cheesy at some points - I kinda have to apologise in advance. I've had a rough week lmao

very big thank you to my beta reader @tianyhi <33

wc: 2.7k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wandering hands: Miguel has wandering hands.

It's your anniversary, and that's the thought you're left with as he kneads your thigh, eyes low at a fancy resort. A resort you practically dragged him to, mind you. He's a workhorse; absorbed in his job and everything that comes with it. Your husband; diligent and devoted, as always; he needed a break. Somewhere hot, somewhere expensive. It’s what he deserved. And whilst he would never take the initiative to book one for himself, isn't that what a wonderful SO was there for?

To his credit, he's been 'unplugged' since the moment you got here - putting away his work laptop and ignoring all the calls he'd get from overbearing clients. His sole focus for this whole week is you; and he's made that abundantly clear. The lingering looks, gentle touches: everything about him screams love and warmth. And he's all yours - a fact that still sends you spiralling, every now and then. All yours.

"You're not paying attention, cariño." He says under his breath, swirling the wine under his nose like the man in front of him.

You're both at a wine tasting, like sophisticated adults (...who had made fun of the idea on the way over). Miguel's wearing pressed trousers that hang on his frame just right, and a tank top underneath an open button-up. The peek of flesh makes you hot under the collar like a Victorian housewife, and you flush when you realise you're staring. Miguel pinches your cheek with a laugh, soothing it with a simple kiss.

Huffing, you take a sip of the expensive wine without thinking. There’s a gasp from the sommelier, and the small group turns to look at you. Your face heats up when you realise what you’ve done - shirking from the pack of eyes silent with sharp critique. A man beside you taps your shoulder with a slimy smile.

“Miss, that’s a 1978 Monfortino. It probably costs more than your rent.”

“...I thought this was a wine tasting. So eventually, we have to… taste. The wine.” Miguel chuckles into his drink, squeezing at your waist. You make a fair point.

The man laughs, smug. “With all due respect, it’s an experience of the senses… maybe this is your first time somewhere with this kind of price tag, but it’s quite rude to-”

Miguel clears his throat, flashing a disarming smile at the man to your side. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, with a dangerous veneer you’ve seen before. The smile he gives before closing a big deal at work, calculated and shiny – when he smells blood in the water.

“With all due respect, watch your fucking tone.”

His face drops just as quickly, and he downs the rest of his wine, standing up - hand outstretched to take you with him. Gladly, you follow, click-clacking in your heels and little dress; hand tight around his.

“...Pinche idiota…vete a la verga…smug little-” It’s under his breath, but his intensity makes you giggle.

In the elevator up to your room, he stews, brow creased in little furrows. A force of habit, he pulls you closer, tucking away a stray strand of hair. With a smile, you knead his temples, smoothing the creases. He visibly softens and leans into your touch.

“You’re on vacation, Miguel. Relax, baby.”

“S’not that simple.” He grumbles, but chases your lips with his own, regardless.

Defiant, you move at the last moment, chin up in the air.

“No, I’m being serious.” He snakes a hand to your ass, dancing over the hem of your dress.

"I could think of a few ways to decompress, if you're up for it…" Voice low and silky, want pools at the base of your stomach.

"Miguelito, the bedroom voice doesn't work on me, anymore." You slather on the charm, batting your eyelashes in a way that makes him laugh. He rolls his eyes.

"Let's do something. I think…I think the spa's still open? We could get a massage-"

"I don't want a massage unless it's you, baby."

"...or go to the sauna-"

"Didn't pack the right clothes, m'afraid."

"God, don't be mean." It's your turn to roll your eyes. And you whack at his chest, admonishing him gently. "What about the hot tubs?"

He turns his head to the side as if he's deep in thought. Pondering, weighing up the options; when really, the only thought in his head was you in a tiny bikini.

"If you insist, cariño."

~~~

The spa isn't too far from your hotel, a stone's throw from the beach. You walk with Miguel in the pleasant evening heat, flip-flops and cover ups light on your back.

There at the back, open air, behind rows of beach houses and overlooking the sea. You settle into the tubs, each one sectioned by wooden slats and climbing plants - not visible from the main spa, but not completely closed off, either. You can still hear the quiet buzz of other people, although it's not too full this late in the day.

You slip the light fabric onto the floor, and step out of the cover-up. Miguel, already in the water, watches the light ripple off of your skin. You don't catch him staring, but you feel it. His gaze is heavy as he drinks it in; you are dappled and gorgeous, and his heart is full. You slip in, shuffling up close to him in the dull thrum of the water jets.

Eyes closed, you rest your head on his shoulder. "You're staring."

"Yeah." It's so soft, said in the press of warm bodies, that you almost don't hear it. Playfully, he flicks your forehead - in that little triangle between your eyebrows that appears when you're resting. It's cute, he thinks. "...you got a problem with that?"

Laughing, you shake your head. "It's not too much?"

He moves closer to you, hands on your hips and mouth pressing soft kisses into your neck.

"The trip, I mean. It was a little last minute, and there was that thing with our passports…" You sigh, turning towards him, hand on his chest to stop him. "I just thought you needed a break. And I know this isn't usually your thing, but I want you to enjoy yourself. If you're not, let me know, and I'll book the first plane out of here, I promise."

You're looking up at him, clearly worried, and his heart breaks. It's almost as if you've forgotten that an anniversary entails both people, together as one. The truth is, as long as he's with you, and you're having a good time…

"Doesn't matter where we go, cariño. I'm right where I need to be if I'm with you." He says it like a statement - so matter-of-factly it makes your head spin. Because, you suppose, to him it was a ubiquitous truth: that in every universe, every iteration, the both of you belonged together. What would sound over the top or cheesy coming from someone else, is made so simple by Miguel. A fundamental truth: his home, his happiness, his heartaches and highest highs, were with you, and you alone.

"Promise me."

"Hand on my heart, baby." He places a palm that spans the crest of his ribcage. "...I promise."

He guides you onto his lap, so your back presses to his. His kisses are so light and airy, you don't notice how his hand creeps towards your thigh and the gentle movement of his hips under yours.

"You always take care of me," His hand snaps the band of your bikini bottoms, making you writhe on his lap. "Let me return the favour. Relax, cariño."

You nod, gently, eyes blown when you realise what exactly that means. Miguel's large palms dance over your tummy, pinching at the flesh to make you laugh; and then down to your thighs, to paw at them. He shifts, directing you over the jet by the base of the seat, and there is delicious pressure at your clit.

He cups your pussy under the foam of the water, ripping a heady moan of which you try to subdue. You lean into it: the hand that's now migrated into your bikini, the rock of his hips, and the hickeys he sucks into skin. Coupled with the fact you were in public, he brings you to climax quicker than even he expected. You were so needy, everything about your body telling him you wanted more - needed more. He presses the pad of his finger over your clit, barely there, and you claw at his arms under the water.

"More?" He coos, dulcet tones brushing the shell of your ear. "Pórtate bien, okay?"

So lost in your haze, you don't register the steady padding of a pair of people coming towards you, behind the wooden divider. A head pops over, and you still his wandering hands.

"Oh, there y'all are!" You see the bronzed face of Jess and her husband, a couple you had met during the trip. She bounces towards you both with dizzying accuracy, donned in a bright swimsuit and sheer cover up around her waist. Her husband is quieter, opting for a nod to Miguel, behind you.

"Can we join you? Hope we aren't interrupting anything."

Miguel meets your eyes.

"Is it okay?" He says, a thousand words said in your exchange. We don't have to do anything, it's up to you.

"It's fine," You breathe and then louder, to Jess. "It's fine."

He kisses your forehead and squeezes you closer, shifting so you feel his growing length under his shorts. An action that would seem innocent to a passer-by but below the surface…

He starts off slow, imperceptible movements as he strokes your clit. It makes you impatient, irritated that he had the audacity to start something he couldn't finish. Or, wouldn't, rather. You make lazy conversation with Jess and her husband; innocuous little things that barely take your mind off of Miguel behind you.

Some time goes by, and he's somewhat conservative – hand pressed against your pussy like his fingers were made for you. You get used to the pressure, as Jess talks about her day.

"...they're having a sale, as well! We're gonna go back there tomorrow, because, God, there were these earrings that I couldn't take my eyes off of, real gold, and only-"

"Fuck!" He slips two fingers in, without warning, sinking to the knuckle as your little hole adjusts. Jess pauses, a little confused.

"I was just…" He scissors them ever so slightly, enjoying watching you squirm. "...t-thinking about how great that deal was. Like… fuck! Real gold!"

Internally, you wince, hoping she buys it. Jess isn't stupid, but you don't think she knows you well enough to notice your husband fingering you in a hot tub. You hope.

"Right." She gives you the benefit of the doubt. "Not gold-plated, real gold."

You nod, hoping the foam from the jets is hiding the way you rock into Miguels' fingers. They feel good, curling up into you at that spongy spot he knows too well.

"There's a good food spot, by the boardwalk. I think they do…" She turns to her husband, who has an arm draped around her.

"Pasta, baby."

"Pasta! Yes, of course. We had a gorgeous meal and they served mussels, with the dish you were on about, before."

A beat. And then another. There’s a pregnant pause, before Miguel nudges you gently. "Yeah, sorry. It was the… garlick-y… one that had, um…"

You can't concentrate, against his wide torso, his hands between your legs: your brain goes fuzzy. You catch a smile tugging at his lips; and you almost scream. It's cruel, and all he can do is laugh.

"Miguel's more interested in that stuff, m'afraid." You give her a weak smile, and Miguel rewards you with a thumb to your clit.

It takes you everything not to jump at the pleasure that rocks your core; and you clamp a hand to his thigh. You make eye contact and he smiles; the smug fuck; gently chattering on with Jess about your trip to a local market, the other day. He's as casual as can be, and seemingly unaffected.

You try your hardest to nod and smile where necessary; giving simple answers that wouldn't require much thought. In the cool night air, the conversation is pleasant enough, but your husband insists on stretching out your orgasm – watching for the tell-tale signs and pulling away. It's a game of cat and mouse; and whilst you just want to get off, Miguel takes pleasure in the chase.

"We should be heading off, I think." Jess says after a while. "Just wanted to catch up with you two."

Miguel smiles, dizzying and innocuous. "We're happy to, Jess."

They slip out with a splash, and she nods towards you. "You ok, sweetheart? You just seem a bit out of it, today."

Perhaps too hastily, you nod. "I think…I t-think it was something I ate."

"Oh." She looks a little worried, and it makes you feel guilty. "You get better then. I'll give you a call tomorrow."

"Thanks, Jess." And with that, they make their way out.

Once out of sight, Miguel speeds up, his other hand on your thigh to wrench your legs open. The speed makes you dizzy, melting with your head back on his shoulder and desperately humping his hand for some relief. The rock and slosh of water over tiles barely registers in your fog.

As you moan and writhe, he whispers filth into your ear.

"Quieter, cariño. What if someone hears?" You whine and all he does is chuckle, lowly. "What if they find you, spread on my lap, fucking yourself on my fingers?"

"You're being mean."

"Eso no es justo, amor." He titters, shaking his head. "You told me to relax, no? This is how I want to relax."

Tears prick at your eyes, as he uses his other hand to rub circles into your clit, the warm froth washes over you both, but all you can feel is him.

"¿Dime que quieres, hermosa?" What do you want?

"M'close, Miguel." You bite down another moan. “I’m ready.”

"Want to feel it, baby. Cum for me."

You tilt your head to the side, and he captures your lips with his own – in awe as you clamp around his fingers. Grinding down on his crotch, you ride out your orgasm. The way he makes you feel is hot, and wet and filthy.

When your shaking legs still, you turn around to face him. He's hard, and too much of a gentleman to take his own pleasure. You slip a hand into his shorts, hand hot against his cock. It's his turn to lean into the bliss: head back and lips slightly parted with pleasure.

You've always liked his lips, plump and kissable, a pretty pink that just fits against yours.

"You're teasing." He hisses softly.

You scrape your nails along his chest, and he keens, clutching your hand close to his heart.

"...and what exactly have you been doing all night?“ You make a tight ring with your fingers, squeezing his tip and his hips jump up.

"Vale, vale, vaaale…." He paws at you waist, a little desperate. "Fuck- I get it."

You give him a kiss, wet and needy, before slipping the gusset of your bikini to the side and sinking down on his length. He cries out and you swallow it, pressing yourself even closer to him. With your tits against his chest like that, he can't think straight. You shift against his length, finding a steady rhythm but it's too slow – and Miguel grows impatient. With a growl, he places both hands on your hips, forcing you downwards as you writhe on his length.

"Dámelo, dámelo…" He slams his cock into you - hard and fast and just the way you like it. "Just like that, baby, just like-"

That growing coil at the base of your stomach snaps, and you clamp around him. But he doesn't stop, just fucks you through it until he cums, hot and sticky fluids spilling into you. Panting, you capture him into a kiss. You separate, and he's got a dopey smile on his face.

Content. Relaxed, even.

~~~

Jess calls you the morning after, and you answer.

"Hey, everything ok?" You yawn into the receiver, a little tired from last night's activities.

"I said I would call, didn't I?"

You hum. "...suppose you did."

"You feeling better now Miguel's not playing with your pussy in a hot tub?"

Shit. You almost drop the phone. "Jesus, we didn't-"

"Save. It." She grumbles something you can't quite hear; something you suspect you're better off not hearing, anyways.

"...Sorry. We weren't really thinking."

"Damn straight." She pauses. "I'm not mad, sweetheart. Can’t even judge you, to be honest. As I always say, it's not a real vacation until you fuck your husband somewhere you shouldn't-"

"Gross, Jess."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did the woman who got fingered in a hot tub just say something??"

You wince at the vulgarity of her words.

"....Ouch."

She laughs into the speakerphone, and you join her. Besides you, Miguel stirs, a little smile on his face. Half asleep, he thinks he’s heard an angel, voice light and airy in the space of your hotel room.

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @tea-earl-grey-thot

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #atsv #atsv x reader #miguel o'hara smut #kat_writes😼#spiderman2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #fine ass man #luv him

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sinofwriting · 2 years ago

Text

Wait - Ollie Bearman

Words: 4,936 Summary: Ollie Bearman doesn’t wear necklaces, it’s just not his thing. So why during the 2023 Mexico GP is he spotted wearing a necklace with a familiar ring hanging from the chain Note(s)/Warning(s): This is in fact the purity ring fic. It’s a bit NSFW. Reader is Max Verstappen’s little sister. I nearly included lestappen because the idea of both Verstappen siblings dating a Ferrari (or Ferrari adjacent) driver was funny to me, but I didn’t. Also, thank you to all the people who told me to write this. I’m going to go somewhere, but I’m glad I did!

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A ring sits on her finger. The same finger that will one day have an engagement ring then a wedding band to join. The band is thin with two knots and between both knots are four tiny pearls, barely the size of a grain of rice and in the middle of those four pearls is a mix of her birthstone and Max’s. She had gotten it when she was eleven shortly after she had heard Max joking with some of his friends about sex and she went to their mom asking what exactly they meant and for the past six years it had sat there.

It was the first big purchase Max had made with his F1 paycheck. The seventeen year old had felt ashamed and horrified at his baby sister overhearing the things him and friends were joking about. And even worse when their mom had to give her the talk. It had been nothing however compared to what their father had thought when learning of it. Max had swore his ears were ringing as Jos had yelled at him for first having his friends around her and second talking about sex when he knew that she was in the house and liked to randomly join them.

The ring had been a nice way to ease the tension and though he had been a bit red as he explained what it was to her, she had nodded along with his explanation, looking serious before putting it on and then smiling at him and hugging him.

At eleven it hadn’t really been an issue, wearing a purity ring, promising that she’d wait to be married before having sex. It hadn’t been a problem when she was fifteen and her first spike of hormones hit and suddenly sex wasn’t something that felt so far away or like a weird foreign concept. It hadn’t been a problem at sixteen either when she got her first boyfriend, who Max had quickly run off.

It had started to be a problem after she turned seventeen and got together with Ollie.

Ollie who she was never supposed to meet. Was only supposed to know of because she followed F2 and F3. But then she joined Max for the remainder of the 2022 season in July. Done with school and unsure if she wanted to go to Uni, unsure really of what she wanted to do.

She had planned to stay home with her mom, putter about the house, maybe do some small writing for Redline and Verstappen.com that she’d email to Kris, who would send her the money that they got paid for them instead of submitting them herself where Max would be sure to give her a stupid amount of money for something that took maybe thirty minutes to write.

But then Max had heard about her plans and she was officially employed by her brother. Managing his website, instagram, and Redline’s social media, going with him to every race, which meant that she had far too much free time and meant that she found herself following around Jack Crawford as he finished up his F3 season which meant running into Ollie Bearman.

Ollie, who was so unexpectedly sweet and cute, who made all the blood rush to her face as her heart worked overtime, made butterflies appear in her stomach.

It had been the second time that they saw each other that he had asked her on a date and now a year later, the two are now both eighteen and head over heels in love, and the ring that rests on her left ring finger feels more like a nuisance.

She had never had sex, hadn’t even really touched or been touched until Ollie but as the F2 season had grown to a close it felt like that was all that was on her mind and Ollie’s.

The kisses they shared when alone quickly grew into heated make out sessions and when they had time, they found themselves in his hotel room under the covers, underwear still on but hands exploring each other's bodies.

She falls in love with the pattern of freckles on his back and the way he shivers when she traces them with her fingers. The spot above his heart that always makes his breath hitch when she kisses it. His strong calves that always tense right after his thighs when she settles on his lap. His hands and how much bigger than hers they are. And his fingers that he lets her play with, kiss and nibble at just to see and hear the stuttered breath he gives as his cheeks turn red.

He falls in love with the small tattoo that still only he knows she has, it’s small enough to just barely be hidden by even her more risqué bikinis. The scar she has on her knee that makes her shiver when his fingers or lips touch it. The soft skin of the underside of her breasts, because it feels nice to stroke when he gets the chance to dip his hands underneath her bra. The moan she gives when he settles in between her thighs and rests his weight on top of her as they kiss.

Ollie knows what the ring is, what it means, what she promised Max. It’s the one thing that always reminds him to stop, that pulls him back when he’s about to dip his fingers beneath her underwear to feel her wetness against his fingers or about to ask her to take her bra off, to let him see more of her. The feeling of her ring always draws him back. Makes him refocus on just kissing her and not getting ahead of himself before he makes another mess of himself.

He sees it every time he sees her, he kisses it every time he lifts her hand to his lips, first kissing the ring, a silent promise to himself that one day he’ll replace it with a ring of his own, before kissing her hand.

So Ollie doesn’t think anything when he comes home from simulator work to his flat in Maranello smelling like brownies. It had taken a bit to convince Max that she didn’t want to go home but rather wanted to go on a little trip with her friends. She just neglected to mention that there was no trip, and by friends she meant boyfriend, and really she meant during the week break they’d have she’d be going to Italy to stay with Ollie.

“That smells so good.” Ollie groans, kicking his shoes off before moving further into the flat. She beams at him, accepting the kiss he presses to her cheek. “I know you had dinner there so I made brownies. And not a whole pan.” She adds. “I know you can’t indulge too much.” “Thank you.” He murmurs, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back into him.

He starts to sway them both as he stares at the small pan of brownies, the smell of them mouthwatering.

“Can I have one?” “They like just got out of the oven.” He pouts, bending his neck and pressing his face into her neck. “Please?” “You're going to burn your fingers and mouth.” She laughs. “Pretty please?” He tries. She makes a humming noise, one he feels more than hears. “Only if you give me a kiss first.” “Deal.”

She giggles as he quickly turns her in his arms. “Hi.” She greets as she wraps her arms around his neck. “Hi.” He parrots back and the thought of the brownies are gone from his mind as he looks at her.

She’s got a piece of his merch on, one of the sample sweatshirts, but also a pair of his boxer briefs. It’s like she’s drowning in him and he just wants to add to it.

Pressing their lips together, he grunts when her nails dig lightly into the back of his neck.

“Sorry.” She murmurs against his lips. He shakes his head, “it’s fine.”

They stand there for a while just kissing, but then his hands are moving underneath the top she’s wearing, grasping at her hips before fingers trail up her sides before back down and she’s pulling him to his bedroom.

They’ve done this so much that it takes barely any time for him to take his FDA polo off and then his jeans before joining her in bed, settling between her thighs. It doesn’t however stop him from rocking his hips into hers a couple of times before he can stop himself, hunger only growing when her hips hitch upwards and she’s wrapping a leg around him, pulling him closer.

“Fuck, darling.” He gasps, pressing kisses to her exposed throat. She moans, her hands resting on his bare back and it’s the feeling of her ring that makes him stop. Hips nearly thrusting again when she whines, but he tenses his whole body, not letting it loosen even when he kisses her again, swallowing the next whine she lets out.

His right hand makes his way underneath her top as they continue to kiss, his body relaxing into hers as he gets control of himself again.

As his fingers creep up her side, he wonders what they’ll feel. The spandex of her sports bra? The cotton or whatever it is of the one bra she likes to wear to media days? Maybe lace? His mind spins at the last option and he gulps.

She’s only worn lace once and it was on their year anniversary, their first approved sleepover. Though Max had made sure to get her from his hotel room at 11 am. But he considers they have the rest of the week just them together and he doesn’t have to go into the factory anymore. And she made him brownies, homemade. He knows because of the way she had been standing at the kitchen counter, carefully looking at them. So, maybe another treat for him was her wearing lace.

But as fingers reach where he’d normally feel the edge of something there is nothing. He goes to frown but before he can, her chest rises, his fingers graze the underside of her left breast and his hips are snapping into her again.

“Oh my god.” She moans at the feeling. “Fuck.” He curses and he feels out of breath as he feels more of her. “You’re not,” he mutters. “You’re not wearing anything.” She shakes her head, bucking her hips wanting more friction. “Please, Ollie. Want more, want it off.” He should be saying no, he can already feel his control hanging by thread at the knowledge that she’s not wearing a bra, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he sees her boobs for the first time, but he’s backing away, letting her sit up, and she’s flinging his sweatshirt off.

His jaw drops at the sight, eyes wide and his dick twitches. He sees the way she bites at her lips, arms starting to come up and he’s quick to react. Fingers touching the soft skin, thumbs rubbing at her nipples as he sort of holds them.

“Pretty.” He manages to get out and feels himself blush. “Can we kiss again?” Ollie nods, eager.

He carefully lays next to her, drawing her on top of him, the two both gasping at the feeling of her bare breasts resting on his bare chest.

His hands dance up and down her back, sometimes his pinky fingers dipping below the waistband of his boxer briefs that she’s wearing before moving back up again as they kiss, hips still moving together.

When she shifts a little on top of him, moaning, he grasps at her hips, stopping her from moving as he feels himself twitch and he just knows that he has to be leaking, creating a wet spot in his underwear.

“We have to stop.” “I’m close though.” His head falls back and he groans. “I am too.” “I,” She stops, thinking of the lingerie she had brought with her, the dinner reservation she had made for herself and Ollie tomorrow night, the necklace chain also in her suitcase. “I want more.” She says, before taking a deep breath and meeting his eyes. “I want to have sex with you.” He’s looking at her wide eyes and she’d think that he didn’t want her back if she couldn’t feel how hard he was underneath her. “But,” his eyes dart to her left hand. “I thought we were waiting.” She feels blood rush to her cheeks at his whisper, at the promise he made for and to her.

She had been nervous when telling Ollie about her purity ring and about she would like to wait awhile, maybe even till marriage to have sex, especially after he shared that he had already had sex before. But he had been surprisingly okay with it after he had a few days to think and wrap his head around it, and not that she knew but to talk to his dad about it, before he came back said that he’d wait as long as she wanted.

“I mean, we did.” She whispers back. “I just, I think you’re the one, ya’know. And even if you aren’t, I can’t see myself ever regretting you.” There’s a stinging in his eyes and he clears his throat. “Okay.” He shifts her down a bit so he can sit up, pressing their lips together. “Okay.”

Her hands cup his cheeks as they kiss while his hands stay on her hips. Not moving or doing anything despite the fact that she’s given the all clear. It’s one of her hands dropping from his face to trail down his body, that makes his hands move, grabbing her ass, pressing her down and closer. It makes her gasp.

“Ollie.” He groans at the sound of her moaning his name. His eyes dart to his nightstand, where there should be some condoms in the drawer with lube as well and then he’s cursing, hands falling away from her. “We have to stop, darling. I’m sorry.” “But,” She shifts on top of him and he swears again when he looks down and sees a wet patch peeking out from where she’s sitting on top of him. “I know, but I don’t have any condoms.” He feels himself flush, “I threw them away after we got serious since I figured it wouldn’t happen for a few years.” “No.” She whines, heading dropping onto his shoulder as her whole body sags.

She hadn’t thought about buying condoms, mainly because despite the lingerie she packed and the dinner reservation, she hadn’t actually planned on them having sex. She just wanted more, even some dry humping or at the very least to feel fingers against her that weren’t her own.

“I could pull out.” The words are weak to his own ears. She lifts her head slightly to look at him. “Do you really think you could?” “I could run and get some condoms.” He really doesn’t feel like getting back in the car, doesn’t feel like leaving her, but he’d do it. "No,” she shakes her head. She didn’t like the idea of being alone, waiting for him to come back with condoms. Or him putting clothes back on, the idea makes her nose wrinkle. She then pauses as something comes to mind. “How’s your Italian?” His brows furrow at the question. “It’s decent. Basic and more strategy and car related. But I get by, why?” “I was thinking of Plan B.” “Plan B?” His brows furrow more before it clicks and his eyes widen, “oh, Plan B.” “Yeah, I’d still want it even if you do end up pulling out, but I don’t think that will happen.” He wants to protest, deny, argue that he absolutely could pull out, but it’d be a lie.

“Ollie.” She whines nearly an hour later as he tries to get her to separate her thighs. “You’re all sticky.” He tells her. “I need to clean you up before it dries.” And god was it a bitch to clean up dried cum. “I’ll be quick.” He promises. She pouts, but lets her thighs fall apart, wincing at the burning muscles. He swallows at the sight of their mixed release. He hadn’t managed to pull out the first time, but the second he had managed to, only to finish practically in her anyways. And it was worse because of her own two orgasms that added to the mess. Taking the damp cloth, he carefully cleans her up, apologizing when she whines when he presses a bit too much on her clit.

“Much better.” He grins, when he’s done. Throwing the cloth in the direction of his laundry hamper. “Cuddle?” She asks, making grabby hands at him and eagerly joins her again in bed, slipping the covers over both of them. “That’s better.” She mumbles, when they settle together and he laughs, pressing a kiss to her head.

It’s hard for him to leave when he wakes up in the morning. They’re still both naked and she’s sleeping peacefully beside him. But he’d rather go and get her the Plan B now, then put it off until later when she’ll be fully awake.

Rolling to his side, he presses a series of light kisses to her face. She mumbles a bit and he chuckles. “I’ve got to go, darling.” She mumbles again, turning to lay on her side as well. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be right back.” “Where are you going?” Her voice is low, thick with sleep. “I need to get some things real quickly. I’ll be back in thirty minutes, okay?” “Do you have to?” She pouts. “I’ll be quick.” He promises, bending to kiss her.

It takes him barely any time to get the Plan B and condoms, though he had stumbled his way through Italian to get the Plan B before just pulling up a picture of it.

“Darling?” He calls when he gets back. “Kitchen.” She calls back, a hint of sleep still in her voice. With the bag hanging from his finger, he walks to the kitchen. “I got you plan b and condoms for me, just in case.” “No, just in case. I’d like a repeat.” He grins at her, setting the bag on the counter. “Yeah?” She nods, bottom lip between her teeth. “Yeah.” Bending, he captures her lips in a quick kiss, humming.

“Want to do brownies for breakfast?” His eyes widen and they dart to the counter. “I completely forgot you even made those!” “I’ll take that a yes?” “Please!”

Cutting him a piece and then one of herself, she puts them on a plate as Ollie gets them both something to drink before they both go to the living room and sit on the couch.

“These are so good.” He mumbles, catching a crumb before it can fall. “You say that everytime.” “Because it’s true! These are really good.” Her brownie was a good bit smaller than his so as soon as she finishes her, she’s standing up and retrieving something from her suitcase, ignoring him asking where she’s going.

Sitting back down, she places a box in his lap.

“What is this?” He asks, setting the plate on the coffee table, only a few crumbs on it. “I bought it for you a while ago and have been carrying it around since, just wasn’t sure when exactly I’d give it to you.” He looks at her intrigued, before looking back at the box and carefully opening it.

Ollie’s brows furrow at the thin chain that rests inside. It was nice, very nice, though not by a brand that he recognized. It was also a weird gift considering he didn’t wear necklaces, though if he was going to wear one, it would be this one.

“What’s it for?” He asks. “I, uh,” she stutters a bit over her words, playing her ring before carefully pulling it off, flexing her fingers at the odd sensation of it not being there. “It’s for this.” And she drops the ring she’s worn since she was eleven into his palm. “But this is yours.” “And I can’t wear it anymore.” She tells him. “I intended to wait longer to have sex, but I don’t regret last night and I won’t regret anything we do in the future. It’s yours now and I kind of liked the idea of you carrying it with you wherever you go.” He stares at the ring, tries to ignore the pulse of want and smugness, because he got to have her first and he was fairly certain he’d be her only and last.

Lifting the chain out of the box, he carefully unclasps it, threading the ring on, before clasping it around his neck, the ring resting just below the hollow of his neck, easily hidden behind any shirt he wears if he has it tucked in.

Turning his neck, the sensation of something there is odd and he says that. “It’ll take some getting used to, but I like it.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

It doesn’t take him long to get used to the necklace and he practically never takes it off, only in the shower or when doing certain training sessions and it hasn't happened yet but when he has to get into the F1 car and then his F2 car, he’ll be taking it off then as well.

No one really notices his new accessory, he’s not doing much on social media, his mum and dad had asked him about it and he had flushed but just said that it was something she had gotten for him and lucky they didn’t press for more. It gives a false sense of security that comes crashing down in Mexico.

He’s on a bit of a high for doing his first free practice and not placing dead last even though it’s only free practice and placing doesn’t really matter. He’s out of his race suit, having been able to not shower but wipe himself down with a damp towel before getting back into the Haas polo and jumping in to do more media. And as he does some interviews he doesn’t notice the way her ring that’s kept underneath his shirt is on full display.

But it does come to his attention when he finally gets his phone and sees so many mentions and a strange text full of exclamation marks that has him quickly hitting the call button.

“Is everything okay? I got a weird text from you.” “Ollie.” “What’s wrong?” He’s about to exit the Haas hospitality, he could be at Red Bull’s in about a minute at the strained sound of her voice. “My ring, everyone saw my ring.” His eyes widen and he’s cursing. “Oh no.” “Yeah.” “And they all know.” “Yeah.” She confirms again. “Because Max had to make it clear what the ring was.” She laughs, but it’s clear that she’s on the verge of tears, her voice tight. The sound has him wanting to wrap in his arms, shield her away, but it also has him confused. She never cared about what fans thought of her. She was very much like her brother in that matter. It was all water off a duck’s back. “What’s wrong, darling?” He asks, dropping his voice as someone looks at him weirdly. “I just, Max hadn’t noticed, no one has really. And I don’t regret it Ollie, but that was a promise I made to Max, to save myself.” The last three words come out as a whisper. “And now he’s going to find out because the whole of F1 twitter is talking about it. I should’ve told him.” “It’ll be okay.” He reassures her, but now the realization has hit that he’s going to have deal with Max and not just Max, but Daniel and Charles and fucking Arthur, which is a bit insulting because it’s Arthur of all people, but the Leclerc’s liked her a lot, Charles liked to argue with Max that she was actually their younger sister and not Max’s, which lead to a headache of bickering between the two drivers.

“Can I come to you?” He looks down at his watch even though he knows that he doesn’t have any more interviews, just needs to stay to watch the last session play out since he already did his debriefing as well. “Yeah, do you want me to walk you over?” “No, I’ll be there in a second.”

Meeting her at the doors of the hospitality, he quickly ushers her in before leading her to a back corner, the both of them sinking to the floor, somewhat hidden from view by a couch.

“You alright?” “Yeah.” She breathes, pressing close to him. “I just should’ve said something to Max. I just didn’t want to say anything y’know?” And he can feel her nose wrinkle at the idea and his does the same. Because yeah it was a bit gross to think about telling your sibling that you’ve had sex just so they won’t be blindsided by the media. “He’s gonna hate me again.” She doesn’t say anything and he groans, throwing his head back against the wall. “I just made some progress with him.” “I know, bear.” She murmurs, kissing his cheek. “I could put it back on? Say that I gave it to you as a good luck charm.”

It’s a good idea, a perfect solution for their problem, but it’s clear that she doesn’t like the idea and he doesn’t like the idea either. He’s grown used to the small weight of the ring resting below the hollow of his throat and he’s not fond of the idea of seeing a ring that’s not his on her ring finger again.

“Maybe I should propose.” She jerks away from him like she’s been burned. “Fuck, that’s not what I meant.” He quickly says. “I just I don’t want to give it back. I don't want to see you wearing it again and I just,” he waves his hands around. “My brain was running. I’m sorry.” Her eyes are focused on his and she slowly presses back into him, though she keeps her head pulled back so they can look at each other. “Is that something you really want in the future? To be married to me?” “One hundred percent.” She blinks at the quick response, a smile starting to bloom on her face. “Not now, just because I don’t want to rely on nothing but sponsors and my dad for money, but maybe once I got an F1 seat and then got a contract extension or new seat. I’d have money to help support us, to buy you a nice ring, house.” He hopes that she can’t tell how much he’s thought about this, how much he’s rambled to both Jak and Fred about this even though if either of them got the chance they’d happily rat him out for being such a preteen girl, and he just knows that Jak told Fred what that means. “I want that too.”

Ollie wonders if him intending on marrying her, on putting a ring on her finger will lessen the brunt of anger he’s sure to receive and it doesn’t.

“You defiled my sister!” The eighteen years old both make a face at the Dutch man’s words. “No one defiled anyone.” Max ignores her, glaring at the British driver. “You touched her.” Ollie nearly reaches out for her hand, but keeps his hands to himself, as he gives a tiny nod. “Max, it’s alright. I wanted it.” Max and Daniel both make a face at her words. “Ew. You shouldn’t even know what it is.” “Well, Max kind of ruined that for me when I was eleven.” She snarks and her brother flushes. “Which is why I gave you the ring! You were supposed to save yourself for marriage! Keep yourself away from boys like Ollie!” “What’s wrong with me?” He asks, offended. “You’re a teenager.” Daniel tells him with a shrug. “And you’ve got a dick. That’s all it really takes.”

“What happened to waiting?” Max asks, voice a little quieter as he looks at her. “Max,” she starts and then includes the Alpha Tauri driver who’s inched closer. “Daniel. I thought I was going to wait for marriage, or at least a few more years, but Ollie,” she pauses, feeling blood rush to her cheeks. “Ollie feels like the one.” She reaches out for his hand, intertwining their fingers. “And even if he isn’t, I won’t regret what we did.”

The two older men stare at her, at them. One who can remember holding her just hours after she was born, and the other who got to know her shortly after Max’s fuck up when she was eleven. Both her brothers, one just a bit longer than the other.

Max swallows harshly, the full realization hitting him that his baby sister isn’t a baby anymore. She’s an adult and he’s never really had the right to get mad at her for things she does but he really doesn’t now. He can feel Daniel standing behind him, and knows that the older man will go with him whatever way he chooses.

Stepping forward, he pulls her into a hug and wonders where the time has gone. “As long as you don’t regret it, yeah?” She hugs him back tighter, tension in her shoulders loosening at his acceptance. “Yeah. Love you, Maxy.” He laughs, a quiet thing. “Love you too.”

@arshiyuh @mangotaitai @gemofthenight @peachiicherries @lpab @copper-boom @topguncultleader @iloveyou3000morgan @benstormy

#ollie bearman imagine #ollie bearman x reader #f2 x reader #f2 imagine #formula 2 imagine #formula 2 x reader #oliver bearman x reader #oliver bearman imagine #sins fics

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taojjang · 5 months ago

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𐙚 under the mistletoe with riize ★ .ᐟ

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ advent calendar, day five! pairing: bf!riize x reader, genre: fluff, warnings: pure love and affection!

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♡⸝⸝ sharing a kiss of bliss beneath the mistletoe

shotaro . . .

taro doesn't know much about superstitions. whenever you scold him for splitting the pole, he'd always look at you with confused puppy eyes wondering what he did wrong :( so when he found out about the mistletoe superstition through a random article, he didn't waste a second before purchasing one.

you came home from work and stopped in your tracks. you looked up and saw a little mistletoe hanging at the entrance. "taro baby, what's this?" taro skips over to you, beaming from ear to ear. "a mistletoe! do you know what you're supposed to do now?" your heart melted into a puddle of adoration as taro waited patiently for his hard earned kiss. you cup his cheeks in your palms and tenderly kiss his lips. before you could pull away, taro rested his hands atop yours and leaned deeper into your lips. taro could never get enough of you.

eunseok . . .

similar to taro, eunseok knows nothing about modern superstitions. he simply doesn't pay any mind to trivial matters like those. but he can't help himself when you excitedly teach him about the mistletoe tradition.

eunseok took you out on a date to see a pretty christmas festival, where you discovered a small mistletoe hanging from the entrance. "seok! we have to kiss!" you enthused. eunseok looked down at you with a smile creeping onto his face. though confused, he gave you a light peck on the lips before asking, "what's the matter?" you looked up and pointed to the small plant hanging above your heads. "it's a mistletoe; we have to kiss every time we're under this or else we won't get married!" eunseok felt his heart melt at the purity in your voice. he flashed a smile at you before taking your face into his hands and giving you a proper kiss. "you don't have to worry about that, darling."

sungchan . . .

sungchan is a traditional boyfriend— he'd never let you miss a special holiday or a couple's tradition. small things like hundred-day celebrations or having weekend dates mean the world to him. the holiday season is never dull between you! sungchan always plans so many dates around christmas time because he truly believes that the holidays are meant to be spent with the person you love most. and of course, he'll show you how much he truly adores you.

this silly guy would keep a pocket mistletoe with him at all times. the first time he used it was when you were in the kitchen brewing tea when sungchan trapped you between him and the counter. you put the mug down and turn to face him. "what's up, baby?" you ask, staring up at him. without a word, sungchan lifts a tiny mistletoe above your head. you laugh before giving him his hard earned kiss. "you're so annoying, chan."

wonbin . . .

wonbin gets shy when it comes to initiating affection. as much as he loves your kisses, he feels ashamed to ask for them. he's just a shy boy :( but he knows you could never know what he wants until he takes action.

you were lying on your bed when wonbin sat beside you and handed you his phone. he wanted to show you this tiktok he saw about the mistletoe superstitions. "maybe.. we could put one up somewhere? i think it's nice." you laughed and looked up at him, teasing, "what? do you wanna kiss me that badly?" wonbin sighed in defeat and lied beside you, groaning, "nevermind.." his pout didn't last for long before you left a long kiss on his lips. "do you want me to order one online for you?" wonbin's eyes lit up as he nodded with blushing approval.

seunghan . . .

seunghan is truly the cutest bf ever :( by researching cute couple things, he found his love for silly little traditions. he loves ones like kissing on new year's day! so of course he'll practically live under a mistletoe for the rest of winter.

once he learned about the mistletoe superstitions, he already added tons of them to his online shopping cart. he found this superstition so adorable, yearning to tell you all about his new discovery. so when you came home from work one random tuesday, your eyes widened in surprise as you saw tons of little mistletoes hanging from each doorway. "seunghan baby, what's this?" hearing your voice, he immediately rushed to you and peppered your face with kisses. "they're mistletoes! apparently if you kiss under these, you're destined to get married~" your silly boyfriend left another kiss on your lips before taking your hand and leading you to each and every mistletoe, kissing you underneath all of them.

sohee . . .

sohee is not the most affectionate person. he loves how clingy and sweet you are, but he can't initiate things like kisses or holding hands. but suddenly, at your friends party, he decided to change.

you were walking around and talking with your friends when sohee suddenly stood in front of you. "oh, hi pretty boy! w-" your words were blocked by the sudden crash of sohee's lips on yours. he gently held your face in his hands and deepened the kiss. you felt your cheeks flush pink as he pulled away. "what was that for..?" you question, still shocked by the sudden contact. sohee's eyes glanced behind you before he spoke softly, "i heard you're supposed to kiss when you're under this thing." you looked up at the mistletoe and laughed, realizing your friend was standing behind you. "did you kiss me before anyone else could?" "ah, don't dig too deep, y/n."

anton . . .

anton is as affectionate as a puppy: he can't go minutes without planting a kiss somewhere on your body. you're so used to his affection that you're often multitasking, patting his head while he lies on your lap watching you do your homework. anton is always showering you with love, so of course it'll make his day if you did the same.

you decided to surprise anton with a cute little mistletoe you found at the store <3 you hung it from your bedroom doorframe and quickly called anton over. as soon as he reached the door, he melted into laughter. before speaking, he walked to you with open arms and left a tender kiss on your lips, following it with a second peck on the forehead. "you're so cute, my love!"

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⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ tag list! (ask or comment to be added!)

@endtostartbreathin @gacktsa @hanninova @ramyeonzprincess

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kit-the-gaygent · 6 months ago

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Some nights Mc can't sleep. They sit in bed bored out of their mind, just hoping to feel the tiniest twinge drowsy. But they dont. So they lay in bed.

They wonder how the brothers are sleeping, even though it's only a short walk to check on them.

Lucifer is hopefully in bed, or at least doing his rounds, making sure everyone is safe. Maybe he's giving Cerberus his late night treats and giving the three headed good boy a good satisfying scratch behind the ears.

Mammon is definitely in bed, probably stark naked, lazily wrapped in blankets, dreaming about his next money scheme, or a new way to hang out without admitting how much he cares. Or perhaps he's sneaking back in from the casino, tip toeing across the floors back to his room. Maybe he got caught and is getting lectured by Luci.

Levi is definitely awake, trying out a new game, or bingong a show. Mayhaps he's waiting for a pre-order to launch, or just talking to Henry. It's possible he's actually a sleep for once, snug in his bathtub, hugging his Ruri Hana body pillow close but the chances of that are slim.

Satan is hopefully resting, dreaming of cats, or ways to prank Lucifer. Or a combination of the two. Maybe he's reading, driving off with each word. Though it's likely he got stuck under a book avalanche and has just gotten comfortable, reading his way out.

Asmodeus isn't back from the club yet, and is partying hard. Getting up close and lovey with someone for just tonight. Or maybe he's starting his stuff in a new outfit while working out a new fashion line. However, he's probably finished his night time routine a long while ago and is perfectly situated under his covers in his large plush bed, sleeping mask gently settled over his eyes as he gets his beauty sleep.

Beel is dreaming of all the food he could want, or maybe trying to sneak his way to the kitchen for a quick snack. Or maybe he's working out, getting a few curls in before he hits the hay for the day and goes to rest.

Belphie has been sleeping, and will continue to roam the land of dreams, waiting for his brother to join him. The only thing to wonder is where he's drifted off. In his bed, in some tiny nook somewhere, or on the planetarium. He could be in the attic, or even in his twin's bed. All that matters is that he's deep in slumber and cozy wherever he may be.

#obey me headcanons #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me mammon #obey me mc #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me belphegor #obey me beelzebub #sweet dreams boys

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uc1wa · 2 years ago

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18+ minors dni

tags: fem reader, oral sex, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (pulling out), alcohol, dick (being a slut), frats (?)

dick grayson had a questionable reputation on campus. playboy, daddy’s money, beer pong champ, finance bro, and the king of hookups and god does everybody he’s been with know. there’s a reason all of his previous partners shoot him 2am texts asking what he’s doing.

but tonight he has his eyes on you.

loud music blasts in the frat house that feels awfully tiny with the mass of half naked people who are standing and grinding inside of it, random strobe lights are placed in all corners and the theme of "save a horse, ride a cowboy" is obnoxiously obvious with random cowboy hats hanging on walls and flannels being worn by everyone.

you were dragged by your friends to attend this party, one of which you’d never attend, knowing the man-whore personality of the house you’re standing in right now.

you’re leaned against a counter, solo cup of jungle juice in your hand as you’re buzzed, but still aware enough to know you still don’t want to be here.

the only thing giving it away is your bored expression—because your shorts that are uncomfortably too short, the tied flannel, and cowboy hat on your head tell a different story.

people watching was fun at parties, the outfits, the who’s talking to who, and the who’s dragging who upstairs was entertaining to your tipsy self.

your eyes didn’t spot the ravennette who was familiar with everybody coming towards your way till he was beside you, his body heat radiating onto yours and his breath against your neck as he tries to talk to you.

and the appeal of the man wasn’t hard to understand. he’s wearing a white crop top that his abs are peaking out of, an open flannel and jean shorts that show his quads beautifully.

everyone thought the man was hot, but to be attracted to him was another thing.

"can’t tell if you look lost or don’t wanna be here anymore," the smell of liquor too apparent in his breath that touches your neck, making you slowly meet his blue eyes and obnoxious smirk.

you only raise a brow, scoffing and leaning into his ear now. "don’t wanna be here," you say, leaning back on the counter.

and if anybody knows dick, you know he gets what he wants, and tonight his eyes are on you and your pretty tits that are held up by a push-up bra that you obviously wore for him, he just knows it.

he leans over again, this time snaking an arm around your back and moving his fingers along the exposed skin. "c’mon, i gotta room upstairs that’s practically sound proof." and honestly, you wouldn’t put it past him. the man has money to spend, and maybe he did soundproof his single in his frat house, just because he can. or, maybe he says that so that you can scream and his brothers can fist bump him in the morning. who knows?

but your mind is a little hazy and your speech a little slurred and dick’s arm doesn’t feel awful around you, so you lean in again, this time with a grin playing on your lips. "what’s in it for me?"

dick’s eyebrow arched, his smirk upturned and his hand tightening around your back at the question.

"wanna find out?"

and a few more teasing words of banter were said, a shot thrown down both of your throats, and a few inappropriate gropes placed on your body before he had your hand in his, leading you up stairs shamelessly while smiling at his friends on the way.

dick’s door closes with a kick of his foot, not locking it because… why would he? he doesn’t care if somebody walks in on the two of you.

when he turns around and you’re sitting on the bed for him, he’s grateful you’re wearing skimpy clothes, less hassle and easier access. he can only smirk, asking himself how dumb you are, you obviously dressed like this for him.

the man walks over, kicking his shoes somewhere in the dark room and slipping his flannel off, his biceps seem bigger than they did in your finance class you had with him last semester. his hands are big, veiny and long and fuck they feel good when he cups your face, looking down at you and moving his knee to spread open your thighs.

his thumb moves to your bottom lip, pressing the soft skin until you open your lips all pretty for him, taking his thumb in your mouth and sucking.

"good girl," he says, the hand that’s not cupping your cheek going down to unbutton his jean shorts.

then, dick takes a step back, slipping his thumb from between your lips and moving to the other side of the bed, sitting down and looking at you expectantly. "c’mon, show me more of your pretty self," he leans back on the heel of his hands, his broad chest sticking out and his lap looking like the perfect seat right now.

and all you can do is nod with wide eyes and listen to the man who was slowly but surely talking his way into your pants.

his dark blue eyes watch as you rid yourself of the cowgirl boots you were wearing. he licks his lips when you take your flannel off, eyes darting down to your hands that fumble to take your shorts off. you stand there with your cowboy hat sitting on your head and dick chuckles, "you’re doing real good with the theme, y’know?" he slurs.

you roll your eyes, "not proud of it," you slur right back, stepping forward while placing your knees on either side of his hips, wrapping your arms around his neck and leaning in.

"i’ll make you proud," dick says, his big hands resting on your hips, fingers playing underneath your thong that should just be considered a string at this point.

he leans forward, biting your bottom lip enough to make you whimper before he attacks your lips, forcing his tongue in and kissing you sloppily. saliva coating both your lips, threatening to spill out by how feverish his force is, his hand pushing you against his cock that’s already hard. and jesus you’re glad you wore the stringy panties you decided on because the feeling of him—even through the shorts he’s still wearing is painfully delicious.

you pull back, eyes half lidded and view not as straight as a sober persons, "gonna make me wait?" and maybe if you were sober the quickness of dick’s moves would seem normally paced, but he was quick to push you off of him to the side of his bed and throw his shorts to the side, followed by his boxers. all he’s wearing is a little white crop top and fuck he looks real good.

he’s toned and defined beautifully. not jacked like some guys are, letting it know that they’re juiced up. no, dick was the most naturally beautiful man to exist. (unfortunately, you weren’t the first to realize that… and definitely won’t be the last).

you lean back on your palms this time, watching him walk over to you painfully slow, his cock hardened all for you. "take a picture, it’ll last longer," he smirks, climbing on top of you while pushing you down and letting your legs wrap around his waist that feels so small in comparison to his broad shoulders. he takes your cowboy hat off, setting it to the side because that will definitely come back up.

you roll your eyes for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, arms wrapping around him and lips reconnecting again. the man is quick to arch your back off the bed, one finger sliding behind you to unclip your bra—which almost feels sickening how fast he was to do so—but your brain doesn’t let that register with the alcohol in your bloodstream.

dick remembers your words from earlier, gonna make me wait? and next thing you notice when you look down is your bra thrown on the ground and dick’s lips on your stomach, kissing down with hands on either side of you on the mattress until he’s sat at your pussy that’s embarrassingly wet for him.

"next party’s on thursday, you should come out," he starts while tugging your panties to the side with a curl of his index finger. "dress real pretty for me again."

and dick says that to every girl, sometimes giving a hint on what he wants them to wear, knowing once he hits, he will always quit and find the next person untouched by him.

"i’ll think about it," you say, broken into a whimper as his lips are quick to suck on your clit and his index and middle finger plunge into your wetness. if the music wasn’t booming from downstairs, maybe the sounds of your wetness would be more embarrassing, but dick just thought it was hot and your moans were real pretty.

and again, if you were sober, you’d probably arch a brow at the minimal time dick stayed down there, but you weren’t and were real hungry for him to fill you up.

"show me what the hype’s about," you say as he climbs up to you, one arm beside your head and one groping one of your breasts enough to illicit small whines from your throat. "i’ll see if you can handle it," he says cockily, voice dripping in ego as the hand that’s groping your breasts goes down to line his cock up with your hole.

in one quick motion he’s filling you up, your back arching off the bed and a loud pitched moan leaving your lips with eyes squeezed shut. dark blue eyes watch your face, cocky smirk not leaving his lips for a minute until he’s sucking on your neck. dick is shameless, he’s purposely leaving marks wherever he wants on your body, knowing he won’t let you do the same even if you tried.

the man above you is going to make sure you remember him fucking you, even if it’s just by you waking up with blotches on your neck and chest in the morning.

"too much?" he asks teasingly, showing no remorse with the deep groans he spills out with every time he fills you up. and dick is girthier than you thought he’d be, everytime he pushes into you feels like the first no matter how wet you are. it feels like he’s ripping you open with the hard and fast pace he’s maintaining.

an answer to his question is impossible, the only sounds are moans and whimpers, more so when his lips are on yours. your sounds mixed together are delicious to your ears and you pull him closer, sweaty body’s and breath tasting like liquor feels intoxicating.

he flips you both over with ease, his toned back resting on his mattress and pillow with you on top now. a loud groan escapes your lips, his full length filling you up but from another position was brutal at first. dick gave you a few more seconds to adjust before his big hands guided your hips up.

"you got it baby," his voice is low and full of desire, blue eyes taking over your frame that feels made for him. one hand comes off your skin to grab the cheesy cowboy hat and he motions for you to put it on with a shit eating grin.

coming to realization, you roll your eyes, "really?" you ask, rolling your eyes with a small laugh. but you put it on, and then fall back onto dick, riding him slowly and at an angle that makes him hit the spot deep inside of you repetitively. "fuck, fuck, fuck," you moan, your eyes closing and neck thrown back from the delicious feeling.

while dick is groaning, he can only smirk up at you, knowing he’s getting exactly what he wanted when he chose the theme for the party that night. "you look so fuckin’ good, riding me so good, yeah?" he’s verbally and physically fucking you at this point.

"takin’ this cock so good, baby," he groans, feeling himself twitching and turning you back over again, so he’s on top when he finishes.

in no time dick’s pulling out to spill his cum all over your lower abdomen, chuckling to himself as he pulls off of you and looking down. it’s his favorite view, flushed red cheeks, chest heaving up and down (making your breasts look even more delicious), and his cum painting your sweaty body.

if he was feeling more like an asshole, he’d ask to take a picture. but he knew you were a nice girl from one of his past semesters and decided not to be a total dick.

"you look good," he says it like it’s a reminder, like you’re already supposed to know—because why else would you be in dick grayson’s bed if you weren’t hot? and he walks away, going to the bathroom that’s connected to his room and returning with a wash cloth, cleaning you up with a laugh. "i’m leaving after this," you say, wiping your lips with the backside of your arm.

and dick let’s out an internal sigh of relief at that, he hates when girls are insistent on spending the night or staying for more of the party, latched to him. "fine by me, want me to get an uber?" he asks, throwing the rag to the side and sitting there for another second, looking at your fucked out state—the one he put you into.

you nod your head, sitting up in the bed, knowing if you stay with spread legs that dick will attempt a round two before the car he’s called you gets here. "wanna hand me my clothes?" you ask, not as slurred of words as before, the fucking sobering you up slightly.

"y’don’t wanna borrow a shirt?" because dick has a drawer full of old shirts from varying events on campus that he gives to his hookups, another reminder to everyone else that he’s the one who fucked you good tonight.

"fuck no," you roll your eyes, moving to get your clothes yourself and slipping them on as dick slips his boxers and shorts on, staring at you as you get dressed from the ledge of his bed.

the clothes weren’t as comfortable as what could’ve been a comfortable and baggy shirt, but you were trying to move as quick and invisible as possible out of the party and to the uber that just rang its arrival on dick’s phone. "it’s here," he says, standing up beside you and wrapping a hand around your waist. "sure you don’t wanna spend the night?"

"positive," the exact answer he knew he was going to get.

"this was fun," he says, leaning into you slightly. "you have my number, i’m always available," if it wasn’t dick, that sentence would’ve been cringey and gross, but his voice sounded too good right now and you nodded. "i’ll keep that in mind."

his hand moves to your cheek, tilting it to press a kiss to your face. "i’ll follow you out," which was code for you to leave and close the door behind you as dick freshens up.

and now you understand. dick knew how to fuck.

#frat dick is real gross and nasty #but so yummy #sorry just got back on campus and am having flashbacks #feeling the need to make gross frat boy with all my dc bfs ;(#dick in a crop top fuckkkkkkk #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #nightwing x reader #nightwing #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x female!reader #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson smut #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n #nightwing smut #dc smut #dc x reader

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c4ttheart · 1 year ago

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closer , sae itoshi

half proofread bc it’s 2am 🙁 (no this is not based on that one chainsmoker song)

you always talk about your day, blabbering on and about. he has heard it all, the meals you ate, how you made them, the shape of the moon through your tiny bathroom window because it’s the only one you can see the moon from in your appartement, your outfit and how different people reacted to it and how you always manage to stub your toe on that one desk corner at work.

sometimes sae wonders why you love him- you could talk for hours on end and he’d only listen. often, his mind wanders down treacherous routes, all leading to thoughts of you. how come you aren’t bored yet ?

he knows you like physical touch. he never really minded it, not when it came from you, and he feels bad because the last time you saw him in the flesh was way too long ago for his liking (almost a month). you stay up until ungodly hours just for him, just to hear his muffled ‘mhms’ through the phone. sae never even calls first; you do everything: the talking, the calling, maybe even the loving.

do you doubt if sae loves you ? because he does, and he wishes he could say it, but the words get stuck in his throat whenever he tries to make them come to life. it’s not like he can really place a word when you’re talking, the blabbermouth that you are, but he doesn’t mind. he knows you do that so he doesn’t have to answer. you know what time his practice finishes at and you wake up everyday just to call him. you knew what you were doing when you accepted his confession, and it makes sae feel bad.

he doesn’t know what to do, or how to act. sure, he’s dated people before (he will argue with his life that the girlfriend he had in primary school counts), but no one was as good to him as you. you’re so kind, and so sweet, and when you hang up after a while he stares at his ceiling and wonders why you stay with him.

having a one sided relationship sucks. everybody knows that, you know that, and when your friends tell you to drop him you just laugh because it’s not a one sided relationship, it never will be.

sure, sae never calls first, or texts first, or a lot of other things- heck, sometimes he doesn’t even answer verbally when you talk through the phone. it’s fine, you just hope his ear doesn’t fall off each time. maybe sae doesn’t tell you that he loves you, or does the boyfriend shit you see on tiktok, but you know he cares.

if he didn’t, he wouldn’t pick up the phone on the first ring, wouldn’t listen to the entirety of your five minutes voice messages in 1x speed, wouldn’t wait for you to hang up and just do it himself. sae tells you he loves you when you receive a package with those boots you tried on once at a store (and sent sae a very cheesy picture with them) but didn’t buy them because even though they were cute the price wasn’t worth it. he tells you he loves you when you tell him you’re hungry on your way home and as soon as you arrive a clueless uber eats guy is standing in front of your door. he tells you he loves you when he’s half asleep and he accidentally reveals that he listens and remembers your gossip by butting in the conversation with a question involving the tea from a month ago.

and you know you love him when he does all of the above and never once talked to you about love. you know you love him when you find a packed pretty diamond ring from your favourite jewellery brand somewhere inside his closet when you come over. you definitely know you love him when he holds you close like a starved man, burying his head in the crook of your shoulder- he missed you so much. (the feeling is mutual, but his ego is already higher than the soaring rockets they sent to the moon some time in the 1900’s)

« you’re heavy! » you say, jokingly, because he actually isn’t but he doesn’t have to know. it isn’t common for him to be this clingy, and you think that if he doesn’t stop you’ll feel like you’re in highschool again: young, dumbstruck, and utterly in love.

he just hums in response. you’re used to it, and you would be upset if he wasn’t pulling you closer to his chest in a sae way that screams ‘i love you.’

you just smile, until the quirks of your mouth reach your eyes and until you’re sure he can feel it too, the intensity of your happiness. and for once, you stay silent, letting him do the talking with the way he grabs your waist.

maybe sae itoshi never got the best boyfriend award (and he probably never will), but it’s fine, because you are a version of yourself that molds perfectly with the puzzle piece that is itoshi sae. and he likes that, he loves the talkative and dramatic person that you are. you just wished he knew how much you loved his hot headed and attentive enigma too.

wrote this instead of my economics project that i had 3 months to do 👍 hope u enjoyed

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alittlegiraffe · 3 months ago

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Title: Just the Right Size – Part 2

Life with Marshall always had its little quirks, especially when it came to his fascination with your size. You’d started noticing even more of his antics since that day in the pantry, and it was becoming increasingly clear that he wasn’t just teasing—it was a full-on obsession.

And, truthfully, you didn’t mind.

The Elevator Encounter

You were at an event with Marshall, the two of you dressed to the nines. He was in a sleek black suit, looking ridiculously good, while you wore a dress he’d insisted on because, as he’d put it, “It shows off how tiny and perfect you are.”

As you both waited for the elevator, a group of people joined you, including a guy who seemed a little too interested in striking up a conversation.

“You look stunning tonight,” the guy said, his eyes lingering on you a bit too long.

“Thanks,” you said politely, inching closer to Marshall, who was already glaring daggers at the man.

When the elevator arrived, you stepped in with Marshall close behind you. The other man made a move to stand near you, but Marshall slid his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Find somewhere else to stand,” Marshall said, his voice low and dangerous.

The guy blinked, clearly intimidated, and moved to the opposite corner of the elevator.

“Was that necessary?” you whispered to Marshall, though you couldn’t hide your amusement.

He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “Yes. You’re mine. He needed to know that.”

The Grocery Store Stunt

Another grocery store trip, another excuse for Marshall to indulge in his favorite game.

You were reaching for a bag of chips on the top shelf, muttering under your breath about how they never stocked anything at a reasonable height. Just as you were about to climb onto the bottom shelf for leverage, Marshall appeared, effortlessly grabbing the bag.

“Why do you always wait until I’m struggling?” you asked, giving him a mock glare.

“Because I like watching you try,” he said, smirking. “It’s cute.”

“Cute?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. “And it gives me an excuse to do this.”

Before you could respond, he picked you up and set you on the edge of the cart.

“Marshall!” you squeaked, grabbing the sides of the cart to steady yourself.

“What?” he said innocently. “You fit perfectly.”

The Surprise Encounter

One evening, you were in the living room, trying to put a picture frame up on the wall. Marshall was upstairs, so you figured you’d handle it yourself.

You dragged over a chair and climbed up, stretching to reach the hook on the wall.

“Baby, what are you doing?” Marshall’s voice startled you, and you nearly lost your balance.

He was already at your side, grabbing your waist and lifting you off the chair like you weighed nothing.

“I was just hanging the picture,” you said, crossing your arms.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, grabbing the frame and easily securing it to the wall.

“You know I’m capable of doing things on my own, right?”

He turned to you, a soft smile replacing his usual smirk. “I know you are. But I like doing things for you. Makes me feel… needed.”

Your heart melted a little at his confession. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“And you love it,” he replied, pulling you into his arms.

The Bedroom Revelation

Later that night, as you were getting ready for bed, you caught Marshall watching you in the mirror.

“What?” you asked, turning to face him.

“Just thinking about how perfect you are,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“Marshall,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You’re obsessed.”

“Damn right, I am,” he said, walking over and wrapping his arms around you. “You’re small enough that I can pick you up, toss you around, protect you… You fit against me like you were made for me.”

You laughed, though your cheeks warmed at his words. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re mine,” he said, kissing the top of your head.

The Final Straw

A week later, you found yourself standing on the counter, trying to grab something from the top shelf of the cabinet.

“Alright,” you said, exasperated as you climbed down. “You’re officially banned from putting anything up there!”

Marshall walked into the kitchen just as you made your declaration, smirking when he realized what was going on.

“Need help, shorty?” he teased.

“You’re the worst,” you said, pointing at him.

He walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you up. “Maybe,” he said, “but I’m also the best at making sure you don’t break your neck climbing counters.”

You sighed, giving up. “Fine. You win.”

“Damn right, I do,” he said, setting you down and kissing you.

You couldn’t even be mad.

#eminem #eminem x reader #marshall mathers #marshall mathers x reader

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writingtraumaforever · 6 months ago

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Courtship: Chapter 2

Notes: Here we go! Chapter 2! And ohhh boy, this is gonna be fun.

Summary: Shadow has been researching the courting rituals of the hedgehog. Sonic unknowingly initiates said rituals.

Chapter Select: Chapter 1, Chapter 3

Link to my AO3!

Start:

They’ve been meeting up for months now.

Since the night Shadow and Sonic planned to meet at the Green Hills sign, they haven’t stopped scheduling rendezvouses. At the end of each of their races, the person deemed the winner— which is often argued over for far too long— chooses the next meeting spot and time.

Sonic picks the police department rooftop once, Shadow picks the rooftop of the ‘Bean Hill Zone’–previously known as Mean Bean, Sonic picks the back alley of the arcade, Shadow picks the mountaintop right past the town limits. Every spot had to be out of sight and discreet, Shadow having obvious anxiety over being seen or recognized. It kind of hurt Sonic’s heart seeing Shadow feel so… hated.

Typically, their races would end with them arguing the winner and then picking their next spot before leaving. But they recently began to grow into more of a hangout afterwards. Shadow would stick around rather than rushing off or disappearing. He never seemed thrilled about being around Sonic, but he didn’t seem disgusted by the fact, either. So Sonic sees it as progress.

Honestly, Shadow isn’t half bad when he’s not trying to destroy the planet.

He’s kind of quiet. Very quiet, actually. But when he does talk, he has a lot of interesting things to say. Like stuff about the stars and constellations and patterns in the solar system and how they varied from others. He always seemed attentive when Sonic spoke about earth, too. He’d listen when Sonic would go on and on about his favorite locations around the world, about how chili dogs are man’s greatest creation, and how the Olympics had turned him down three times now to being a competitor–which he thought was discriminatory.

He was also kind of funny! Which shocked Sonic, honestly. He didn’t really laugh. Ever. But he’d drop the most deadpan, dry humor jokes that always threw Sonic off and had him cackling which usually resulted in Shadow giving a tiny smirk and hum of humor, seeming proud of his joke. He got better with time, too. Seeming to pick up on pop culture references Sonic would teach him and use those to his advantage.

One time he told Sonic to check ebay for a life, and Sonic didn’t know what to do with that.

Speaking of pop culture, Sonic let Shadow borrow his old MP3 player! It was loaded with all sorts of good beats and genres. Shadow didn’t seem to like it at first, finding the headphones overwhelming in his ears. But Sonic told him he could play them through the speaker instead, and ever since, Sonic catches him humming tunes he recognizes now and then..

Once he swears he heard him humming ‘Shake It Off’ by Taylor Swift, but he’ll never dare to ask or judge.

They take walks when they hangout, mostly. Slowing down to just trot through the woods or hike along the mountains and end somewhere that seems like a good enough view to chill. They don’t do this on purpose. It just sort of flows that way.

And while Shadow’s personality is a bit difficult to navigate at times.. Sonic enjoys his company. A lot. Maybe a little too much.

For a long while, he kept this a secret from his family under the guise that he was simply going out for a run. But when he stayed out a little too late one night and didn’t get home until 3 AM, Maddie and Tom were absolutely rampant with worry and demanded he be truthful with them. So he told them. Maddie seemed a bit shocked but open. Tom?? Tom seemed.. reluctant is a weak word for it..

‘I forbid you from seeing him anymore!’

‘Forbid me?? Like a disney villain??’

‘What he means is that we expect you to be more honest with us about who you’re hanging out with, but we trust your judgment.’

‘No. No, I mean forbid. It’s forbidden. It’s a rule. I just made it. Forbid.��

‘Thomas..’

‘Ow! Stop pinching my arm!’

‘This is so unfair! You haven’t even given him a chance, yet!’

‘I don’t need to give him a chance! Last I saw that little psycho, he had me pinned to the floor with a gun to my head declaring it justice!’

‘He was confused! He had been brainwashed into believing that revenge is what his sister wanted as her dying wish!’

‘Oh that poor baby..’

‘Baby!? Maddie– did you not hear what I just said???’

‘I know, Tom. I was there. And while it was traumatizing, I think Sonic is right. He deserves a chance. Knuckles had been manipulated and nearly annihilated Sonic when we first met him, too. And look at him now.’

‘..Okay, fine. A chance is one thing, but why does does that chance have to be one we give??’

‘Because he doesn’t have anyone else!... He’s lonely. And he doesn’t say it, but I think he’s scared a lot. He lost his family.. I think he just needs a friend. You can’t take me away from him.. I’m all he has.’

‘....Okay. Okay, I’m crazy for this, but okay. You can.. keep seeing Shadow.’

‘Ugh. Stop saying it like that. You make it sound like we’re dating–’

‘But I want to meet him, first. Man-to-hedgehog. He has to earn my trust and approval. Prove he’s changed.’

‘...Sure! Yeah, he’ll totally be down for that!’

“I am totally not down for that.”

“Whaaaat?? Come on, Shads–”

“Don’t call me that.” “--You gotta meet my folks, or they’ll like- forever be up my case.”

“I fail to see how that’s my problem.” “It’s your problem because that’ll make us hanging out wayyy more difficult. And you can act like that doesn’t bother you all you want, but I so know it does.”

Sonic is waltzing along the railing of a bridge in the woods, Shadow walking alongside him close enough to grab him if Sonic falls–not that Shadow cares.

He doesn’t.

Wobbling in his steps, Sonic continues when Shadow’s only response is a grunt, “What’ll it hurt?? It’s just my parents, they’re not gonna bite.”

“I don’t fear them..,” Shadow scoffs, arms crossed tight as he glares at Sonic, “I simply don’t need their approval.”

“Don’t think of it as approval. Think of it as.. Just getting to know new people! Mom definitely just wants to talk to you. Dad may have.. other intentions, but he’s harmless. Promise.”

“Anyone deemed the Lord of Donuts has to be harmless.” “Exactly! So what do ya say??”

Shadow doesn’t answer, just stops when Sonic hops down to land in front of him with that stupid grin. Shadow huffs a bit, looking off to the side rather than at Sonic. He can see how much this means to him in those big, bright emerald eyes, and it’s tiresome.

He’s never questioned why Sonic cares for these people when they aren’t his real family. He’s never questioned why Sonic stays with them despite not needing to to survive..

He knows for a fact he’d still be with Maria if given the chance..

No, this isn’t a matter of why Sonic cares so much about his family’s opinion. He’s been intrigued and honestly a bit refreshed seeing another hedgehog with a human family..

No, it’s why Sonic cares about their opinion of him that gets Shadow bothered.

Why does he need to be involved??

Though, he has his suspicions..

He’s been reading up on the courting rituals of hedgehogs. He was raised with humans, so he isn’t quite familiar with this part of his DNA’s customs. But from what the earth books have told him, and while Sonic isn’t the same as an earth hedgehog, it’s all he’s got to go off of.

And hedgehog’s pursue their potential mate. Challenge them. Chase them. Then they circle them to feel out their mate.. See if there’s a chance for matching with them..

All things Sonic seems to have done with Shadow.

Then there’s snorting. Where the pursuer will snort at their mate and see if they’ll snort back. Sonic often snorts when he’s joking with Shadow.. And Shadow has joked back in return..

And as far as human customs go when pursuing a mate… meeting one’s parents is definitely part of it. It’s often thought of as a more serious step, in fact.

Shadow has had his suspicions all along of what Sonic’s intentions were in searching him out and very persistently sticking around. This just confirms it.

And Shadow… Shadow has been enabling such courting rituals. He’s been participating. He’s agreed to numerous meetings with this hedgehog. He’s enjoyed their conversations and time together, and he’s not looking for them to end. He’s, in all aspects of the word, reciprocated Sonic’s advances.

So to turn Sonic down now?? It would be cruel, wouldn’t it?? And Shadow isn’t even sure he wants to turn Sonic down. He isn’t ready for any sort of relationship, absolutely not. He still has a lot of trauma he needs to work through, but having Sonic as a companion through it.. doesn’t sound horrible. He’d prefer it, actually. He thinks.

He can’t lose Sonic. He does know that.

And if meeting Sonic’s family formerly will allow them to continue this courting dance they’ve been partaking in to see where it goes, then so be it.

“Very well.”

Sonic blinks, “Wait- what?”

“I accept your invitation to meet your family.”

Sonic immediately grins, his tail wagging practically as fast as the hedgehog runs, “You mean it?” “Why would I say something I didn’t mean??” “Oh, thank you, Shadow!” Sonic jumps up and down excitedly, and Shadow can’t help but smile a tiny smile at the sight of his excitement, “You won’t regret it.” “We’ll see..”

And so Sonic went home to let his family know they’d be having a guest for dinner the upcoming Friday. Maddie seemed nervous-excited, immediately going on about how she’s going to cook up this fantastic dinner for him. Tom seems a on guard about this, but he’s also agreed to go into it with an open mind.

It’s his brothers Sonic really has to worry about.

“So.. why is Shadow coming over again??” Tails asks, spinning around in his chair with a tiny gadget and screwdriver in hand. Sonic has no idea what he’s working on, and he’s learned not to ask since he won’t understand ha;f the explanation anyway.

“Because he needs friends. And we can be those friends,” Sonic assures with a thumbs up.

“But.. he tried to destroy the world,” Tails argues with a knit in his brow, tilting his head at Sonic.

“And he broke my hand! My glorious hand..,” Knuckles adds, holding his fist up dramatically.

Sonic sighs at this, rolling his eyes, “Yes, I know. And he’s sorry for those things.”

“I have not heard an apology from him,” the echidna huffs, arms crossed disapprovingly.

“That’s because you haven’t seen him since it happened,” Sonic replies, looking between this two misfit brothers, “Look. I know we all have history with him–” “Bad history.” “He scares me.” “Anyway, I also know we all can relate to him, huh??” Tails and Knuckles exchange unsure glances before Sonic is quickly moving to Tails, “Tails, buddy, you’ve felt out of place and alone in the world before! You know how awful it is.. How it can be hard to navigate the right direction without someone to guide you..” “That’s.. true..,” Tails agrees before giggling when Sonic ruffles the fur on his head.

Sonic then dashes to Knuckles, throwing an arm around him and shaking him roughly, “And you, Knucklehead–”

Knuckles punches Sonic in the chest, making Sonic stumble back with a chuckle.

“I am nothing like that fiend–” “Know what it’s like to have something horrible rip you from your family and be manipulated into hurting others as a way to seek justice for them..”

Knuckles goes silent at that, opening his mouth only to close it again with a thoughtful hum.

“...I suppose that’s true,” Knuckles nods, seeming won over by Sonic’s point.

“Exactly! You too have fallen victim to a Robotnik before– we all have in some way. Everyone makes mistakes, right?? We just gotta recognize those mistakes and grow from them.. So what makes Shadow any different??”

Knuckles and Tails are both quiet a long moment, looking at Sonic, then down, then each other..

Both slowly smile, Knuckles speaking as he looks back to Sonic,

“Very well. We shall allow our rival one trial. But if he fails, I will not hesitate to destroy him before he has a chance to destroy our tribe again..” “Fair enough,” Sonic nods with a grin, looking to Tails who nods in agreement.

“I trust you, Sonic. If you say Shadow has changed, then he’s changed,” the kit beams confidently, full loyalty in his big brother. Though, his smile grows a bit nervous, “But just.. Maybe he can prove he’s changed from a distance?” “Sure thing, buddy! I’ll be between you two at all times if it’ll make you feel better.” “Much, thanks,” Tails breathes in relief.

Sonic grins at this, “Good. Glad we’ve all come to an agreement then. Wachowski bros gotta stick together, right??” “Yeah! Team Heroes!” Tails grins, putting his fist out only for Sonic to fist bump him with a, “Red, Blue and Yellow!?” to which Knuckles then joins the group fist bump with a unanimous, “Hello!”

They all laugh amongst each other for a moment.. Only for Sonic get dead serious once they get quiet again and add,

“Okay. Now we gotta talk about you guys not embarrassing me.”

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