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whowritessometimes · 6 months ago

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Back and Forth - Art Donaldson x Reader

A Stanford!Art Donaldson and Stanford!Reader fic :) Kinda slow burn, very soft very sweet.

Word Count: 3.9k

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The California summer sun beamed down on the court, making the colors of the advertisements and signs around you appear almost neon. Upbeat music flowed through speakers that you couldn't quite place, embodying the feeling of the tennis matches that surrounded you, the back-and-forth beat pulsating through your head. It was almost overstimulating, but this was your normal.

You were pre-med at Stanford, volunteering at some local tennis camp to fill your summer and add fodder to your resume. You didn't do much, occasionally helping some rich, pompous kid stretch out their wrist, or their knee, or their ankle, or whatever. The days blurred together, they all spoke to you in the same condescending way. For most people, it would be mind-numbing.

But it was exhilarating. You had this intrinsic love for tennis, you always had. Perhaps it was that love that led you to signing up for this gig, and not the resume experience. But you would never admit that to anyone. You had played tennis for fun your whole life, with your family growing up, with your friends in high school. It was only when you shattered your wrist sophomore year that you had to stop.

It sucked. It sucked at the time, and it sucked now. You weren't professional-level at tennis, not like these people, but it was nice to have a hobby unlike anything else people expected you to do. The pre-med thing, the reading, the studying, it came naturally to you. And it wasn't like you didn't enjoy it, and it wasn't like you weren't good at it, but you loved tennis. And every now and again, you missed it.

So here you were. Your head followed all the heads in the crowd in a practiced, synchronized, subconscious back-and-forth. There wasn't really ever a crowd, the games at the program were often informal, the audience often consisted of coaches and other players. But this was a unique match, Stanford's players engaged in a captivating display of athleticism. It was almost like a dance, the way they seemed to know the moves of the other before they made them. You could feel the intensity from your tent by the end of the bleachers.

Stanford's star player (well, one of them)—Art Donaldson. You'd half-watched him play from your tent whenever you weren't working. He was elusive, but undoubtably one of the best there. You had never spoken. He was enigmatic, focused on his training and on helping others. He had perfect technique, people said. Now, you had the chance to really see how he was. And he was. Top of his game.

Usually.

The air was thick with humidity. Your gaze flickered between the players, boredom warring with the gnawing anxiety that always hummed beneath the surface during matches. Then, a sound sliced through the rhythmic thwack of the tennis balls—a sharp cry of pain.

Your head snapped left like a whip, your heart leaping into your throat. There, sprawled on the opposite side of the net, lay Art. His face was contorted in agony, one hand clutching his ankle at an unnatural angle. His racket lay a few feet away, as forgotten as the polite pleasantries that had filled the air before the match.

The shitty plastic chair beneath you creaked in protest as you scrambled to your feet. Ignoring the surprised yelp from the equally shitty excuse for a supervisor you'd been assigned for the summer tennis program, you sprinted across the court. Dust billowed in your wake, blurring the vision that was already swimming with a mix of dread and the adrenaline rush that always came with seeing someone hurt.

You skidded to a halt beside him, kneeling. His eyes, usually bright with playful competitiveness, were screwed shut, teeth clenched as he fought back a string of obscenities you knew all too well.

"Hey," you said, forcing your voice to remain calm despite the tremor running through your body. He flinched at the sound of your voice, a flicker of something akin to fear crossing his normally confident expression.

"Hey," he managed to rasp out, opening one eye a sliver. He tried to push himself up, but his face crumpled again as a fresh wave of agony shot through him.

"Don't move," you ordered, the calmness in your voice surprising even you. You reached out, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. His skin was slick with sweat, and you could practically feel the heat radiating from his injured ankle.

"'S bad, huh?" he breathed, a flicker of vulnerability in his voice.

The concern in his eyes sent a jolt through you. It wasn't just the pain; it was the fear.

"Don't worry," you said, your voice softer now, "We'll get you checked out. Just...hold still."

Ignoring the sting of sweat in your eyes, you carefully slipped your arm around his waist, offering what little support your slight frame could provide. Heaving him halfway onto your leg, you began the slow, agonizing walk towards the medical tent. Each step sent a spike of pain through Art's leg, reflected in the way he gritted his teeth and winced with every movement.

The supervisor, finally spurred into action, scurried behind you, muttering something about ice packs and paramedics. But your focus remained solely on Art, on getting him to help as quickly as possible.

You knew what it was like. Maybe that's what spurred your immediate action, your need to help him recover, to keep playing. You knew what it was like.

The antiseptic sting of the medical tent assaulted your nose as you hovered beside the injured player. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he clenched his jaw with each prod from the trainer.

"Think they all saw that?" he finally rasped, a hint of amusement battling the pain in his voice. You blinked, surprised by his oddly timed humor.

"Doubt it," you played along, a small smile tugging at your lips. "'S not like you're Art Donaldson or anything."

A sheepish grin replaced his grimace. "Thank god."

The trainer finished his work, leaving you and the injured player alone in a tense silence. He cleared his throat, his gaze meeting yours for the first time.

"So," he began, trailing off as he stared into the ceiling of the tent. There was something in his expression, the physical pain, the fear that comes with injury, the odd quiet of an unfinished game.

"So," you mimicked, sitting next to him in another shitty chair.

Something hung in the air, something all too familiar to you. He turned his head to look at you, to make eye contact, keeping his body flat on the cot. You realized then how close you were. Close enough to see his eyes, the sharp point of his jawline, the strawberry blond of his curls.

You averted your gaze, looking out into the brightness of the tent entrance. The typical ambiance of the outside seemed to be drowned by the odd intimacy you'd created together, the silence between you and Art seemed to be the only noise you could hear. His shoddy breathing, despite his attempts to pretend he was okay, only brought you back to when you felt the same way he did, all those years ago.

A blush crept up your neck. You fumbled for something, anything, to break the charged silence in the tent. "I, uh, broke my wrist sophomore year," you blurted, surprised by the words leaving your lips. "Tennis, ironically. One minute I'm playing—probably terribly—and then I'm in the ER holding a bag of frozen peas. And, I don't know, I guess I'm just saying... I get it. Sort of."

"You trying to distract me?" he asked, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah," you admitted, a hesitant smile mirroring his. "Is it working?"

"Yeah, actually," he conceded, leaning back on the cot. "Tell me more."

You felt a genuine laugh bubble up from your chest, the first since the moment you saw him crumpled on the court.

---

And that was really the last time you saw Art. Suffice to say you hadn't forgotten about the encounter. It was actually stupid, how often you thought of it. He didn't even know your name, but you remembered the timbre of his voice, the softness of his gaze.

In your defense, he was hard to avoid. Now that the spring semester had started, tennis season was in full swing. His picture was plastered around the most of the facilities you frequented, future NCAA champion Art Donaldson.

The scent of freshly cut grass and blooming jasmine hung heavy in the crisp California air as you hurried across the bustling Stanford campus. The semester had sprung with a vengeance, bringing with it the usual flurry of activity—overloaded backpacks, animated discussions about last night's party, and the ever-present anxiety of looming deadlines.

Today, however, an extra weight sat on your shoulders. Your pre-med advisor dropped a last-minute surprise: mandatory tutoring for a struggling athlete. Juggling med school coursework with a part-time job at the campus health center was already a tightrope walk, and adding this felt like a precarious extra step. But you managed it, as you did most things. How you had some semblance of a social life was a mystery. And maybe your very obvious lack of a love life was why you thought about Art so often. You didn't have time to psychoanalyze yourself, though. You barely had time for whatever this tutoring session was about to be.

Reaching the designated classroom, a small, windowless space usually reserved for last-minute group study sessions, you took a deep breath before pushing open the heavy door. The sterile light inside momentarily blinded you, but as your eyes adjusted, a sight unfolded that caused your breath to hitch in your throat. Sprawled across a cluttered table, papers piled haphazardly around him, was a man who you'd spent the better part of the last few months thinking about.

There, unmistakably, was Art. His signature strawberry blond hair, slightly longer than you remembered, covered with a backwards baseball cap, curled at the edges, framing his face. A deep furrow creased his brow, a testament to the frustration radiating from his hunched form as he focused on a massive biology textbook. An unsettling warmth bloomed in your chest, a reaction entirely too potent for a tutoring session.

The memory of him sprawled on the opposite side of the tennis court last summer, his ankle twisted at an unnatural angle, flickered across your mind. The panic that had gripped you then seemed almost comical now. The sterile environment and the way his eyes had held a curious blend of pain and something else—gratitude, maybe?—all formed a vivid memory you hadn't realized had imprinted itself so deeply.

His presence filled the small room, unexpectedly stealing your breath and injecting a jolt of something entirely different into the monotonous routine of your day. A shyness spread across your face, tinged with an unfamiliar nervousness as you cleared your throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the sudden silence.

A slow smile took over his features as he looked at you, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. For a moment, you were caught in that smile, a memory resurfacing from the hazy days of summer.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice warm. He reached a toned arm, pulling out a chair for you.

"Hi," you blinked, momentarily flustered by the gesture and the echo of familiarity in his voice. There was a moment of tension in the air, of uncertainty, of a strange sense of reconnection. Finally, you managed to force out the words, "How are you?"

"My ankle's a lot better now, if that's what you're asking," he replied with a playful glint in his eyes. His gaze lingered on you for a beat too long, making you hyperaware of the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

"You remember me?" you blurted out, the question leaving your lips before you could stop it.

"Course I remember you," he said, his voice laced with amusement. You couldn't ignore the way his eyes flickered from your face down to your body, and back up. Blatantly checking you out. And you could hear his smile in the way he spoke, warm and genuine, sending a familiar flutter through your stomach. The memory of his teasing laughter in the sterile medical tent resurfaced.

"Right," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You shifted in your chair, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of his gaze on you.

The next hour or so unfolded in a way that surprised you both. Art's initial confusion melted away as you hovered next to him, animatedly explaining each concept. Social life, love life, Art Donaldson, you couldn't explain. Biology, medical stuff, sports, you understood.

And he was beginning to as well. Time became a forgotten entity, measured only by the turning of pages and the occasional frustrated groan from Art. He wasn't the cocky athlete you'd half-imagined, but someone with a genuine curiosity about the world around him and some kind of depth hidden beneath his confident facade on the court.

Finally, Art leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "We should probably call it," he declared, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. He thanked you, looking into your eyes as he said your name, the syllables dancing off his tongue in a way that made you feel like it was more than a word you had offhandedly mentioned to him.

"Yeah, sure," you replied, your voice softer than you intended.

The study sessions became a regular occurrence. The two of you exchanged numbers, only to arrange meetings, you reminded yourself.

But whenever he called, you found yourself talking about so much more than biology. It started with him asking how you were, a simple courtesy that somehow felt more genuine coming from him. Yet, as you replied, a comfortable ease would settle in. You'd find yourself laughing at inside jokes, dumb stories, the kind that wouldn't be particularly funny to anyone else, would mindlessly tumble out, fueled by the comfort you felt in his presence. It was a kind of nonsense, a space where you could just be yourself, and somehow, it felt like everything and nothing all at once.

---

Now, it was late, and it was finals week.

Papers and textbooks were scattered across your desk, a battlefield of scribbled notes and highlighted passages. You were in the trenches, neck-deep in the intricacies of biochemistry, desperately trying to cram information into your sleep-deprived brain.

Suddenly, the familiar buzz of your phone cut through the silence of your cramped dorm. You fished it out of your pocket, a flicker of annoyance battling with the ever-present hope that it might be a break, a distraction from the relentless onslaught of scientific jargon. Gratefulness shot through you when you saw Art Donaldson's name on the screen.

You answered the call. His voice crackled through the phone, laced with desperation. "I need your help," he blurted out, completely unlike his usual easygoing self. "What the fuck is molecular cell biology?"

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh. "In general?" you replied, already picturing the hours that it would take to explain the subject. Finals be damned, apparently.

"Can you just come over?" he groaned. "If you aren't doing anything."

You glanced back at the flashcards on your desk. "I'm not doing anything."

So here you were, knocking on the door of Art Donaldson's dorm. You heard rustling from the other side, making you wait just a beat longer in the dimly lit hallway. You rocked back and forth on your heels, chewing the inside of your cheek and rethinking your current appearance. The oversized Stanford hoodie, mess of your hair, and lack of makeup now seemed ill-fitting for a meeting with the boy who had somehow winded his way into becoming your crush. You felt like a kid again, back in high school.

You were starting to worry you had the wrong room until the door swung open, bathing the hallway in a golden, hazy light. There stood Art, moving his large frame out of the way to gesture you into his room with a short greeting and a "thank god." You didn't know what you expected, really, but there you were, slinking a little too closely past him as he stood in his doorframe. You felt his breath on the back of your neck as he stood behind you, guiding you to his tiny desk in the corner of the room. His hands ghosted over the small of your back, and you felt his warmth, despite him not actually touching you.

The room itself was small. It wasn't unlike yours, or any of the others on campus. But it somehow felt smaller with Art next to you, burying his face in his hands every time you patiently explained a concept you'd gone over already. His face. He was so close to you now, the quiet of the night and the room only making you feel closer.

The energy of this study session felt so different from all your others in the past. You weren't in a classroom, or meeting him after practice in the library. You were seeing another side of Art, the part of himself he didn't publicize. Every freckle, the stretch of his faded t-shirt over his body, the curls he brushed out of his eyes every now and again, the way he flexed his callused hands as he cracked his knuckles, a nervous fidget.

It felt like time slowed down. You labored over the biology textbook, finding practice questions and asking him some of your own. You were gentle, cautious. Maybe it was the weird intimacy of the moment, maybe it was the lack of air in the cramped dorm. Your voice was soft, and you couldn't help but notice how the tension Art held over the phone and when you entered the room melted away. Did you do that? You felt this reciprocation, possibly imagined. But whenever you cracked a dumb joke, he'd laugh and put a hand on your arm. The contact always made you freeze. The touch was a reminder he was real, he was tangible. Every fleeting gaze, every smile in your direction.

You had almost reached the end of the chapter, and Art was getting almost every practice question right. You fidgeted with a sheet of his messy notes, reading it over to continue some rant you were on about RNA.

"...made up of nucleotides, which are ribose sugars attached to nitrogenous bases and phosphate groups..." You trailed off, looking up from the papers only to find his gaze already on you. How long had he been looking at you? And the way he looked at you...

"Do you want to take a break?" He tilted his head.

You quirked an eyebrow, unable to fight your smile. "Sure."

He got up with an over-exaggerated sigh and stretched his arms over his head, exposing the bottom of his toned abdomen. For a moment. He reached under his desk, pulling out a box of some cheap canned beer. He popped the tab of a can, taking a long draw and passing it to you.

You looked away from his watchful eyes as you took a sip. Your face heated as you took into account the fact you were drinking from the same can he had.

You winced. "God, that tastes like ass."

"Sorry." He laughed, taking the can from you. Warm, callused fingertips brushing against yours.

"I didn't take you for a Steel Reserve kinda guy."

"What did you take me for?"

"I don't know. Gatorade?"

"Okay." He shook his head. "No more for you."

"Wait, wait, okay, I take it back."

He held out the can for you again.

"Mhm."

"Still taste like ass?"

"It tastes like what I imagine WD-40 tastes like."

You felt your heart swell as he laughed at that. You hadn't noticed how the two of you now sat impossibly closer, thighs brushing, shoulders sending sparks whenever they met. The half-empty can of beer felt like a nervous talisman being passed back and forth between you. Dumb jokes tumbled easily from your lips, punctuated by laughter that echoed weirdly loud in the quiet room. Finals week stress had completely evaporated, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the shitty beer.

It was so easy, talking to Art. Easier than it should have been, considering you were explaining the intricacies of cellular respiration to a man who once thought mitochondria were a type of pasta. But he listened, truly listened, his eyes locked on yours. You caught yourself getting lost in their depths, a dizzying kaleidoscope that mirrored the nervousness in your stomach.

He leaned in, as if to hear you better, and you mimicked the movement unconsciously. The space between your faces shrunk, the air thick with unspoken words. His gaze did its familiar dance—right eye, lips, left eye—and this time, it lingered on your lips a beat too long.

A sudden self-consciousness washed over you. Should you pull back? This wasn't your intention. But before you could overthink it, Art's lips were hovering over yours, a question in the way they hovered, hesitant but hopeful.

"This okay?" His voice was impossibly low, breathy, quiet. His eyes raked over your features, eye contact shifting from left to right, back and forth. His hand, warm and calloused came up to cup your cheek, grounding you in the moment.

"Yeah." You breathed.

The kiss, when it came, was soft and unexpected. More of a tentative exploration than a passionate assault. It tasted of desperation and relief, of unspoken feelings finally finding a voice.

Your hands moved from your sides to toy with the curls on the back of his head, earning a barely audible groan from Art. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, his other hand moving down to pull you impossibly closer by the small of your waist. His touch was shy, tender.

After what felt like forever (and you wouldn't have minded had it been), you pulled away slowly, breathless, a blush painting your face. His eyes searched yours for some unknown answer. For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged rhythm of your breath.

A slow smile spread across his face, mirroring the one blooming on yours. "God, you're so pretty."

Leaving Art's dorm room felt like navigating a dream. Your head spun, a mix of the cheap beer and the potent aftertaste of the kiss. Your lips still tingled where his had been, a brand new sensation that sent shivers dancing down your spine. Relief, sweet and unexpected, washed over you. Months of stolen glances, late-night calls disguised as study sessions, and a simmering tension that had threatened to consume you—all of it had culminated in that single, electrifying kiss.

As you walked down the quiet hallway, a giddy smile stretched across your face. It wasn't just the kiss itself, though that replayed in your mind in a loop—hesitant, searching, then deepening with a shared sense of discovery. It was the way he'd looked at you afterwards, his eyes soft with unspoken emotions, mirroring the whirlwind in your own chest. A nervous flutter remained in your stomach, a delicious mix of excitement and uncertainty.

But beneath it all, a quiet confidence bloomed. He felt it too. This wasn't just some fleeting moment, a stolen kiss in the dead of night. It was a turning point, a bridge crossed, and the future, once shrouded in the haze of exams and unspoken feelings, now shimmered with possibility.

#art donaldson x reader #mike faist #challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson x you #challengers movie #challengers 2024 #art donaldson fic #art donaldson imagine #mike faist x reader #mike faist x you #mike faist imagine

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cherubfae · 1 month ago

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𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔨 || {𝔪𝔲𝔩𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔪}

In thick dick we trust

|| 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐔𝐁𝐅𝐀𝐄'𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 ||

tags: smut, NSFW, fem!reader, breeding, blowjobs, fingering, slight angst/fix-it-fic and spoilers for JJK (Gojo), predator/prey dynamics, public sex, no foreplay (in some), monster fucking, belly bulge, impossible standards but we can dream, unprotected sex, slight dubcon (pyramid head), this is a trail mix of all sorts of some of my favorite men (and my bestie's)!!. Pls enjoy!!

leon's is a bit short bc he's got a halloween treat comin' up ;D

Leon

"This is not a good idea." Leon's voice hisses next to your ear. Ever the hypocrite, he's not one to heed his own warning. He is far too focused on tugging his pants half-way down his ass, panting hotly at your ear, the clasps of his belt jingling together as he frees his swollen cock. His fingers push into your hole, messily stretching you out. Knowing you two don't have much time, he pulled them out after, lapping at your essence with a pleased moan. "So fuckin' good, princess."

Sinking into you with a guttural groan, Leon snaps his hips into you. His shirt is messily pulled up to his abdomen, biting his lip to conceal any moans. You back your ass up, meeting his thrusts as quickly and most importantly, as quietly as possible.

"I know this is rushed but you gotta try to relax for me, baby." He kisses just below your ear. "You were the one who wanted to fuck at a Halloween party, right? I promise I'll take care of you as much as you need me to when we're home... But for now, loosen up that pussy for this cock you love so much, yeah?" He breathily chuckles.

Zayne

"You're too bold for your own good...," His lashes flutter, his head falling back to rest on his chair. Legs widening, Zayne's breath stutters out of him the deeper you take his rigid length. "Doing such a thing like this in a place of healthcare practice and to a renowned surgeon no less. How naughty."

His heart stutters at your intense gaze between his parted thighs. Pulling off his cock, he can see how his length and your lips glisten with precum and saliva. "You say that... But were you not the one who fingered me to sleep last time I was here?" You smirk as Zayne's ears flush red.

"You said you needed help sleeping... Orgasms can provide that. When all of your muscles are tight during sexual arousal, an orgasm helps relaxes those muscles." Came his clinical response, despite both of you knowing you'd successfully cornered him. You grip his cock once more, relishing in how his hips jerk upwards.

Lapping at his tip, you grin. "And that's what I'm doing just now. My favorite doctor said he needed help relaxing-- and I think this is just what the doctor prescribed." The groan Zayne let out as you lowered your mouth onto him was music to your ears.

Sal Fisher

After your very first successful Halloween party in your new shared apartment, you and Sal giggle and hush one another, messily pulling off each other's costumes. You, a witch and Sal, a skeleton (or as he worded it, your 'willing victim'). With Chase Atlantic playing rhythmically from Sal's old stereo, he pushes you gently onto the soft bed.

Mask left forgotten and his glass eye already out of his socket and cleaning in a cup at his bedside table next to his tiny suction device. You couldn't help but adore him, staring up at him tenderly. You loved that he was able to be so comfortable with you like this. You supposed knowing him since high school and dating since sophomore year helped!

You reach up and cup his scarred cheeks, running your thumb above his missing nose. Sal closes his good eye, breath warm on your palm. He kisses your fingers, covering your hand with his. The passionate energy takes a softer turn, gently pulling off your clothing until you were both laid bare.

"I will never get over how beautiful you are." Sal murmured, his cold hands cupping the swell of your breasts, thumb circling the hardened nipple. His thick cock, surrounded by blue hair, nudges between your folds, though he is no rush to enter. Leaning down, he kisses you softly, an action you readily return.

Pyramid Head

You were easy to corner. It was laughable, really. Pyramid Head couldn't ignore those sweltering feelings any longer. The thrill of hunting you down like small prey had thrilled him to no end. He was sick of those nurses and the mannequins. He wanted something real, someone warm.

The scrape of his Great Knife splitting through concrete and asphalt grated on your ears. Wedging his knife into the crease of the segmented sidewalk, Pyramid Head backs you up against the fence. He towers above you; he has no visible eyes to look at, only the cold, rusted and bloody triangular helmet that presses against your cheek.

A shuddering, inhuman growl bellows like iron rubbing together, followed by a rather curious huff. Something hard pokes at your tummy and your eyes widen, heat rising to your cheeks. This thing... This humanoid embodiment of hate was rock hard, rutting his large erection against the seam of your jeans. His hands grapple for your shoulders, huffing demonically again. Impatient.

Seeing no other choice and admittedly, you were a bit curious. It certainly had been quite some time since someone had craved anything of you. And from what you could see of the great Pyramid Head, your curiosity had been thoroughly piqued.

Shimming your jeans and underwear down, you yelp as Pyramid Head hauls you into his strong arms. One arm barred across your lower back, his large blood covered hand spreads open your folds. Then, the fattest tip you've ever seen pokes out from under his dirtied apron; sliding up your folds to collect your wetness. He rubs himself against you messily, his hand moving to lock at your elbow, keeping you in place.

With immense searing heat, he pushes his thick, swollen cock into your tight channel. You feel like you're floating, your head knocking back against the fence. You could feel him stretch you impossibly wide, your tummy extending ever so slightly, and with the frantic upwards cant of his hips, you knew that the beast was far from done.

Gojo Satoru

He was here. He was home. Sukuna was dead. Defeated. The strongest had once again prevailed. Satoru had made it back to you alive.

Satoru approaches you like you were a newborn deer, power thrummed off of him. He'd let his infinity down. You weren't sure what you looked like in that moment, but you imagined he was mirroring your expression back at you. His snow-white hair was messily disheveled, his lips in a wobbly, uncertain smile and his eyes-- those endless ocean eyes. They looked like rippling waves with the more tears that filled them and spilled over, clearing paths on his dirty cheeks.

"I'm home, honey." Satoru spoke hoarsely, trembling as he gathers you in his arms. Instantly, his face finds its home at your neck, breathing in your scent. "I'm home." His grip tightened.

After hours of snuggling up on the sofa and Satoru freshly showered, you along with him--neither of you could bear to be apart from the other right now. You curled into his embrace, his arms wrapped around you like a safety belt, his long fingers brush the waistband of yours, his, sweatpants. Satoru kissed your jaw.

"Is it okay, pretty? I--," Voice breaking, Satoru swallowed thickly. "I need to know this isn't a dream." Nodding, you shift your hips up, helping him push your sweatpants and underwear down. Satoru does the same, gently swirling his pink head against your folds.

Leaning into his embrace, you grip his arms, making him look at you. "I don't need prep, 'Toru. I wanna feel you too. Want it just like this, please?" Cupping his cheek, he leans into your touch and nods understandingly. Guiding himself into you, the two of you gasp. Your fingers thread together tightly, slowly rocking into each other. Reunited once again. <3

Cloud

It was no secret that Cloud could be quite socially awkward. When he wasn't thinking about his next payment, the free estate of his mind more than often drifted to you. It was rare for him to not have you by his side, but you'd had your own mission to attend to.

Mako-blue eyes drift to his lap, feeling the subtle twitch in his black trousers. He'd been throbbing for days on end now, but rather than dealing with it he willed it to leave on its own. Pleasure always felt better when it was shared with you, after all. But thinking of you only served to make his cock harden more.

Hissing, Cloud shoved his bottoms down far enough for his swollen member to pop up, slapping wetly against his bare stomach; a string of sticky pre connecting his skin to his reddened tip. With a growl, he wrapped his hand tightly around the base of his thick cock and squeezed his eyes shut tight, doing his best to mimic how you felt around him.

He could still feel the phantom touches as you traced your fingers up to his tip and down to his base, moving your hand to cup and fondle at his heavy balls, every touch of yours was like you were worshipping a beautiful lost god.

"Shit--fuck, baby!" Cloud gasps, hips jerking into his fist, cum squirting out of him until his knuckles were dripping in it. He'd really been too pent up... He couldn't wait til you were home. He misses you. :(

Bonus for the sillies<3

Astarion

"Shhhhhh, darling...," Astarion hushes into your mouth, making you snort back at him. The two of you drunkenly giggle, a little more than pleasantly buzzed, and chat with each other out in the hall of the inn in what you two think were whispers. "Can't wake the others. Do you have the key?" He hiccups softly, leaning his chin on your shoulder, making your hunt for the room key that much more difficult.

You grin and pull the key out of your chest bandages, winking. Astarion purred approvingly. Leaning your forehead onto the door, you narrow your eyes and focus on trying to hold it steady, struggling to line the key up with the doorknob. Behind you, Astarion snickers like a schoolboy.

"You don't struggle this much guiding me into you... Has a door bested you, love?" He slurrs, nuzzling at your arm like an affectionate cat. You scowl and playfully and softly place your entire hand on his face and ease him back.

"Ack!" Astarion sputtered, blinking with annoyance as you unlock the door triumphantly. You enter first, the spawn stumbling in behind you. He makes for the bed first, leaving a trail of clothing behind him and crawling atop the sheets. Propping his cheek up with his palm, he relaxes into an attempt to look seductive, which wasn't hard. His thick cock, however, was quickly becoming so. Everything about him was ethereally beautiful, even in your drunken haze.

You squint at him, weighing your options as best you could with your inebriated state. If the two of you started fucking, the chances of either waking up another inn guest or resulting in some sort of drunken injury were quite high.

Ultimately, you decide it's not a good idea, as delicious as Astarion looked. You shed your boots and sit on the edge of the bed. The spawn pouts, reminding you of a cat once again as he paws at your backside.

"Don't you want to, love? We can snuggle instead if that's your desired passion." Astarion wiggled himself under your arms. You smile, brushing back his bangs to kiss his forehead. "We should wait 'til we're both sober, honey." Astarion nuzzled himself against your bosom.

Easing you both back onto the bed, Astarion cuddles into you. The both of you pass out, the spawn entirely naked at your side and you; half-dressed and half-off the bed in a starfish spread, mouth wide open in a snore.

|| ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ, ʀᴇᴜꜱᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴀʏ! ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱɪᴛᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ. ᴀʟʟ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍ�� © ᴄʜᴇʀᴜʙꜰᴀᴇ 2024 ||

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