#keeping the egg warm and safe beneath his hand :)

[shotmrmiller]

Bro imagine sd!simon overhearing bs!reader cry to their friend that they got knocked up as if these walls in this apartment aren’t paper thin. Reader is like real upset and voices that she thinks Simon wont come support her as a baby daddy and the friend advises abortion and now ur door is getting kicked down fbi style

i'd start sending that funeral wreath to your friends mom cuz they're extra dead. like instead of 6ft under it's 12. 24, even.

simon's having n o n e of it.

as if he hasn't been manifesting a baby from the start. why tf you think he's always kept a warm palm on your belly???

[asiatic-apple]

this isn't a request btw I've read about your caleb crying and sex & i wanna add: you know that tweet that goes "my bf fucks me until I get shy around him again morning after" bc, , the way he spoiled you with pleasure 🤤🤤🤤... is it intentional? unintentional? Doesn't matter. You def see him in a new NEW light (this turned out so much filthier i am so sorry😔 it sounded more intimate inside my head)

Anon first of all, thank you for christening my blog with the first ask 🤲🏽❤️ and it is such a good one too!! Second of all, don't apologize for being filthy bc I am a freak just like caleb and this is a safe space for filthy thoughts about our favorite pixelated man 😌

Idk what drugs you put in this ask, anon, but you caused a sudden burst of inspo and what started out as a few sentences of a reply quickly turned into +1k words…oopsies. I know you didn’t ask for this, but I hope you enjoy this random drabble :)

Caleb x female reader

content: nsfw-ish (no actual depiction of smut but it is heavily referenced), first time with caleb, implied multiple orgasms, overstim mentioned, caleb likes to tease you but lovingly, you both jokingly mimic the sounds each of you made last night

You wake to the smell of eggs and bacon, and it takes you a few minutes to remember where you are and what exactly happened last night. The answer is Skyhaven, in Caleb's bed—and after months of tension between the two of you, you finally wound up fucking each other.

No, that word doesn't accurately sum up everything you experienced last night. It was intimate, intense, and emotional for both of you. It even had its moments of clumsiness and soft laughter as you both navigated this new aspect of your relationship and took turns learning each other’s bodies. But on top of all that, you experienced pleasure like you've never felt before.

You quickly get out of Caleb's warm bed to start your morning routine, wanting to freshen up a bit before meeting him in the kitchen. And for some reason, you start to feel a bit timid as you look at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. You think about last night, how wantonly you moaned as he pulled out all the stops to make you feel good. Your cheeks burn as you remember just how many times you came on his tongue and fingers before he finally gave you his cock—and made you come around it several more times.

Thinking back to it, you can't remember exactly how many times you reached your peak, but Caleb didn't stop until you nearly passed out from exhaustion. And even then, you didn't really want him to stop. In the span of one night, you became addicted to the feeling of him inside you.

So after being faced with the filthy memories of everything you did and said last night—and all the filthy things Caleb groaned in your ear with each deep thrust inside you—it's no surprise you're feeling a little sheepish as you exit the bedroom. The worst part is that you’re sure Caleb immediately notices your shyness as he pulls you into a tight embrace. It’s just like him to give you no escape from his piercing gaze.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he whispers, running his hands up and down your back.

You know it's meant to be an innocent gesture, but your memories of last night only grow stronger as you're reminded of how he couldn't keep his hands off you. And how tightly he held you in place while you wriggled beneath him from overstimulation.

“I made us breakfast. Figured you'd be especially hungry after last night.” You're convinced he's saying that on purpose, lowering his voice in that infuriatingly sexy way of his before he chuckles a bit too smugly.

You smack his shoulder lightly, trying to hide the fact that your face is getting even hotter from his teasing. “Shut up,” you whine in mortification.

But Caleb seems intent on making you squirm. “Oh, c'mon,” he says in a playful drawl before pulling you tighter against his chest. “Are you really that embarrassed by what we did last night?”

His fingers trail feather-light touches up your back and along your neck, purposeful in finding your ticklish spots so he can turn your bashfulness into fits of carefree laughter. Once he's satisfied with you loosening up a bit, he looks down at you seriously.

“You don't regret anything, do you?” You can tell he's trying to keep his tone lighthearted, but there's a glint of fear in those wide eyes of his.

“No, god no,” you say without hesitation. “I don't regret anything.”

You swallow that nervous lump in your throat, still feeling the remnants of embarrassment as you meet his gaze to show him you're serious too. And Caleb’s smile only grows bigger. It’s like you've given him the greatest gift with such a simple answer. He gives you a chaste peck on the lips before pulling back with a different kind of grin—one that says he's back to teasing you now that you've both cleared the air a bit.

“Good,” Caleb replies. “Because I definitely want to hear those cute sounds of yours again.”

Another kiss lands on your warm cheeks, and your brain short-circuits from that suggestive look in his eyes. Still, you manage a scoff at his smug tone. He's already so cocky about his ability to rile you up, and a petty part of you wants to remind him how you weren't the only one being enthusiastically loud last night.

“Oh, yeah? And what about you?” You try to keep your voice steady, even as Caleb continues peppering lazy kisses along your cheeks and down your neck. “I'm pretty sure you were louder than I was.” You lower your voice a register, trying to imitate those broken groans he made when he was close to his climax. “Hm, pip-squeak, you feel so good!”

You barely get through your poor impression before breaking character with a snort. But at least Caleb’s onslaught of wet kisses halts for a moment as he also fails at stifling his laughter.

“Right, right,” he says between a few chuckles. Even though you might be exaggerating a bit with your impression, Caleb’s cheeks and ears still tinge pink with a blush. “Was that before or after you kept beggin’ me”—his voice pitches higher—“oh, Caleb, please please don’t stop.”

You gasp dramatically. “I do not sound like that.”

“You’re right. It’s better when you do it.”

You roll your eyes, only half-annoyed by Caleb mentioning how unabashed you were in voicing your pleasure last night. The other half of you is turned on by his teasing. But that’s only for you to know…for now.

But as always, it’s like he can read your mind right at that moment. Caleb leans closer, taking advantage of your flustered state so he can whisper in your ear. “Maybe you need a reminder of how needy you were for me last night. I don't mind joggin’ your memory, honey.”

Before you can even try to come up with a witty remark, he's pulling away and dragging you to the dining table as if he didn’t just threaten you with a good time.

“Come on,” he says with a knowing grin. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. And after you're done digesting, maybe I can teach you not to get so antsy every time I touch you.”

You huff as you sit at the table. It’s not fair how easily he gets under your skin with his words and sweet promises. And his promises definitely sound too good to be true. You can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling shy after getting fucked so thoroughly by Caleb. Will there ever be a day when he doesn’t make your skin burn with so much pent-up desire?

Caleb interrupts your spiraling thoughts, nudging the plate of food toward you. “I can still see those gears turning in your head, makin’ you wonder if there’s still a reason to be shy. Stop worrying so much, pip-squeak,” he scolds you gently. “Or else next time, I'll have to make sure you feel so good that your pretty head can’t think anymore.”

dni banner by @/cafekitsune

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter three

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: a terrifyingly familiar presence breaches your last safe space, and now a simple and heartfelt gesture becomes a violation. in the aftermath, fear finally makes you reach out for help.

⤿ warning(s): stalking, panic attacks & unhealthy coping mechanisms.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.7k

The day begins the same way the last three have: 05:30, kettle on, one level tablespoon of Assam spooned into the infuser. While the water climbs toward a boil you unlock your phone, already braced for what waits. A fresh number—there is always a fresh number—has delivered its dawn bulletin:

Left at 05:01 yesterday.

Early bird. Porch light flickered twice—loose bulb?

Navy coat looks sharp against the fog, pretty girl. 

They never mention the hospital, never a word about ORs or co-worker names. The watcher keeps to the edges of your private life, and somehow that makes the trespass worse. You capture a screenshot, block the number, and delete the thread. The image joins dozens of others in the hidden laptop folder named Archive—date‑stamped, time‑stamped, waiting for the moment you finally believe the police will do more than shrug.

Four‑minutes steep exactly. Mug warmed. First swallow. Routine: a ladder you climb every morning. Eggs scrambled ninety seconds, plate rinsed, shower seven minutes. Before dressing, you check the tiny motion‑sensor camera you mounted inside the apartment entryway two nights ago; its LED blinks a steady red reassurance. The matching camera on the fire‑escape window does the same. No motion alerts overnight. Still, you test the deadbolt twice and angle the hall chair beneath the knob until you return.

The drive is identical to yesterday’s and the day before—same streets, same mirror checks at every light. No car follows twice, but you look anyway. At 06:50 you badge through the employee entrance. Stepping into hospital feels like sliding into armor: fluorescent lights, antiseptic bite, the hum of vents. The messages have never followed you here.

You adjust your usual gray scrubs and square your clipboard. Pre‑op checklist in your left hand, suture cart in your right, you call out “sponge count zero” with the same crisp authority as always. But small hesitations creep in: rereading the cefazolin vial, tapping the clock twice to verify time‑outs. 

Margot’s eyes track each pause. She eventually corners you by the blanket warmer.

“Nightmares?” she asks, voice low.

“Just the usual insomnia,” you answer, pinching your lower lip. A nervous habit. Your smile feels brittle, but it holds.

Fin notices too; his jokes grow louder, as though volume can fill the quiet shadow clinging to you. Jules slips extra Hershey Kisses into your scrub pocket. Even Dr. Garcia joins in by firing off sarcasm like covering fire whenever an intern looks as if they might ask why your phone stays face‑down on the desk, silent yet weighty.

Slowly but surely, the afternoon bleeds into evening. 

You finish vitals, sign the narcotics log, and at 19:04 bypass the stairwell that leads to the roof—no silhouettes against twilight tonight. Instead you head straight for the lot, head down, keys ready.

The cameras in your apartment greet you with their steady red eyes when you arrive. Door locked, sweep performed—closet, shower, under bed—all clear. Only then do you change into a soft purple T‑shirt and loose pants. You have long since stopped parading around in your underwear. 

The phone buzzes the moment the fabric falls over your head. New number:

Purple again. My favorite.

You freeze. Curtains closed, lights low—and still they see. Screenshot. Block. Delete. You drag the dining chair beneath the doorknob and place the kitchen scissors back on the nightstand, steel glinting like a talisman. Then, a mug of valerian tea, strong enough to taste like soil, goes down in three determined gulps.

Lying in bed, you count the protections: two cameras, one chair brace, scissors within reach, every screenshot archived. Routine is armor. Repetition is a prayer. You breathe in for four, out for eight, the same cadence you teach anxious PACU patients, and tell yourself that as long as the messages stay outside the hospital walls, the armor will hold.

Sleep comes in splinters, broken by phantom creaks and imagined footsteps. At 02:47 you wake up, heart sprinting, and check the camera feed: empty hallway, silent fire escape. Dawn is only a few hours away. Soon the kettle will hiss, the tea will steep for exactly four minutes, and another text will arrive—about a porch light or the time you start your car—but never about scalpels, never about sponge counts.

Despite the hour, you’re halfway through wiping down the already‑clean kitchen counter—busywork to quiet the apartment’s hush—when your phone vibrates. For once the screen doesn’t show an unknown number.

It’s Jack.

Haven’t seen you on the roof in a bit. Everything okay?

The text lands like a gentle hand on your chest. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat, thumb hovering. Finally you type back:

I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Three dots pulse, then: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

He doesn’t mention anything about the hour or how you should be asleep and not messaging back. You’re grateful. 

Sunrise tea, you confirm, and set the phone facedown.

Pacing the kitchen, you notice how full the fridge is: a dozen nearly‑dated eggs, chicken thighs you’d planned to roast, wilting cilantro, limes, onions, and two unopened cans of black beans. You haven’t cooked a proper meal since the messages started; take‑out cartons and tea have been enough to survive. Now the sight of real food sparks something steadier than dread—a need to do, to give.

An apology, you decide, should be edible.

You wash your hands, set the chicken on the board, and fall into the rhythm your muscles remember: trim fat, score skin, rub with salt, cumin, smoked paprika. Onions sizzle in the cast‑iron, releasing a sweetness that chases the apartment’s stale anxiety. Beans simmer with serrano and garlic; rice toasts before absorbing broth. Cilantro stems thunk under the knife; lime zest perfumes the steam fogging the window. 

When everything’s done you portion a generous serving into a sturdy glass container, your favourite one: rice pilaf on one side, glossy black beans on the other, two pieces of golden‑skinned chicken nestled on top. Into a tiny jar goes some honey‑lime dressing. You label the lid in block letters—Jack—and slide the meal into one of your spare tote bags. 

The apartment smells of cumin and toasted garlic, of normal life. The cameras still blink red, the chair still braces the door, the scissors still gleam, but cooking has threaded warmth through every corner. You finish the last dish, the one’s that’s for you, dry your hands, and stand for a moment in the quiet kitchen, breathing in the proof that you can still create comfort instead of just barricades.

Tomorrow at dawn you’ll climb to the roof, hand Jack the container, and share five minutes of sky. Routine will tighten around you again, one careful knot at a time—but tonight you fall back asleep with the scent of lime and cilantro on your pillow, and relief, thin but real, settles in your chest like steam escaping a cooling pot.

. . .

You arrive at the hospital just past sunrise, thermos in one hand, tote slung over your shoulder, and—for once—a real, living sense of calm beneath your ribs. Not the fragile kind you usually glue together with caffeine and a tight jaw, but something gentler, something earned. You even caught a pocket of golden morning light in the parking lot, the kind that made the hospital look almost soft at the edges. 

Dr. Miller catches sight of you just as you pass the nurse’s station. He’s leaning against the counter, coffee in one hand, chatting with a pair of interns, but pauses when he sees you. His eyebrows lift, and he gives a slow, amused smile. “Well, you look dangerously close to content. Should I be worried?”

You huff a laugh, smoothing your coat as you badge in. “Don’t start rumors, Dr. Miller.”

He points at the canvas tote on your shoulder. “Big plans?”

You nod once. “End of shift.”

He doesn’t ask more, just grins, and you take that grin with you like a good omen. The rest of the day moves at a steady clip: vitals to log, meds to verify, a code yellow that resolves without anyone crying. You let yourself coast on the rhythm of it, not in that desperate, overcompensating way you usually do, but in a way that feels like a return to something—like an exhale. 

You slip into the lounge at 18:45, already imagining the click of the container’s lid, the familiar smell of the garlic and cumin, the soft weight of it in your hands as you climb the stairwell to the roof. You open as the lights inside flickers to life, cold and blue, attention on the glass container exactly where you left it, lid on, untouched. 

Except—no. Something’s wrong.

The lid is snapped shut, perfectly aligned. The container looks full. But it isn’t. You can feel it before you even lift it—something in the tilt, the balance. Your stomach lurches as you peel the lid off  and confirm what you already know. The food is gone. Not spilled. Not disturbed. Not even a forkful left to scrape from the edges. Just... empty. Clean. Wiped down.

A rare mix of anger, rare but hot, pulses against your ribcage, but before you can storm out and demand answers, you feel the paper crumpled under the container. Your breath stops. It’s your note—the one you’d carefully taped to the top that morning: NOT FOR GENERAL CONSUMPTION. HANDS OFF GREMLINS, it reads in your blocky caps. But now that line has been crossed out in thick, decisive strokes. And underneath it, slanted and dark and horrifyingly familiar: 

That was great, thanks pretty girl.

The world tilts. Your lungs forget how to work. You’ve seen that name before—only in texts, never spoken, never written. Anonymous. Cryptic. Repetitive. A whisper against your spine on nights when the lights were off and your phone lit up with unknown numbers. But this—this isn’t a text. This is here. This is your space, your name, your cooking, your boundary, and someone has walked right through it with ink-stained hands and a stomach full of what you made with care.

A hot flush crawls up your neck, floods your ears. You stagger back a step and catch yourself on the counter. The container slips from your hand and hits the lounge table with a muted thud. The silence in the room turns sharp. 

Then, you shove the fridge shut. The door clangs and rattles in its frame. The room feels like it’s shrinking, like the air has gone sour, too full of other people’s breath. You snatch the note and crush it in your hand. Your teeth clench so hard your jaw pops. You don’t remember turning, but you’re already out the door, slamming into the corridor.

Fin is halfway down the hall with a tablet in hand. He startles and drops it when you barrel past. “Boss? Are you okay—?”

You don’t hear him. You don’t answer. The world has narrowed to one screaming thought: Find Gloria. Now. You need the Chief Medical Officer, need her badge, her keys, her authority. She can pull the security feeds. She can call the police. She can make this stop.

You’re moving before you think to move, feet pounding the tile, vision blurring at the edges. You don’t realize you’re shaking until your elbow clips the corner of the nurse’s station and jolts you. Jules tries to intercept you, her mouth forming your name in alarm, but you dodge past. Margot reaches out, grabs your arm, and for a second your momentum dies.

“What happened?” she demands, voice low, sharp, anchoring.

You look at her. You try to speak. Nothing. Just breathless silence. Then, rasping through a throat too tight to breathe, you say, “Need Gloria.”

She gets it instantly. Her eyes go cold. She lets you go. Already calling instructions behind you as you sprint toward the elevators.

Your fingers hurt. You look down and realize the note is still balled in your fist, crushed so tightly your nails have dug half-moons into your skin. The static in your head has turned into a roar. You feel cracked open, like your worst fear has been confirmed and now all your secrets are leaking out of you for the world to see. All this time, you thought if you could just hold on—just stay composed, stay ahead, stay vigilant—you could keep this from touching the parts of your life that mattered. But now it has. Now it’s here. The hospital was supposed to be your safe place, your fortress. But someone breached it.

The elevator doors open. Thankfully, nothing but an empty gurney is inside. You step in without hesitation, eyes fixed forward, spine locked. You don't even blink when the doors slide shut.

You get out the seconds the doors open and round the corner toward Administration so fast the world blurs, shoulders locked, chest heaving, pulse hammering in your ears so loud it drowns out thought. You barely register the sound of a door opening until a figure steps out from the consult room ahead—short but solid, dreadlocks brushing her shoulders, clipboard hugged tight to her chest.

You collide before either of you can brake.

Papers scatter like startled birds. A pen skitters across the tile and bounces under the nearest corner.

“Whoa—hey!” Kiara grabs you, steady hands catching your elbows before you fall. 

“Slow down, honey,” she says, trying for lightness. “What—”

Then she sees your face.

Whatever was holding you together unravels in a blink. Your eyes fill, your mouth opens, but nothing coherent makes it past your lips. The crushed note slips from your hand, landing between you. The marker-scrawled name glares up from the paper like a fresh wound.

Kiara’s clipboard hits the floor beside it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes.

Her arms come around you before you can bolt or speak or even breathe. And the second she does, the sob rips out of you—gut-deep, involuntary, raw. You bury your face against her soft sweater and shake, fists twisted in the soft cotton, the fabric quickly going damp with tears. Your legs threaten to give. Kiara cradles the back of your head like she would a grief-stricken mother in a quiet room, voice low and steady in your ear.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay. Breathe with me. In, two, three…that’s it. Out, two, three.”

You try. You try to follow her rhythm even as your chest jerks, lungs refusing to cooperate, every breath full of glass. The hallway seems to narrow around you, fluorescent lights too sharp, voices too distant, the floor too unsteady beneath your feet. 

You gasp, trying to speak—Gloria, fridge, note—but your tongue won’t work. The words hit the back of your throat and collapse.

Kiara doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask. Not yet. 

She bends, scoops the note up from the floor, her arm never leaving your shoulders. Her eyes flick over the overwritten scrawl. Her expression goes from gentle to granite.

“Okay,” she says, voice gone iron. “We’re taking this to Gloria. Right now.”

It’s almost scary how easily she connects the dots without a single ounce of context. For now, you can only nod, your body still trembling, your mind clawing for control that just isn’t there anymore. But you’re not alone. Kiara keeps an arm firmly around you as she pulls her phone from her pocket, dials with one hand, presses it to her ear.

“Gloria? Yes, it’s Kiara. I have an urgent security issue. Clear your office.”

A pause. Then a quiet “Thanks.” She ends the call, squeezes your arm, and begins steering you gently toward the elevators.

“She’s waiting. Margot’s on her way too,” Kiara tells you as she guides you through the hallway. 

You nod again, unable to speak, but this time it’s not empty. The words aren’t caught in panic—they’re being held for you, steadied. And for the first time since the messages started, since the stalking began, since the fear turned chronic and tight and unseen—something inside you loosens.

Not gone. But held.

Held by hands stronger than your own.

divider credit

[satorupi]

the smallest sniffle out of you had nanami’s fork halting midway to his mouth, eggs hanging off the metal prongs. “what was that?”

you made a soft sound, having just sunk your teeth into your bread, chewing leisurely. you swallowed, head tilting with a quirked brow. “...what was what?” and you sniffled once more, as if handing him more proof of your state (or what he assumed was your state) on a silver platter.

“that.” he set his cutlery down and reached an arm over to where you were sitting next to him, the back of his palm resting against your forehead. “you’re burning up.”

“babe, you know i usually run hot.”

he shook his head, palms cupping your cheek, tilting your face in his hands as though looking for something. “not this warm, no.”

“oh, well...” you shrugged, taking another bite of your sandwich. “i probably just have a little cold then.” oh, how you’d regret those words—the ease with which you’d suggested a cold in your current state.

the word cold seemed to activate something primal in your husband. within minutes, he’d transformed your living room into a sort of medical center to hold you. said something about ‘not taking any chances’ with you and the baby.

digital thermometer, three different flavours of throat lozenges, a bulky humidifier he’d pulled from god knows where. enough vitamin c and zinc to keep you set for weeks.

you were only four months along at this point, but nanami had already transformed into the most devoted, slightly neurotic expectant father. past his usual devotion for you as his wife and into a more hybrid form, to best describe it.

“it’s probably just pregnancy rhinitis. the doctor said it’s common,” you tried to reassure him, but he was already mentally running through protocols.

“we don’t know that. you’re going to rest, and i’m calling in sick.”

“kento, you don’t need to—”

“nope. i’m not leaving you alone while you’re unwell and pregnant.” his tone brooked no argument, already set in his decision. “end of discussion.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

 “your immune system isn’t as strong as it would usually be since you’re pregnant now,” he explained to you seriously for what felt like the third time, fluffing pillows beneath you with military precision. “anything minor can develop into something major. that’s the last thing we want.”

“I don’t think the sniffles are that serious, kento.”

“sniffles can become bronchitis. bronchitis can become pneumonia. pneumonia can—”

“okay! okay, i get the picture.” you held up your hands in surrender, lips lifting into a small smile. “you have yourself a willing patient, mr. nanami.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

within the hour, he’d already called your obstetrician, researched pregnancy-safe remedies for a common cold, and bundled you under your favorite cashmere throw. the man who approached work and life with methodical precision now applied that same intensity to your minor ailment. possible cold—you weren’t entirely sure yet.

“the doctor advised me to keep you hydrated and well-rested. this is the best tea for your throat,” he reported, settling beside you with a steaming mug that emanated the familiar scent of honey-lemon. “also no medications unless absolutely necessary.”

for the next couple of days, you lived like an invalid. a cherished, doted-on invalid, but one nonetheless. instead of going into the office, he worked from home, laptop on the little bed desk you’d gotten ages ago while you snoozed against his chest.

whenever you stirred, he was immediately attentive—checking your temperature with one of those digital thermometers, tsking when it glowed orange on the screen, bringing you more tea, adjusting your position and the airflow of the humidifiers so you could breathe easier. it had turned out to be a cold, though mild.

“you really don’t have to hover,” you protested groggily during one of his temperature checks. “i’m so much better now.”

“you still sound nasally, so no, you’re probably not,” he observed, brow furrowed with concern. “and you’re not eating enough. stay here, i’m gonna make you soup.”

he’d taken to preparing small, frequent meals—bland but nutritious soups, fresh fruit cut into perfect pieces, whole grain toast with honey. everything was measured, planned, optimized for both your recovery and the baby’s needs.

“ken, you’re gonna get sick sticking around like this,” you warned as he climbed back into bed with you as night fell, tugging you into his embrace with familiar ease.

“impossible,” he said confidently, arms wrapping around you. “my immune system is excellent. besides, i need to take care of you and the baby.”

he’d said all this while letting you sleep curled up against his chest, breathing in the same air as your sick, congested self for hours on end.

he carried you to bed each night, despite your protests that you could walk perfectly fine. slept there with you throughout the night. in the morning, before you even woke, he’d already have a light breakfast prepped on a tray for you, an accompanying flower there just to see you smile.

“this is so excessive,” you’d told him on day three, watching him sanitize the en-suite bathroom doorknob for the second time that morning.

“incorrect. nothing is excessive when it comes to you two,” he replied matter-of-factly, moving on to wipe down the light switches.

the domesticity of it all made your heart swell, and to see him so set on making sure you were getting better? you could try to take precautions to keep the illness contained to yourself, but...you wouldn’t deny him the pleasure of playing doctor and taking care of you. you weren’t sure he would let you anyway.

by the fourth day, you felt completely normal again. better than normal, actually—all that rest and pampering had left you feeling more energetic than you’d felt in weeks.

“see? i was right,” nanami said with quiet satisfaction once that congested quality had left your voice, your temperature back to normal. “all you needed was some proper care and attention. no sick wives or babies.”

“my hero,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his midsection from behind. “though i think you might’ve been a tad bit overprotective.”

he’d looked so silently pleased with himself and those caretaking abilities that had nursed you right back to health.

which made it all the more amusing when you stirred the next morning to the sound of him trying to muffle a cough in the connecting bath.

“mm, ken?” you called out sweetly from your position on the bed, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

“good morning, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice noticeably hoarse. he emerged from the bathroom, hair slightly mussed, looking like he was trying very hard to appear normal. “how are you feeling?”

you eyed him for a moment, already picking up on little tells that betrayed his condition. “better. are you feeling okay?”

“fine.” but even as he said it, he sniffled, then looked annoyed at the betrayal. “perfectly fine. peachy.”

you watched him go through his morning routine, noting how he moved just a fraction slower, how he kept clearing his throat, how he sniffled softly when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

“oh, baby,” you cooed gently, immediately moving to his side. “you’re getting sick.”

“i don’t get sick.” his voice was getting more congested by the hour, but his denial remained absolute. you weren’t sure you’d ever seen him sick during the entire duration of your relationship, so why would he be sick now? “i have an excellent immune system.”

“usually yeah.” you pressed the back of your hand to his forehead, mimicking his own gentle gesture from days before. “you’re crazy warm, baby.”

“i’m not—” he tried to protest, but you were already guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed, standing between his thighs. “i need to get ready for work.”

“ken,” you said softly, taking his face in your hands. “you spent a full three days breathing in my germs and letting me plaster my sick self to your chest. your immune system is strong but...” you made a slight expression, thumbing over his cheekbones, “anyone would get sick after lingering in a hazard zone like that.”

he leaned into the coolness of your touch despite himself, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. “i’m good,” he insisted, though his voice was getting rougher, taking on a near drowsy tone. “i feel okay.”

yup. sick, alright. beginning stages, but sick all the same. “i’m calling in sick for you. lie down.”

“what?” he perked up, eyes creaking open, head shaking. “absolutely not. i have meetings—”

“—meetings that can wait.” you were already reaching for his phone. “your health comes first. isn’t that what you told me?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

by evening, he was fully congested and running a low fever of 38°c (100.4°F). you guided him to the couch, the big man wrapped in the same cashmere throw he’d had you bundled in, his head angled onto your chest as you spoon fed him soup you’d made.

“this is ludicrous,” he mumbled around the spoon, even as he relaxed into your embrace. “i was so careful. i washed my hands constantly, kept proper distance when possible...”

you hummed, utterly enamored at his behavior despite yourself. hangs around his pregnant wife like a helicopter husband for days  --> is surprised when he gets the same cold she had.

“i should be taking care of you. you’re pregnant.”

“yes, pregnant. not physically inept, baby.”

“but the baby—”

“—is fine. we both are. and you’re going to be fine too, once you stop being so stubborn about being sick.”

he was quiet for a moment, letting you feed him another spoon of soup, throat soothed by the warmth. “...my throat is just a bit sore.”

“there we go.” you pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “poor baby. i’ll go wash this and get you some tea.”

“i can get it—”

“nanami kento, do not move an inch from that couch. i’m bringing you tea.”

you bustled around the kitchen, preparing his tea exactly how he’d made yours—honey, lemon, a touch of ginger. when you returned, he was huddled in the blanket, looking thoroughly miserable despite his attempts to maintain composure.

“here, sweetheart.” you settled beside him, holding the mug while he sipped. “slowly...don’t burn your tongue.”

and you practically helicopter-wifed him for the rest of the night, masked up just so you could somewhat safely sleep on the pullout in the living room with him. something about having your strong, well-mannered, and usually very collected husband all sniffly and seemingly more cuddly made you a teensy bit giddy. not that you’d tell him that. he was already properly knocked out, soft lips parted with slow breaths.

still very warm since the fever hadn’t broken quite yet—but you were hoping it would by morning. he did have a strong immune system, after all.

you called in sick for him for an additional two days, during which you'd be absolutely insufferable for playing nursemaid.

you’re sure he wouldn’t mind too much.

a/n: thanks for reading lol <3

[cailinsblog]

Lando’s Little Protector | Lando Norris

Lando Norris x reader

Masterlist

The morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of your shared bedroom, casting a warm glow on the cozy space. You stirred beneath the covers, blinking slowly as the sound of soft footsteps approached. Before you could even sit up, the familiar face of Lando Norris appeared beside the bed, holding a tray with breakfast.

“Good morning, love,” Lando said softly, his signature smile lighting up his face. He carefully set the tray on the bedside table, revealing a plate of toast, scrambled eggs, and a cup of tea. “I brought you breakfast in bed.”

You chuckled, sitting up against the headboard. “Lando, you didn’t have to do all this.”

“Of course I did,” he said, placing a pillow behind your back for extra support. “You’re carrying our baby now. You shouldn’t have to lift a finger.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Lando, I’m only two months pregnant. I’m not helpless.”

He huffed, crossing his arms in mock seriousness. “Doesn’t matter. You’re growing a tiny human, Y/N. That’s a big deal. I want to make sure you’re taken care of.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his determination. Lando had always been protective, but ever since you told him you were expecting, he’d taken it to a whole new level. He insisted on doing everything for you—cooking, cleaning, even carrying the groceries, despite your protests that you were perfectly capable.

As you ate your breakfast, Lando sat beside you, watching you closely. “How are you feeling today? Any nausea? Headaches?”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “No, I’m fine, Lando. You don’t have to check on me every five minutes.”

“I’m just making sure,” he said, his tone serious. “I don’t want anything to happen to you or the baby.”

After breakfast, you got out of bed and stretched, ready to start the day. But as soon as you reached for the laundry basket, Lando appeared out of nowhere, gently taking it from your hands.

“Uh-uh, no way,” he said, carrying the basket out of the room. “I’ll do the laundry.”

“Lando, I can handle—”

“Nope,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “You sit down and relax.”

You followed him to the living room, where he had set up a cozy spot on the couch with blankets and pillows. He guided you to sit down, then handed you the TV remote and a glass of water.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “Now, you stay here and watch something. I’ll handle everything else.”

You sighed, but a warm feeling spread through your chest. His protectiveness was endearing, even if it was a bit over the top. As you settled into the couch, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for how much he cared.

---

Later that afternoon, you decided to test just how protective Lando could be. While he was in the kitchen, you stood up and started tidying up the coffee table. As soon as Lando noticed, he rushed over, his eyes wide with concern.

“Y/N! What are you doing?” he exclaimed, gently taking the stack of magazines from your hands.

“I’m just cleaning up a bit,” you said innocently.

“No way,” he said, placing the magazines back on the table. “I’ll take care of that. You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Lando, I’m not made of glass,” you said, trying to suppress a laugh.

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated but also determined. “I know, but I don’t want to take any chances. You mean everything to me, Y/N. I just want to keep you safe.”

Your heart melted at his words. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. “I know, Lando. And I love you for it. But you don’t have to do everything on your own. We’re in this together.”

He leaned into your touch, his eyes softening. “I just want to make sure you and the baby are okay.”

“And we are,” you reassured him. “But if I need help, I promise I’ll ask. Deal?”

He sighed, nodding reluctantly. “Deal. But I’m still going to keep an eye on you.”

You laughed, pulling him into a hug. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

---

As the weeks went on, Lando continued to hover, but he also started to relax a bit. He still insisted on doing most of the household chores, but he allowed you to join him for walks and even let you help with small tasks, like folding laundry.

One evening, as you sat on the couch together, Lando placed a hand on your still-flat stomach, his eyes filled with wonder.

“I can’t believe there’s a little person in there,” he said softly.

“Me neither,” you said, resting your hand on top of his. “But I’m so excited to meet them.”

“Me too,” he said, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your stomach. “And I’m going to be the best dad ever. Just wait and see.”

You smiled, your heart full of love. “I already know you will be, Lando.”

As the months ahead stretched before you, you knew that with Lando by your side, everything was going to be just fine. His protectiveness might drive you a little crazy at times, but it was also a reminder of how deeply he loved you and your growing family. And that was more than enough.

Requesting and rebloging helps me a lot guys 💕

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Miles Between, Heartbeats Close


Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader


Warnings: Long-distance relationship, angst, smut (kinda? I guess?), emotional intimacy, soft domestic moments, implied PTSD/nightmares, tender vulnerability, language


Author’s Note: IM BACK BABY!! Sorry I was visiting family and friends so here we are! Enjoy this!!


Summary: Loving a soldier means learning how to live in pieces—and how to put them back together when they come home.

Masterlist


MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

——

One Week Before Deployment

He didn't wear the mask around you. Not in bed, not at home, not when he was cooking you eggs at midnight in just a pair of sweats and his dog tags.

You were wrapped in one of his shirts, leaning on the counter with a mug of tea, watching him cook. He felt your eyes on him.

“What?” he said, glancing over his shoulder, spatula in hand.

“Just thinking,” you murmured.

“Dangerous,” he replied, smirking.

You walked up behind him and hugged his waist, pressing your cheek to the scarred expanse of his back. “I’m going to miss you.”

He stilled, just for a second.

“I’ll miss you more.” His hand came down to cover yours, squeezing gently. “Keep my shirt on. Sleep in it. That way, I’m there even when I’m not.”

You kissed his spine. “I love you.”

He turned, leaned down, and kissed you slow, with the kind of ache that meant he’d already started missing you too.

——

02:14 AM (Present Time)

The clock blinked 02:14 AM again. You hadn’t realized it had been an hour since you last looked. You were curled up on Simon’s side of the bed, his hoodie drowning your frame, your phone clutched tightly in your palm.

You wanted to hear his voice more than anything, but war didn’t cater to desire.

Still safe?

It wasn’t much, but it was honest. The response came five minutes later.

Simon:

Still safe. Tired. Thinking about you.
Want to be home. With you. In our bed.

You bit your lip and blinked away the sting in your eyes.

You:

I miss how you hold me like I’m the last warm thing in the world.
Come home, Simon.

Simon:

Trying.
Want to kiss you breathless.
Need to feel you under me. Soon.

Your breath hitched.

You remembered the way his voice sounded right against your ear, gravel and smoke when he let the mask slip — only for you.

——

Three Weeks Before Deployment

You were in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a jar on the top shelf, when Simon came up behind you. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other snagged the jar easily before setting it down beside you.

“Too short for your own good,” he murmured into your hair, lips brushing your temple.

You rolled your eyes. “You love that I’m fun-sized.”

“Fun, yeah,” he said, spinning you around and lifting you onto the counter with ease. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs brushing soft circles against bare skin beneath your shorts. “Size? Perfect.”

His forehead pressed to yours. That quiet moment burned itself into your soul — his gentle hands, the way his lips brushed yours like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Tell me to stay,” he whispered. “I will.”

You shook your head then, cupping his cheek. “You’ll come back to me. You always do.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathed. “But I’m yours anyway.”

——

Present

Your fingers ghosted over the screen again, heart thudding.

You:

Remember when we fell asleep on the couch watching that terrible horror movie?
You kept waking me up because I was drooling on your shirt.

Simon:

That’s when I knew.
You, half-asleep, hogging the blanket.
Felt like peace.
Like home.

You pulled his pillow closer to your chest and inhaled. Faint traces of his scent still clung there: cedarwood, gun oil, and warmth.

You typed, slow and honest.

You:

I want you to kiss me like that again.
Like you mean it. Like you need it.
Like you did before you left.

A pause.

Simon:

When I get back, I’m not stopping at kissing.
I’m going to make you forget the time I was gone.
Going to have you under me until you’re shaking.

You shivered, eyes fluttering shut, thighs pressing together at the raw truth of his words.

——

The Reunion

You opened the door before he could knock.

Simon stood there, duffel bag on the ground, hair longer, scruffier than when he left. His eyes — those endlessly haunted eyes — locked onto yours like a man dying of thirst who’d finally found water.

You barely got his name out before his arms were around you, pulling you in, lifting you clean off the ground.

Your lips met fast and desperate, teeth and breath and the softest of whimpers escaping you. You tasted sand and sweat and Simon, and your whole body shook with it.

He kicked the door shut with one foot, walked you backward until your spine hit the wall, and kissed you again like he couldn’t breathe without you.

“I missed you,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Say it again,” he breathed into your neck.

“I missed you.”

His voice cracked. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Simon. I’ve always been yours.”

He crushed his mouth to yours and picked you up, carrying you to the bedroom. You barely made it to the bed — he didn’t want slow, not yet. Not until he'd burned off the desperation, the need to prove he was still real, still alive, still yours.

Clothes hit the floor in a trail. His hands were rough with calluses, but they moved over you like reverence. He whispered your name like a prayer. Apologies mixed with low moans, every thrust a wordless plea: I'm here. I'm home. I'm yours. Please don’t forget me.

And when you finally gasped his name like it was salvation, when you clawed at his back and pulled him tighter, he let go — not just of control, but of fear. Of the war. Of everything.

——

A little while later, you lay tangled in the sheets, his arm over your waist. His breath warm against your neck. He kissed your shoulder, soft and unhurried.

“Still with me?” he murmured.

You turned to face him. “Always.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never leaving again unless I have to.”

“You’ll always come back.”

He kissed your temple. “Every time.”

——

Morning After

You woke tangled in each other — your legs wrapped around his waist, your cheek on his chest, your fingers laced over his heart.

He was already awake, watching you.

“You stayed,” you whispered, voice still husky from sleep — and the night before.

“I always will,” he murmured, brushing your hair back.

You kissed the underside of his jaw, smiled against his skin. “You’re warm. Heavy.”

“Don’t move,” he said. “Just stay like this. Let the world wait.”

And you did.

——

Later That Day

The day passed slow. Coffee in bed. Showers that turned into giggles and soft touches. He cooked breakfast shirtless, and you wore one of his old t-shirts with nothing else. He kissed syrup from your mouth and lifted you onto the counter to have another taste.

No war. No uniforms. No mask.

Just Simon. And you.

He didn’t need to say much. His hands said it all — the way he touched you like you were sacred. The way he reached for you even in silence.

And that night, when he laid you down again, it was slow. Worshipful. Not like he’d just come home — but like he finally was home.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[writeforthepeople]

The Promotion

Damien Haas x f!Reader Word Count: 2k

Warnings: just suuuuper fluffy.

summary: You are up for a big promotion at your job, working for DropOutTV, when you get home and tell your boyfriend, Damien that you got it, he showers you in support.

The front door clicks shut behind you, and it’s like your body finally believes it can relax. The pressure of the day, the nerves, the tightly held don’t-get-your-hopes-up mantras—it all starts to melt somewhere around the arches of your feet.

Inside, the apartment smells like whatever candle Damien lit earlier—warm vanilla and the faintest echo of something spicy, like clove or cinnamon. The lights are low, cozy, and there’s a soft hum of sound coming from the living room.

You peek around the corner and there he is—curled up on the couch, intensely focused on the screen. Headset askew, controller in hand, eyes sharp. His lips are slightly parted, fingers twitching with every on-screen movement. He’s completely locked in.

His glasses are pushed up into his hair, forgotten. A fuzzy pumpkin blanket is draped over his shoulders like a cape. You’re not even sure he realizes he's doing it, but he’s muttering to himself, narrating strategy in this low, rhythmic way that sounds like he’s casting a spell. I think it is unconscious that he does it now even when he isn't streaming.

You drop your bag as quietly as you can and lean against the wall, watching him. It's comforting, in a weirdly grounding way—coming home to Damien mid-hyperfixation. Safe. Familiar.

He catches the movement in his peripheral and turns his head sharply. Game forgotten. Controller paused.

“Wait—you're home.” His face lights up, and it’s instant. No lag between his brain and his body—just pure joy. “Give me, like, two more minutes—I’m in the middle of—” He glances back at the screen, hesitates, then drops the controller with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, nope. Forget it. I’m pausing everything. Zagreus can wait. You? Never..”

He’s already standing, the blanket falling off his shoulders as he crosses the room in quick steps, scanning your face.

“I can’t tell if you’re about to cry from stress or happiness, and I don’t wanna mess this up—so... am I about to freak out with you or for you?”

He stops just in front of you, hands hovering like he’s not sure if he should touch you yet—not until he knows what kind of moment this is. His eyes flick over your face, reading every twitch, every crease.

Then you nod, barely, and a smile breaks across your face like sun through clouds.

You got it.

Damien gasps—gasps—like he’s in a soap opera and you just told him you're secretly royalty.

“No. No, shut up—you got it?!” His whole body lights up. He doesn't wait for you to answer again. Arms wrap around you in a heartbeat, lifting you off your feet in a quick, spinning hug that makes you laugh into his hoodie.

He sets you down with care, but he doesn’t let go.

“Director of Gaming? Are you kidding me? That’s insane. That’s hot. That’s so hot.” He leans back just enough to look at you fully, hands still resting on your waist. “I’m dating a director. I need to reevaluate my wardrobe immediately. I can’t be out here in Pokémon pajama pants next to corporate excellence.”

You laugh again, and he’s completely unbothered—just keeps going.

“No seriously—do I need to call you ‘sir’ now? Because I will. Happily. Professionally. Romantically.” He tilts his head. “I’ve got range.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s hopeless—your cheeks are already warm. He sees it, and it just eggs him on.

“God, you’re incredible.” His voice softens just slightly, the awe settling in beneath the teasing. 

He quiets down, just a little—like the moment catches up to him all at once. His hands slide from your waist to your forearms, thumbs brushing slow circles over your sleeves. He looks at you like he always does but it never gets old, the way he just sees you.

Then, softer—almost reverent—he says, “You earned this.”

There’s no punchline this time. No performative dramatics. Just truth, steady and full of conviction.

“They didn’t hand it to you. You worked for it. You stayed late, you took care of people, you built something over there. I’ve watched you fight for stuff that nobody else even noticed was broken. And you still somehow came home and held space for me—for us. For your friends, and family, the cats that are running around here somewhere.”

He pauses, and his brows knit together, like he’s trying to find the exact right phrasing before he says it.

“You’re not just good at what you do,” he murmurs. “You’re the kind of good that makes other people want to be better.”

You huff a laugh, watery-eyed now, and he smiles like he just won a boss fight.

“I love you,” he says simply. “And I’m really, really proud of you.”

Your arms slide around his waist like it’s muscle memory, tucking yourself into the space under his chin. It feels like the kind of hug that should last a while—long enough to soak it in. His warmth. His words. The way his heart is beating a little faster than usual.

Then, in classic Damien fashion, he pulls back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead and immediately says, “Okay. Now that you’ve reached goddess-tier career status, I propose a celebratory feast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A feast?”

“Yes,” he nods solemnly. “Takeout. As the gods intended.”

He’s already reaching for his phone, unlocking it with the frantic enthusiasm of a man on a mission. “I have the apps ready. I'm thinking Thai? Or sushi? No—wait—what about that place you like with the cursed noodles?”

“The noodles are not cursed.”

“They are absolutely cursed, and I will not survive the leftovers, but I would happily perish for you tonight, Director.”

You snort, dropping onto the couch while he starts scrolling, muttering restaurant names under his breath like a summoning ritual. He flops down beside you, pressing his leg against yours.

“I say we eat too much, watch something spooky, and let you bask in your well-earned glory. You pick the movie. I won’t even pretend to veto it, no matter how aggressively A24 it is.”

“You always pretend to veto it.”

“Tonight, I’m on my best behavior.” He hands you the phone. “You make the calls now. You’re in charge.”

There’s a glint in his eye, all mischief and admiration. “I mean, you have to be in charge. You’re the director.”

Dinner ends in a happy food coma. You’re tucked into the couch now, limbs tangled with Damien’s under a mountain of blankets, your mostly-empty takeout containers sitting on the coffee table next to two cans of something fizzy and lime-flavored.

The room glows with low light—string lights along the windows, the TV flickering with neon colors and jump cuts.

Onscreen, Bodies Bodies Bodies plays out in all its messy, unhinged glory.

Damien is locked in.

“This movie is so stressful,” he mutters, eyes wide, mouth full of leftover rice. “They are the worst people I’ve ever met and I can’t stop watching.”

You giggle, your cheek squished against his shoulder. “You say that every time.”

“I mean it every time.” He gestures vaguely at the screen. “If I had even one of these people in my party, I’d leave the campaign.”

“You’d romance them.”

He gasps, betrayed. “I would not.”

“You romanced Shadowheart, Damien.”

“She had depth! And a tragic backstory!”

You just look at him, smug, until he throws a pillow at your head. You duck, laughing, and he pulls you in tighter, your legs over his lap now.

By the time the credits start rolling, his head is tilted against yours, and he mumbles, “Okay. I think it’s time for Phase Two of the celebration.”

You squint up at him. “Which is?”

He wiggles out from under the blanket, disappearing into the kitchen without another word.

There’s the sound of a cabinet opening. A soft, triumphant “Ha!” And then he returns, holding a white bakery box with both hands like it’s the Holy Grail.

You blink. “Are those—?”

“Celebration treats,” he confirms, setting the box down on the table with a flourish. “From your favorite place. Got them earlier today, just in case.”

You stare at him, heart wobbling a little.

“I knew you were gonna get it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. “So I figured, y’know. Better be ready.”

He opens the box, revealing your favorite pastries. “They almost didn’t have these, but I told the barista my girlfriend just became Director of Gaming and she looked at me like I told her you won an Oscar. So. We got the hookup.”

You just... blink at him, eyes suspiciously glassy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m romantic,” he says. “There’s a difference.”

He hands you a cupcake and kisses your cheek so sweetly it feels like a promise.

You’re full of sugar and warmth, wrapped in the soft lull of a perfect night. The cupcakes were gone in minutes, and you’re still pretty sure he saved the last bite of yours just so he could offer it to you with that look—the one that says he thinks you hung the damn moon.

Now the two of you are curled up in bed, limbs tangled like ivy. Damien’s shirt is soft against your cheek, worn from a hundred washes and smelling like him—cinnamon, cotton, and whatever clean soap he always uses. One of his hands is tracing lazy shapes against your hip while the other tucks behind his head, eyes on the ceiling, brain still humming.

“You know,” he says after a while, voice lower, quieter in the dark, “I wasn’t lying earlier. About how hot this is.”

You smile into his chest. “Mmm?”

“I’m serious. Like, I always knew you were smart and talented and way too good for me—don’t argue, I’m on a roll—but tonight? Seeing you come home like that? All calm and confident, and then telling me you did it?” His hand moves to your thigh, fingers squeezing gently. “It was hot. Like... deeply, unprofessionally hot.”

You laugh, a soft huff against his collarbone. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” he says smugly.

He leans down and kisses your temple, slow and sure. Then another—your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Not rushed, not heavy. Just reverent. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real and here and his.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin between words. “You’re so goddamn capable. And kind. And powerful. You walk into a room and people listen. And somehow you still come home and hold me like this.”

You shift to face him, hand sliding up under his shirt to rest on the warm skin of his side. His breath catches slightly.

“I’m so proud of you, Y/N,” he says. “I’d shout it from the rooftops if I didn’t think I’d fall off.”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he smiles against it.

“You’re gonna be insufferably successful, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

You smile. “Thinking about breaking up with me already?”

He scoffs. “What? No. I’m thinking about how I’m gonna introduce you in public now. Like, do I say, ‘This is my girlfriend, the director,’ or go full send with ‘This is Y/N, Director of Games at DropoutTV—also my impossibly beautiful girlfriend’? Just so I can brag about you”

You hum, pleased. “Option two has a nice ring to it.”

He grins, eyes flicking down to your lips. “Say the word and I’ll make sure there’s an actual ring to go with it.”

You choke on a laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious!” he insists, dramatically offended. “You’re brilliant, powerful, devastatingly attractive—I’m barely holding it together as it is. Marrying you would just make it even better.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is doing somersaults.

He leans in again, his voice lower now. “Just say when, babe. I’ve got ideas.”

[seospicybin]

SEOSPICY PREVIEW.

CAM: BONUS CHAPTER.

Hyunjin x reader. (s,a)

CAM MASTERLIST

Synopsis: Struggling to make ends meet as an art student, Hyunjin never expected his quiet neighbor to change everything. Rumored to be an adult content creator, you offer him a deal—help you with your content, and you’ll help with his financial troubles. What starts as a simple arrangement soon blurs into something more, pulling Hyunjin into a world he never imagined.

Preview under cut!

...

This is your favorite version of Hyunjin—unguarded, peaceful, his usual quiet intensity melted into something softer. You don’t just love how beautiful he is. You love how he’s kind without even trying. How he makes you laugh even when you think you can’t. How he always makes sure you feel safe, seen, wanted.

And standing there, watching him sleep, you realize just how happy he makes you—so deeply, so effortlessly. Like loving him has become second nature. You take a slow sip from your mug, eyes still on him, your heart swelling with something quiet but certain.

You pad across the room on quiet feet, setting your mug on the bedside table before gently lifting the blanket and sliding into bed beside him. The mattress dips slightly beneath your weight, and Hyunjin stirs as you carefully lay yourself on top of him, your chest pressed to his, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

Without opening his eyes, his arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you in as if his body recognizes yours even in sleep. He hums, low and warm in his throat, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Another one lands softly on your forehead, his lips lingering just a second longer.

“What time is it?” he murmurs, his voice gravelly and laced with sleep.

You smile against his skin. “It’s cuddle time.”

That makes him chuckle, soft and breathy. “Mm… yeah. It is cuddle time.” His voice is sleepy and fond, like he’s still halfway between dreaming and waking but already happier with you in his arms.

He begins to run his hand slowly up and down your back, the motion gentle, comforting, like he’s tracing the outline of a memory he wants to keep. Your limbs slowly melt into his, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Neither of you says another word. You don’t need to. The silence is full, wrapped in the warmth of morning light and the warmth of each other. You breathe in his scent—clean skin, faint traces of his cologne, and something that just smells like home. He rubs lazy circles on your back, and you nestle deeper into him, feeling perfectly safe, perfectly held.

And for a while, that’s all the two of you do—just exist in each other’s arms, wrapped in stillness, in warmth, in something that feels a lot like love.

You’re nearly dozing off in his arms when a low, unmistakable rumble breaks the silence. Hyunjin’s stomach. You stifle a giggle against his chest, then lift your head to look at him. His eyes are barely open, still heavy with sleep, but there's a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I never thought I’d meet a literal starving artist,” you tease, grinning.

Hyunjin lets out a soft laugh, his hand brushing gently up your spine. “There’s a first time for everything,” he murmurs, voice still raspy and warm.

You smile, leaning down to press a long, lingering kiss on his lips. He hums into it, chasing after your mouth even as you pull away.

Sitting up, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and glance at him over your shoulder. “Come on, starving artist. Breakfast isn’t going to make itself.”

And with that, the two of you pad barefoot into the kitchen, still wrapped in sleep and laughter, ready to start your morning side by side.

You and Hyunjin move around the kitchen like it’s second nature—passing each other ingredients, bumping hips by accident and sometimes on purpose, stealing tiny kisses between flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs.

Eventually, the two of you sit down at the small table with steaming plates and warm mugs in front of you. The morning sun filters in through the window, casting a golden glow across his face, and for a moment, you forget about your food entirely.

Hyunjin catches you staring, a soft grin pulling at his lips. “What?”

You shake your head, cheeks warm. “Nothing. You just look…” You glance down at your plate, smiling. “Happy.”

He tilts his head, watching you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. “I am.”

You both take a bite, and then—like some invisible thread pulling you together—you make eye contact again. Neither of you says a word, but you both start laughing, that kind of laughter that bubbles up from the chest and fills the room with joy.

You glance at the clock on the wall and point at it with your fork. “You’d better hurry if you don’t want to be late for class.”

Hyunjin groans dramatically, leaning back in his chair like his whole world is ending. “Why are you like this?” he whines, dragging his hand down his face before lazily reaching for his coffee.

You smirk, sipping your drink. “Because someone has to keep you on schedule.”

He sighs and stretches his legs out beneath the table, nudging your foot with his. “Hey,” he starts, eyeing you curiously. “Why do you never want to sleep at my place?”

You raise a brow, already knowing where this is going. “Because I told you—I’m not sleeping there until you get a bedframe.”

Hyunjin snorts and leans forward, arms folded on the table, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But it’s better without the bedframe,” he says with a smug grin. “I mean, considering the heavy activity we usually do on it.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands for a second before breaking into laughter.

“It’s the truth,” he says proudly, and as you’re still laughing, he leans over the table and kisses your cheek, the kind of soft, lingering kiss that makes your smile stretch even wider.

“Go get ready,” you say, nudging him with your foot again.

He gives you one last grin before standing, already moving slowly—like he doesn’t actually want to leave.

Instead of putting it on, Hyunjin carries his jacket in hand as he heads to the door but before he opens it, he turns around and pulls you into a hug. His arms wrap around your waist, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss—one that makes you forget, for just a second, that he’s supposed to be leaving.

“I’ll pick you up later,” you start to remind him, but he steals another quick kiss.

“You better be ready for the shoot,” you say between another peck.

He hums, lips brushing yours. “Mhm.”

“And don’t forget to bring the laptop—”

Another kiss.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, lightly pushing his chest, “I’m serious.”

He grins, and this time, he kisses you properly—long, warm, and affectionate, like he’s pouring everything he doesn’t have time to say into it. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours as he murmurs, “I’ll see you later.”

You smile. “See you.”

He opens the door, steps out into the hallway—and just before the door fully closes, you call out teasingly, “Have a great day at school, sweetheart!”

You hear his soft chuckle through the door, and it makes your heart flutter just a little more.

Once Hyunjin left, you return to your coffee, still warm, and curl your hands around the mug as you settle on the couch. With Hyunjin gone and the apartment quiet, you pick up your phone and tap open Lustre, checking your notifications—likes, comments, a couple of new messages from subscribers. You scroll through them absentmindedly, sipping from your mug.

Then, a message lights up your screen. It’s from Felix.

Felix: “Did you see what Sienna just posted on her Instagram?”

Your brows knit together. Without replying, you exit the app and head straight to Sienna’s profile.

There it is—a brand new carousel post from her birthday party at the villa. You swipe through the photos one by one, smiling at the familiar moments. Then you pause.

There’s a picture of you and Felix on the couch. You’re leaning in close, both mid-laugh, heads tilted toward each other. It’s harmless—at least to you. But something about the way it looks could easily be misread.

Curious, you scroll down to the comments and that’s when your stomach drops.

“Omg Felix was there???”

“Wait are they together?”

“They’d actually be such a hot couple.”

“Are they doing a content together?”

“Hyunjin was there too??? That’s crazy lol”

The further you scroll, the worse it gets—speculations, assumptions, people making jokes, some even tagging Hyunjin. You blink, suddenly feeling ice settle in your chest.

It’s just a photo. It meant nothing. But now, it seems like it means everything.

...

✨ Cam: Bonus Chapter is available exclusively on my Patreon ✨

[sturns-mermaid]

BREAKFAST IN BED .ᐟ

no warnings just fluff | happy mother's to all the beautiful mother's :)

wc: 516 | matt and willa make you breakfast in bed | more of this au pairing here

The morning sunlight bathed your sleeping form in a golden glow as you lay peacefully in the bed you shared with Matt. Wrapped in warm, cozy blankets, your soft snores were the only sound in the room. Matt had gotten up earlier, gently waking Willa so the two of them could surprise you with breakfast in bed. Downstairs in the kitchen, Willa stood on the cushion of the kitchen chair as Matt flipped the eggs in the pan, making sure to keep a safe distance.

Beside the stove, a plate of fresh pancakes sat on a platter, the dash of vanilla in the batter filling the kitchen with a sweet aroma.  “Daddy, can we put sprinkles on?” she asked, her tiny pointer finger pointing at the skillet on the stove. Matt chuckled under his breath, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t think that would taste good, angel,” he replied. Willa pouted, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head. “But it’d be pretty…” Smiling, Matt leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “How about this, we add sprinkles to the whipped cream on the pancakes? Deal?” Her face lit up instantly, all disappointment forgotten. “Deal!” she squealed, clapping her hands together, something she often did when she was excited.  Matt had platted the food on  a wooden tray, paired with your favorite mug waiting for the steaming coffee he had put on beforehand.

“Wait…my card!” Willa said suddenly, darting toward the front room. She crouched down and pulled a piece of paper from beneath the couch cushion, holding it triumphantly. Matt smiled, ruffling her hair as she handed it over. He carefully placed the card on the tray, a colorful drawing of the two of you, with the words “I love you, Mommy” scrawled across the front in crayon. 

You stirred at the scent of coffee, and something utterly sweet filled the room, your eyes fluttering open as you heard the door creak open softly. Matt walked in first, balancing the tray in his hand, with Willa right behind him, a big grin on her face. “Surprise!,” she shouted, crawling onto the bed beside you and wrapping her tiny arms around you. Your heart swelled at the sight in front of you: the eggs, pancakes filled with whipped cream and sprinkles, cut-up strawberries, and fresh steaming coffee.

Your gaze landed on the card placed neatly on the corner of the tray. You picked it up, smiling as you took in the crayon drawing of you and Willa as stick figures holding hands under a bright yellow sun. The words “I love you, mommy” were written across the top in her unmistakable handwriting. You felt tears prickling in the corner of your eyes as you wrapped your arms around her , hugging her tightly.

“This is the best surprise ever,” you whispered into her hair, your voice thick with emotion. Matt stood on the side of the bed, leaning down to press a kiss onto your cheek. “Happy mothers day, baby,” he whispered against your cheek.

note: this doesn't follow with the au timeline it's just a blurb involving them!

divider: @saradika-graphics

tags: @itsmaddielouis @oliviasthatgirl @scorpio1205 @brianna-grace12 @mattsplaything @courta13 @conspiracy-ash @anyaa2s @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @immaqulate @sirensdollesque @heartsonlyforchris @blushsturns @hearts4werka @sweetshuga @leoslaboratory @pair-of-pantaloons @riasturns @lezleeferguson-120 @sturnsflirt @sturnsblogs @fratbrochrisgf @mi-co-uk @sturniolohohoho @vanteguccir @bbgirlmatt @tezzzzzzzz @nodoubtily

☕: @ribbonlovergirl @beabadoobeelvur @shortnsweetsturnz

[politemenacephd]

Period pains (SFW Version)

Miguel O'Hara x GN!Reader

Contents: Lots of comfort from Miggy who wants to take care of you.

Word count: 1970

Notes: I'M BACK and im going through it let me have this please god

It was 7:30am at your apartment, and Miguel was checking his hair in the bathroom mirror.

He’d gotten up early to make coffee and eggs for you both, so you’d hopefully at least eat something before you headed out for work. he’d seen you accidentally miss breakfast one too many times.

He brushed back his hair and grumbled a little, noting the little shadow of stubble around his jaw and the flick of what might be a grey hair on his head, only to pause.

Where were you?

You were always awake by now. You’d been unresponsive spare for a few grunts when he woke up at 6am to get in a few pull-ups and a cold shower, but, that was pretty normal. By now though you’d always be at least listening to videos on your phone.

But… he couldn’t hear a thing. He slowly left the bathroom and headed down the hall.

‘Mi amor?’

Miguel pushed your bedroom door aside and whispered for you. The light inside seemed to be off, with only your bedside lamp on to illuminate the space, which surprised him further.

He pushed into the room and allowed his dark red eyes to adjust to the gloom with ease.

‘Mi amor? You- oh, mi alma.’

He dropped that soft, sympathetic nickname as he spied you utterly buried in the sheets of your bed, your face barely noticeable beneath the soft folds of fabric. He knew that face.

‘Mi alma, shh, it’s okay.’ He whispered soothing little words as he tutted and dropped down to your side, his knees bent into a squat so he could stroke the hair from your face. He watched you sniffle.

‘You’re cramping again, aren’t you?’ Miguel whispered.

‘It’s really bad, Miggy’ you whined. You looked unbearably tense, your nose creased from straining against some unseen hand squeezing your lower abdomen like a cruel god. He could see the exhaustion, the pain, the way your lips were slightly nicked from being bitten.

Miguel maintained his soft expression, gently running a worn hand down his face. ‘Shh, shh. No se preocupe, mi pobre angelito/a…’

He whispered that word over and over as he leaned in and kissed your neck. ‘Pobrecito…’ he purred, letting his lips linger up to your ear and temple and finally your head, where he tenderly breathed in your scent.

‘Pobrecito…’

‘I-I gotta go to work, Miggy, f-fuck… Ah, I don’t know what to do’ you whimpered, tensing as another tight cramp made you curl in on yourself. You looked utterly drained. ‘I used up all my sick days, and my boss sucks, ah…’

Miguel’s face changed immediately, from soft to angry. His thick brows lowered and his lip curled, revealing a flash of his fang. He looked so stern, so protective. ‘Absolutely not’ Miguel said, his voice taking on a firmer tone. ‘No. Not on my watch.’

‘They won’t let me take time off just to—’

‘Let me talk to them.’

‘W-Wait, what?’

‘I’ll talk to them! I’ll explain.’

‘Miggy, that’s not how this works—’

‘It’s how it SHOULD work’ he insisted harder, with his clawed finger now pressed to his chest. ‘You’re hurting, you shouldn’t have to work. It’s that simple. Please, just- I’ll take care of it.’

‘Miggy—’

Before you could even get a word in, Miguel got up and stormed over to the apartment landline. He scrambled in the dark for your little notebook of numbers before eventually realizing it was written on the kitchen whiteboard and not in there. He gave you another quick, tender kiss and then hurried to the kitchen to call your work.

You could only faintly hear him from inside the bedroom, but you knew he was heated. You could hear him arguing, spitting things in Spanish before dipping to remind the person on the other end just who he was.

‘¡Oye! What did I just say? I keep this city safe, and that includes you. Now, I’m keeping THEM safe. Do you understand?’

You felt your face getting warm at Miguel’s insistent whispered shouting.

‘Look, I’ll pay for an extra shift, whatever the hell you want. I’ll send in a note to HR explaining the situation. Do you want Spider-Man leaving a note to your boss? Or do you want to just be reasonable, and let them rest for just one day, because you’re sick?’

Your embarrassed heat grew deeper, rising to the point that it almost hurt.

It sounded like, in the end, he lectured your boss for so long on human anatomy and why you needed time off that they just caved and hung up.

When he reappeared in the doorway with that same soft, sympathetic smile on his rough, chiseled face, you couldn’t help but manage a soft chuckle.

‘They’re just gonna get rid of me now, so they don’t have to deal with you’ you mumbled up at him. Miguel approached the bed without concern.

‘Mm. They can try. I’ll remind them again that the protector of the city and the multiverse is overseeing your care’ he said in that smooth, rough voice, carefully parking himself on the edge of the bed once more. His weight caused the mattress to creak, nearly jolting your body with the size difference, but he steadied your hip with one hand over the sheets.

‘Okay, let me just…’

With his eyes trained on you Miguel reached beneath the sheets and groped around until he found your soft belly, and with a sigh, he started stroking it. His palms were warm, his fingers calloused and thick, his hand big enough to just fully envelop your lower abdomen no matter how bloated it was.

‘Shhh’ he cooed.

‘I’m not a- baby, Miguel’ you grunted back, though you were clearly enjoying the contact.

‘Mm. No. Wrong’ Miguel said with a soft chuckle. ‘You’re my baby. Mi alma, mi vida.’ He bent as he spoke to kiss your forehead, all while continuing the gentle strokes, letting the warmth of his hand soothe a little bit of the pain.

‘I’ll think, if I can, I’ll try to get in contact with Lyla in a minute. I’ll let her know that. if there are no big emergencies, I’ll be staying in today. Okay?’ he whispered against your temple.

‘Miggy, you don’t need to take time off as well just for me’ you grunted. You saw his playful red eyes crease, revealing the little lines by his cheeks. ‘Mm. I don’t need to, no. But unless the multiverse is falling apart at the seams… My job is to take care of people who need me, such as…’

He paused mid-sentence to bump your nose with his own. His skin was a little rough, so coarse and masculine. ‘Cute little civilians like you, eh? So, if the only person I save today is you, that’s my job done.’

‘You- dummy’ you grunted, laughing in spite of the pain as it made you wince. Miguel’s eyes softened with worry.

‘You stay there, and I’ll take over. Okay?’ he whispered. You sighed as the cramp loosened its hold on you.

‘Yeah… Yeah. Okay.’

From then on, Miguel was in full care mode.

He kept the lights low and brought in another blanket from the winter storage cupboard, just to make sure you were comfy and totally covered.

He went to the kitchen and ran the hot water, filling up the little plush hot water bottle shaped like a fluffy spider he’d got you as a gift a year or two ago when he found out how bad your cramps got.

He made hot chocolate over a pan on the stove, knowing you probably didn’t want bland tea or coffee since you were sleepy, but he added a bit of chili like he always did to give you something nice to enjoy while the cramps went down.

He brought it all in himself, his huge arms piled up with items. He was a little overkill, yes, but you let him pamper you. You were in no position to argue, and it wasn’t like the attention wasn’t welcome. You knew he thought of this domestic bliss as a privilege, not a chore, and so you’d gotten used to him spoiling you rotten.

‘Here, mi amor. Gently.’

He sat down and put the hot chocolate on the bedside table, and he watched as you quietly sipped at it with the sheets still huddled around your shoulders. It was a bit too hot and you almost burned your tongue, but it tasted so damn good. The satisfied little mumble you released was enough for him.

As you settled into the sheets, Miguel reached down and held up the little hot water bottle, waving it lightly. ‘Mm? You want this too?’ he whispered. When you nodded his smile widened, and he playfully walked the little fluffy spider up your belly and over your face before shifting it beneath the sheets.

‘Don’t! You know that thing terrifies me’ you said, spluttering slightly on your words as the spider-shaped bottles fluff got in your mouth.

‘Oh, no, scary’ he teased, pressing the warmth against your lower abdomen over your shirt. ‘Don’t be mean to him. He loves you so much, see?’

You rolled your eyes but did eventually relax, clutching the little plush to your navel. It was so warm, so fluffy. You could feel the slight dampness on the fur from condensation. It was soothing as you clutched it close.

Miguel’s eyes softened even further. ‘Good, good. There you go’ he whispered, tucking your hair behind your ear. ‘Now… Do you want your very handsome, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man to crawl into bed with you?’

‘Oh my god, stop’ you giggled, admiring his charming but slightly goofy smile. You had to admit, he was a good distraction. ‘Yeah, come on, hero. Hop in.’

Without another word Miguel shifted beneath the sheets himself, throwing off his shirt until only his pyjama pants remained. He kicked the sheets up and yanked you close to him, squeezing you tight to his chest.

‘Mm… Mmm, mi amor’ he purred, pressing his sharp chin and jaw into your shoulder blade. He clutched you to him like you were a plush doll, spooning you hard from the back until you were squished against his pecs and belly and thighs, and he held you there as you tucked his chin above your head.

‘Miggy’ you murmured under your breath.

For a while you both lulled, half asleep and half awake, with your phone sideways on the bedside table quietly playing your favorite videos to keep you company. You were still in a bit of pain, but it was fading into a dull ache now, leaving you to enjoy the warmth and safety of Miguel’s body.

[the-californicationist]

Hi hi! Love your blog! For the Gift of GIF ask game:

Thank you so much for the GIF ask!! So glad y'all like this ask game. Sorry about the delay. Hope this is something you like!

TW: DaddyDom language, female genitals, sex toys, safe and explicit consent, come play

Shore Leave

Your husband, Alex Keller, finally makes good use of his time off and takes you on your dream vacation. Little do you know that he has darker motives…

The view from your poolside suite was breathtaking in all of the best ways. An endlessly-reflected infinity pool bled right into the deep cerulean Pacific Ocean, making it seem like you could swim forever and ever and never stop. The sky was a mirror of the water, cloudless and pure. Although the sun was out, you were comfortable, and the breeze made you feel like you were always in a limbo between being awake and trapped within a lucid dream. 

Even more enthralling was the way your husband’s body felt beneath yours. He was shirtless, clad only in a light pair of linen pants, and his warm body was curled around you protectively like a covetous hound. You’d never felt so safe. 

However, you were also made to feel other things as well. 

It had all started very innocently. He’d woken you up with poached eggs and freshly squeezed juice, running a warm bath and rubbing you down with lotion and oil before you stepped outside. Then, he’d gifted you with a brand new thong bikini, his eyes hungry as you tried it on. You thought you’d be following him down to the beach, eager to splash in the waves and show off your new fit, but he pulled you onto the pool deck instead. 

He’d kissed you softly, teasingly. It was so different than his usual rabid fervor. You loved the way your husband could barely keep your clothes on when you were alone. You’d missed your dinner reservations more than once. But, you reasoned with yourself, he was always on deployment. Of course he was a little excited. 

Now, though, that excitement had given way to mischief. As you had sat by the pool, kissing and holding hands, innocently watching the ships float by, you’d been lulled into a false sense of security. 

And so, here you lay, your pussy stuffed with an automated vibrator, your poor unused asshole filled with an enormous plug, whimpering and begging for relief. Every time you would get close, writhing your body against his, trying to entice him with your hands and your long, smooth legs, he ignored you. He could control the vibe from his phone, and you never knew which way he was going to go. Sometimes, he would switch it off, watching you desperately humping his leg like a feral dog, swollen and perched on the edge of an orgasm. 

His dark chuckle made your blood run cold,

“Does my good girl need something?”

Alex peered down into your face, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, smug and thoroughly enjoying himself. 

“Oops,” he adjusted your thong again, jiggling the plug as he did so, “Keep these nice and high for me, baby. Need to be able to admire this plump ass of yours. Mmm. What a view.” 

A hard, aching squeeze of his huge hand on your ass cheek made you see white, the sensation of all of his toys inside of you making even the smallest affection feel like wildfire. 

“Please, Daddy, I’ll be a good girl. Please, may I come… please?” You tried to beg. You’d tried before. Nothing was helping. You could feel the slip and slide of your slick between the meat of your inner thighs. 

“Not yet. Trust me, honey. I know what’s best for you, don’t I?”

You didn’t say a word, but you watched wide-eyed as he pulled another velveteen drawstring bag from his case. When he opened up the box, you could tell he’d already inspected and cleaned it. All of its wrapping was gone, and the straps were already in place. 

It was a familiar piece. He’d used gags with you before, and nothing brought you more pleasure than allowing his hands and mouth and cock to bring you to your peak over and over again while you mindlessly allowed your shining drool to melt down your neck and onto your tits. When he removed it and allowed you to swallow him, replacing the silicone ball with his warm, softening cock, already emptied of its seed — you’d never come so hard in your life. 

But this was no ball. This was a fat, silicone cock gag. 

“Daddy, please. I’ll be quiet. I promise. Please… No, I’m —” 

“Hey, show me your left hand,” he became very serious. 

In your hand, you held a loud alarm button, your finger over the trigger, ready to press it at any time. When he saw it, checking in with you that you were still in your safe zone, he smiled.

“That’s perfect, baby. Such a good little slut for me. How did I get so lucky?” He kissed your cheek, shining with old and new tears, streaking down your face from overstimulation, and he planted chaste kisses on your quivering lip. You let yourself lean towards his affection, seeking more of his comfort, only to be firmly held back in place with his hand as he wrapped around your cheek.

“Shh, shh. Daddy just wants you to feel so good, baby. Now, open up.”

You stared at him with huge, gleaming doe eyes, tears threatening to run out of the corners of them again. 

When you didn’t immediately comply, he grabbed the nape of your scalp and yanked your head back, not hurting you, but getting your attention. 

“Am I gonna have to bruise that fine fuckin’ ass, huh? Make you walk down the fuckin’ beach with my palm prints all over you?”

“No, Daddy. I’ll be good. I’ll be good,” you gasped when the vibrator started up again as he flipped a switch. The shock made you clench down around it, which jostled the heavy plug, all in a series of mind-numbing chain reactions designed to edge you within an inch of your sanity. 

“I know you will be. Now… open… that… mouth.”

Alex pressed the tip of the gag to your lips and you opened up for him, sucking it into your lips just like his cock. He pushed it all the way in and it almost landed in the back of your throat. Any further and you wouldn’t be able to breathe. It was a perfect fit. 

Then, slowly, almost painfully so, he pulled it back out, staring into your eyes and seeing what you needed. 

“Go on, baby. I know you wanna suck it for me. Show me.”

You wrapped your lips around it again, and as he held it in place, you bobbed your head up and down, your tongue lapping at the head of his toy. You made sure to look straight into his eyes as you used your mouth on it, letting your spit coat the silicone and drip onto his fist. 

He removed his hand from your head and pet your hair gently, smoothing it away from your face.

“My poor, hungry little whore. Let’s fill you up, hm?”

Your protests became warped into a garbled whine as Alex pressed the toy all the way into your mouth, making sure it was flush and, before you knew it, you were being latched into the gag. The cock you were sucking was now perched at the farthest edge of your tongue, the soft head pressing into your palate, threatening to choke you. 

Alex bent his neck to kiss your mouth as your lips stretched around the toy, smiling as he turned his attention back to his phone. He turned the vibrator down to a medium rumble and removed himself from your cuddling position to stand near the edge of the pool chair. 

“C’mere, baby. Lemme show you somethin’,” your adoring husband held out his hand and you struggled to stand with him, stumbling on shaking legs. 

He walked you over to the tall dividing wall between your suite and the popular beach, each step making the toys thrust up inside of you as you swayed your hips. Your weakness and the unevenness of the ground made your footing jerky and chaotic, adding to the creamy, lurid jostling happening inside of you. The pressure from the anal plug was so satisfying, and your vibrator teased your most sensitive spot, deep within you, just like a curling finger. Without your thong, you know your vibrator would have slipped out of you on your journey. You had never been so wet, and the way the toy was wriggling inside of your hole was making you dizzy. 

Finally, you made it to the wall and used it to support yourself, squeezing your thighs together, desperate for some relief. Alex pointed down to the beach, showing you the little umbrellas and towels full of soldiers on shore leave, all oblivious to your torture.

“Put your hands on the wall, spread your legs apart, and don’t move them until I tell you to. Hold up a two if you understand me.”

You held up a two with your hand and then placed both of your palms on the wall, gripping it for dear life, feeling the long thread of your tangled orgasm beginning to unravel. Alex nudged your legs even wider, changing the angle of the toys within your body. The vibe buzzed away deep within you, faithfully held in place by your tight thong. 

Then, you felt the familiar loosening of your bathing suit top as Alex yanked out the bow you had tied, letting the small fabric flutter away, revealing your breasts to the soft breeze. If any of the partying soldiers got too curious and decided to study you from below, they’d surely be able to see your dark nipples as they tightened on your tits, unbelievably sensitive in your current predicament. 

You whined, and Alex shushed you, 

“Shh, baby. I know. What if they see? That’s why you need to be nice and quiet for Daddy, hm? Wouldn’t want to attract any visitors, now would we? Now…” He grabbed your hips, his thumbs digging into the v-shaped strap of your thong, “Suck that cock for me while Daddy plays with his toys.”

You tried to focus on his instructions, but you couldn’t bear the anticipation. What was he about to do to you? You let your eyes wander back towards him, trying to prepare for whatever came next.

A rough hand came around to grab you by the jaw,

“What did I say? Show me how you swallow that dick, honey, or I’ll make you scream so they can all watch you do it.”

You nodded as best you could, trying to show him you could be a good girl for him, and you experimented a little, swallowing in an exaggerated rhythm, feeling the gag sliding back and forth through your mouth as your throat moved. It made you drool a bit, the spit pooling at the ring of your stretched lips, running down your chin. 

“That’s it,” Alex praised you, rubbing his clothed cock against your ass from behind, “That’s what I wanna hear. Keep sucking, just like that.”

So, you did. As you swallowed and suckled on the solid shape, it began to feel more and more like the real thing. The ridges of the head, the pronounced veins of the body; it was all contributing to the absolute mindrot you were already experiencing. You let the cock fuck your mouth, using the tension of your tongue to mimic the feeling, allowing your thoughts to dissipate in favor of the sparkling blissed your husband had promised you. 

Alex kept his crotch jammed against the cleft of your ass, forcing you to feel his hard shaft as it rolled against you, reaching around your body to softly pluck at your nipples. 

At the first touch of his fingertips, you gasped, sucking in air through your nose, nearly losing your footing. His hands mirrored each other, rubbing feather-light circles around your pebbled skin, petting your heavy breasts with the palms of his hands. He was fire and ice, at one point squeezing your flesh cruelly and pinching you hard enough to make you cry out through the muffle of the gag, and then sweet as could be, stroking and petting you like a scared bunny. 

You weren’t sure of the concept of time. It could have been only seconds that he played with you like this, or perhaps an hour had gone by. You just knew that your lover wanted to hear your hungry suckling sounds and to touch your swaying breasts. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. 

Then, he pulled the other string at your back, letting your top fall to the ground. 

You missed his touch immediately, turning your head to look back at him, questioning his choices. It was the wrong move. You knew he would take care of you, but your fervor made you selfish and doubtful. 

You faced the ocean again, watching the soldiers as you swallowed against the dick in your mouth, ignoring the obvious lines of spit hanging from your mouth. Alex came around to the wall and perched himself against it. After watching you for a few moments, he took his hand and wiped your mouth, smearing your own spit all over your tits, wetting your nipples so that the cool air could tease them. 

Then, right in front of you, he unbuttoned his fly and took his cock from his pants. He began to stroke it in a languid, lazy pattern, slathering his precome over his immense head and down his shaft. Surprisingly, the cock gag made you hungrier for the real thing, and you eyed him like a prize. 

“I want to make sure you’re really enjoying this vacation, baby. I planned it all for you. Are you having fun?”

You nodded enthusiastically, knowing he was leading up to something threatening. You loved him like this. And he loved you when you were fully under his command. Under his care. All for him. His plaything. 

“I’m about to look and see how much fun you’re having…” He let his fat cock hang and walked around to your rear, “Are you ready for me to see the pretty little mess you made, darlin’?”

You nodded again, steeling yourself for what was coming. 

He placed his hand at the very middle of your thong and pulled up on it instead of down, cramming the toys inside of you deeper than they had been, making you writhe and whine, losing control of your legs, feeling them trembling, barely able to hold you up. 

He let go. You breathed as deeply as you could, feeling like the cock in your mouth was growing down your throat, wishing you could scream in earnest. 

Then, he rolled down your bottoms until your spread thighs stopped them, your ass and pussy now on full display.

He hummed with pleasure, and you heard his pants fall to the ground, rustling in the grass and pooling around your husband’s ankles. 

Suddenly, fingers began to tug at the plug in your ass, pulling it in an undulating pattern against your muscular ring, making you feel like you were being fucked by a thick cock. Then, he applied even pressure, and removed it, letting your hole clench around nothing for a moment before teasing you with the rounded tip. Alex let it fuck you shallowly for a while, pressing it forward only a few inches at a time, barely applying any pressure at all. Until he put it back in. He stretched you again, and you realized that since you’d become all too comfortable at the thin, flat base, and you hadn’t had a chance to get accustomed to the insane girth; it was as if you were starting from scratch. 

You rolled your hips, trying to ease the pressure, and he rolled the toy with you, playing with you like a lion plays with its food, batting you around, helpless to his power. 

The vibrator was flailing inside of your pussy at top speed, pulsing and rumbling loud enough for you to hear the mechanical whir. And every time he pushed the plug back inside of you, the tone of it would change. Your body was making music for him, and you couldn’t help it one bit. 

“Beautiful…” You could hear the smile on his lips. 

Everything stopped for a moment, but you thought you heard a soft slicking sound, the noise of him jacking off. Then, you felt his fleshy head push its way into your pussy, already filled by the deep vibe. 

You turned around, worried, unable to protest with the cock still deep in your mouth, pinning down your tongue. 

His sunglasses were off, and he was focused on your hole, using your sticky come to coat himself, thrusting shallowly inside of you right beside the vibrator. 

He wasn’t going to fit. You’d never felt so full before. You were already so primed, the audacious lewdness of it all sent you over the edge. You crashed into your orgasm like a runaway train, slamming full force into a wall of sensations. Your skin flushed hot all at once, like an instant fever, and you felt your holes clutch desperately onto anything they could find, squeezing and pulsing and swelling against him. 

You lost your strength to stand, but he held you, carrying your weight like it was nothing. And he kept pushing forward, easing his cock right beside the toy, holding it steady inside of you. 

“There she is. You’re doing so well for me, baby. Daddy’s perfect little hole.” 

Once he was fully sheathed within you, you both sighed raggedly, melting into the feeling like molten glass in a kiln. Below you, the soldiers laughed, running through the shallow water, having the time of their lives. 

Alex began to fuck you with very little heed for your well-being. You had your button, you could press it at any time, and out of all of his fun toy box prizes, you’d not once felt like anything had been beyond your abilities. But, now, as his cock made room for itself in your tight walls, you wondered if you could take it. 

You understood size queens, the girls who insisted on girthy, long phalluses and who refused to settle for less. You knew why they insisted, now. Your g-spot was lit up like a beacon. There was no waiting to feel his cockhead rub lightly against it. No, it was on and it stayed on because of the terrible girth of both the toy and his dick. You were coming not in waves, but in some sort of constant stream. There was no start and stop to your orgasms; you were given no let down on their end nor warning on their beginning. You were just kept in a hot, milky, perpetual state of bliss that made your eyes roll back into your head. 

The plug in your ass began to come out of you as you came. He was pulling against it, prying it from you until it popped free. You knew you were gaping open for him because when he explored the empty hole with his fingers, you could tell how pliant and soft your body was now that it had been so deeply filled. 

“My good girl. Taking everything her Daddy gives her today.”

Alex praised you, but you didn’t respond. Your mind was a blank slate. All you could do was tumble further down the winding path of your own pleasure. 

You felt him pull himself free from the grip of your pussy, gasping from the relief. He slipped the vibrator out of you, too, switching it off and discarding it somewhere. Then, you were empty. So empty that it felt like grief. And you cried out for his help as much as you could around the gag. 

“C’mere, honey. On your knees for Daddy.”

You fell to the ground limply, turning toward him for guidance, for any sort of reprieve. 

He looked down at you with so much love and admiration, bending to kiss your forehead and removing your gag. 

“So good. Such an obedient slut. I’m so proud of you, honey.”

“But, Daddy, you didn’t come, yet.” You pawed at his hips, rubbing his belly and reaching for his chest, stretching yourself to try and give yourself back to him.

“Today’s not about me, baby,” he smiled sweetly at you, but you weren’t having it. 

His cock was pink and flagging, practically dripping with precome, ready to burst. You reached for it, feeding it into your sore mouth, sucking it down like you’d been practicing on the gag. It was too big, but you pushed through it, swallowing and swallowing until you couldn’t breathe, hollowing out your cheeks to make your mouth into a warm wet sleeve for him. 

“Baby… oh, shit. Ungh! Holy hell.”

Without any further hesitation, he began to fuck your throat, shoving himself deeper and deeper, controlling your head and moving himself within you like a piston. You let yourself go limp again, allowing the pornographic slurping sounds of your rough-fucked mouth to be as loud and as messy as he wanted them to, abandoning your shame. You rubbed yourself with your hand, shoving your fingers into your soaked pussy, and playing with your clit, already sensitive enough to come again. 

He had trained you so well. This was your moment to shine. 

You came with him, looking up into the twisted agony on his face as he filled your belly with his load, trying to pull away to let you breathe, leaving a trail of thick spend all along your tongue and cheeks, your mouth full of him by the time he slid away from you. 

You made sure he was looking down at you when you spit him into your hands, letting his milk pool in your palms, rubbing him all over your puffy nipples and down between your swollen petals, pushing him into your pussy with your fingers only to return to your breasts to smear him around like a salve. As he watched you in excitement and a wild disbelief, his gaze darkened, and he wrapped his hand around your throat, bending down so that you could hear the rough growl in the timbre of his voice,

“Oh, baby. You just bought yourself round two.”

AO3 Link

Also, @glitterypirateduck - are we still in vacation mode?? 😅🩷

[emilykaldwen]

Title: Moonshadow Ship: Jacaerys x Helaena WC: 859 Rating: Gen Summary: Jace and Helaena tell stories beneath the light of the moon. Written for the @hotd-bigbang prompt: Moon Notes: Many many thanks to @acrossthesestars for her beta powers and helping me find the jace and helaena pictures and to @selfproclaimedunicorn reassuring me it wasn't terrible to begin with. this story isn't specifically related to any of my other projects, but you are welcome to consider it part of Maiden canon, or for last year's entry, The Lighting of the Blaze

The pair of them sat atop Visenya’s tower - the tallest in the Holdfast. Jace’s heart jumped into his throat when Helaena had clambered upon the red ledge, the wind catching at her silver hair, her laughter dancing on the breeze.

“You’ll fall,” he told her, but followed, as he always did, to perch beside her. The height was dizzying in a way that flying did not quite catch. He thought it was, perhaps, because there was no safety of his dragon beneath him. Just stone, warm from the day’s sun and his own practiced balance to be safe.

He tangled his fingers through Helaena’s, not for a moment thinking that he’d be able to pull her back should she fall. No, instead he would fall with her. She had woken up, frantic and tearful, and found her way to his rooms a night not so long ago, gasping as she crawled into bed with him. 

“I fell I fell I lost my wings I lost them they were taken I fell I fell.” 

Helaena had babbled those words over and over until his neck and nightshirt were soaked with her tears and he had to keep her sobs muffled lest one of the guards hear and discover them.

Her fingers were delicate, deceptively fragile when he knew how strong her grip was; how those very fingers could turn to claws just as they could stroke gently down the line of his spine.

“The Red Priest in the market told a story,” she whispered now, months later, far less frightened than before. The night was bright; the moon hung heavy and round in the sky, the blanket of twinkling stars so beautiful and wondrous, streaked with distant clouds that caught the light.He felt so small beneath the expanse. “He said that Azor Ahai thrust his sword into the breast of his wife, Nissa Nissa, and her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the moon.”

“I don’t see a crack,” Jace mused, his gaze searching across the bright shine of it. Dark blotches, certainly, but no tell-tale crack of an egg. “That’s a cruel way to treat the woman he loved the most in the world.”

“Are you saying you would not use my soul and blood to forge a great blade that would save the world?” Helaena laughed, her breath warm against his ear as the stone was warm beneath him. Jace squeezed her hand and her fingers tightened around his, reassuring. “There’s another story. There were two moons, my maid told me. One wandered too close to the sun and cracked open, birthing the dragons.”

“One of my grandfather’s crewmen told me a tale from Volantis.” It was Jace’s turn now. “That a shepherd approached the only dragon, to tame it by feeding him sheep. They would meet beneath the light of the moon.”

“In the night?” Helaena asked, a curious furrow to her brow that he brushed a kiss against to smooth. “But why is the shepherd visiting a dragon at night?”

“Because she was watching the flock to protect them from wolves,” he told her, tracking along the pictures in the sky, seeking out the fish, the lion, the hunter. “A dragon, she thought, would surely be the finest protector of her flock, for what wolf or thief would dare rouse the anger of the dragon.” She hummed softly but did not interrupt, her fingers playing with his. “Each night she came, feeding him one of the sheep to sate his hunger, so he might trust her, and eventually the shepherd lay with the dragon. The moons turned and the shepherd gave birth to more dragons.”

Helaena’s teeth scraped against her lower lip. “So the shepherd lay with the dragon and the dragon… fit?”

He snorted. “She was a very special woman.”

She shivered, giggling. “So the shepherd lay with the dragon. There were no other dragons?”

“I guess not. That’s what the story says: it was the only dragon. And that’s how the other dragons came to be, I suppose.”

“They do say that Old Valyria was founded by sheep herders,” Helaena mused. He felt her carefully shift to rest her chin upon his shoulder, and Jace turned his head slightly to brush his nose against hers. She smelled of citrus, of lemon balm and mint. “Kivio biantys,” she murmured. 

His cheeks turned red, his heart stuttering at the whisper. Promised shepherd, caretaker of the soul. Soulmates, as the Westerosi called it. His mouth went dry, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“Did you dream this?” he asked, the Valyrian he’d learned from the cradle rolling off his tongue, the accent of his mother, of Laenor, of his grandmother coating the words. It was warm, different from the elegant polish of Helaena’s maester taught tongue. Sometimes he felt they should exchange how they sounded, to match their insides.

“Daor.” She blinked, soft and slow, matching lavender gaze reflecting the shine of stars, the pierce of moonglow that caught on her hair and Jace thought she was otherworldly with it - the woman of the tale he’d spun for her. “I just know it.”

[draculasintern]

Hey how you doing I don't know if I send this to you already but if I have not then what if instead of Vander finding a young Violet and powder on the bridge it would be the reader and she would not only adopt the girls but also claggor and Mylo as well because why not and the reader she's the owner of a diner that is in zaun and is famous all throughout pilltover and zaun as well and Vander and silco they go to the diner to check on the kids just to see if they are okay and they see the reader being a wonderful mother figure to the kids and treating the kids like they are her very own and they grew feelings for her uh Vander and silco this could be whatever you want it to be sorry if I'm bothering you

Transcript From DraculasIntern Internal file #V016-XIV

Intern note: You’ve asked before, if I remember correctly. Likely buried beneath the dust of newer scrolls—posts. I’ll draft a proper masterlist and pinned introduction soon. Patience, fledgling. No need to bare your fangs just yet. Here it is again, rewritten better. (I hope)

The kids weren’t supposed to survive. Not like this.

Not clean. Not fed. Not safe. And certainly not under the care of someone like you.

You weren’t looking to adopt a revolution’s aftermath. You were just walking home and took the wrong street. Found Vi on the edge of the bridge like a flame too stubborn to flicker out. Powder clinging to her. Shaking. Trying not to cry unless Vi cried first.

You didn’t ask questions. Just offered a warm meal and a place to sit.

Claggor showed up next. Said he was “just watching out for them.” He meant it. He always does. You gave him a plate too, and when he finished eating, he started fixing things around the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world. The sink. A loose board. The fryer vent. Never asked for anything. Just did it.

Mylo came later, loud and skeptical. Claimed he was “too cool to stay.” Came back the next morning asking for eggs.

They work the floor now. Fix the lights. Keep the back room swept. Not because they owe you. Because you let them be children again.

Vi’s still all sharp corners and suspicion, but she listens. Powder’s shy, and quiet unless she’s excited about something, and Claggor’s the glue. The steady presence. The one who doesn’t say much unless it needs saying. You trust him to lock up. He trusts you not to make a big deal of it.

That’s when the trouble starts. Not from them. From the eyes watching.

Vander hears about it first. Thick hair. Stubborn jaw. Familiar names. Too familiar. He walks in expecting ghosts. He finds you instead.

You, telling Mylo to hush before he gets whacked with a spoon. You, reminding Vi not to slam the plates so hard. You, teaching Powder how to stir without burning the bottom. You, handing Claggor a fresh towel for the broken pipe he’s already halfway through fixing.

Vander doesn’t say much. Just watches. Leaves too much coin on the table. Comes back the next week.

Silco finds out shortly after. Doesn’t come for the food. Comes to confirm. Walks in like a problem in a nice coat. Doesn’t smile.

Sees you offer him the same service as anyone else. Sees Powder flinch. Sees Vi stand up straighter. Watches Mylo hesitate. Claggor steps a little closer to the others, like he’s already calculated the worst-case scenario.

Silco stays exactly five minutes. Leaves without finishing his tea. Returns two nights later.

They’re both coming around now. Not together. Never that. But more often than before.

Vander always sits in the same seat—back to the wall, clear view of the door. He doesn’t bring anyone with him. Doesn’t flash a name. He just orders the same thing each time, quietly, and listens. To Powder humming in the back. To Mylo cracking jokes that aren’t as funny as he thinks they are. To you, correcting Vi with a voice that’s calm but not soft. To Claggor’s steady footsteps moving through the space like he’s lived there his whole life. Vander doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to step in. Just... watches. Like he’s trying to memorize something he missed the first time around.

Silco doesn’t sit. Not unless you make him. He stands by the counter, runs a finger along the edge like he’s checking for dust. He never says the kids' names, but his eyes settle on each of them, one by one. Powder. Vi. Mylo. Claggor. He studies them like he’s seeing different versions of the ones he lost.

They look back. Sometimes defiantly. Sometimes not.

Claggor never says much when Silco’s there, but you notice how he positions himself. Just slightly between the others and the man at the door. Like instinct.

Silco orders strange things—tea, once. Then nothing at all. Just shows up like a shadow that smells like powder and rust, and then disappears before the door finishes swinging shut.

Neither of them say what they’re doing there.

But you know.

They’re checking. Watching. Seeing if the kids turned out alright without people like them watching over. Seeing who you are and how long you’ll last.

At first, you think that’s all it is.

Then Vander leaves a note under his plate one night. Nothing dramatic. Just “Thank you.” You don’t ask what for.

Silco, days later, fixes the hinge on your back door when he thinks you’re not looking. Leaves no name, no word. But you hear the way Powder says the lock doesn’t stick anymore. You file that away too.

They don’t flirt. Not exactly. But there’s something there in the way they linger. The quiet way Vander’s gaze lingers on your hands when you’re kneading dough. The way Silco listens when you scold Mylo, like he’s cataloging your voice for later. The way Claggor’s presence settles next to you like a second anchor—loyal, solid, unspoken.

You aren’t flattered. You’re tired. You’re busy. You have mouths to feed, and ghosts to keep out of your walls. And neither of them—no matter how many times they show up—get to walk in and make this theirs.

Still. You don’t turn them away. Yet.

Sorry if this isn't to your liking or not as spicy as my other things. I've been watching human romcom movies and wanted more yearning in my writing lately. Thinking of writing more 'Pride and Prejudice' style yearning things, and 80s-00s romcom fluff stuff. Dracula had to put me in the northern wing of the castle because of the giggling that comes with watching the movies.

- The Intern

[avocado-writing]

Kinktober 28

28. Cuckolding, Aphrodisiacs, Temperature Play sequel to… x

You let out a long, juddering breath and feel the warm swim of Crowley’s eggs inside you. God, you have never been so full before. You run a hand over your swollen stomach, laughing at the gentle jostle they create beneath your exploring fingers.

Crowley is wrapped around you, still in demon form. His tail has swaddled your legs and his human-presenting torso is keeping you clutched to his chest, caressing your hair with his long dexterous fingers.

“You are gorgeous like this,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to your crown. You skim your fingers along his flank, his skin delicate and ticklish beneath you. 

“Could say the same about you.”

He tangles your lips with his own, kissing you long and slow. You feel his tail constrict ever so slightly, forcing your legs together, making your clit catch a little. You moan into his mouth and feel him smile in return.

The door to the bedroom opens and Aziraphale walks in, a small amount of lamb and roast potatoes piled onto a plate. He sits on your free side and smiles, reaching out to stroke your face.

“How are you feeling, my dear?”

“Full.” Your stomach rumbles loudly at the smell of food. “And hungry, actually.”

Aziraphale laughs as you reposition yourself to sit up a little, before feeding you little delicate bites from his fingers. You moan at it. Everything is just so heightened at the moment, and the tender care your lovers are taking with you is making you feel… it’s making you feel…

You swallow a bite of lamb. Something shifts inside you. And, as you press down on your abdomen, you feel something pop.

“Oh fu-uu-uuu-UUCK!” you cry as a slick liquid dribbles out from between your legs and you come harder than you can remember doing for years. It’s probably because of the shock of it - your poor body wasn’t expecting to be launched into orgasm, so the thing fucking hits you like a tidal wave. Aziraphale puts the plate down - but not before he sneaks a potato for himself - and Crowley unwraps his tail, letting you open your legs.

“Crow-?!” you start, shocked, but moan as another pop echoes through your womb, another waterfall of slick. You grab each of their hands and grip so tightly you think that you might actually break their fucking knuckles. You’ve never felt pleasure like this. It’s absurd. It’s divine.

“They’re dissolving, nightingale,” Crowley whispers against your ear. Christ, his breath is hot and soft and fuck you are going to go mad. 

“I didn’t realise–”

“Neither did I, when I did this,” Aziraphale mutters, dropping a kiss to your hand, “just ride through it my darling. You’ll be fine, I’m sure. I told you they were aphrodisiacs.”

You moan, push, another two bursts inside you. More pours out from you, along with your own release - the pressure hitting your g-spot inside is making you squirt. You collapse back into your lovers.

“Oh god, oh god, someone touch me, someone please fucking touch me…”

They’re both there in an instant. Crowley pushes up inside you, touching that already raw and edged sweet spot nestled in your inner wall; Aziraphale presses down hard on your clit. You come at the feeling of it but he doesn’t stop. 

It can’t last more than twenty minutes, but by the time you’re done, your body is flat again and the mattress is soaked. You collapse into the pillows, so thoroughly spent that you think you might pass out.

Your lovers are there, gripping your hands and grounding you. You’re safe. With them gently calling your name, you come back to the moment.

“Are you alright, my darling?”

You nod.

“That was… oh god. Can you do it again?”

Crowley laughs, showing a mouthful of those beautiful white teeth. His fangs glisten.

“I only need to do it every hundred years, give or take. But that’s need. I might be able to produce a few more beforehand.”

“Yes please,” you say, far too quickly, and all three of you laugh. Then, after a beat, you ask a question which has been lurking for a little bit.

“And… if they took, what would that be like?”

You see Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a look. Ah. Well, that can’t be good.

“It’s… they wouldn’t, love,” Crowley says quietly, wiping your hair from your sex-sticky forehead. “I’m sorry. It needs two demons, and…”

“...and I’m just a human,” you finish. He doesn’t want to, but he nods.

You put on a brave face and flash them a smile.

“Well, no matter. Can’t imagine I’d want twelve little Crowleys wriggling around anyway. Excuse me for a moment,” you get to your feet, probably far too soon, and wobble over to the earth closet, closing the door firmly behind you.

That’s the first indication they get of you wanting something more. Aziraphale sees Crowley’s brave face shatter, so he reaches out to take his lover’s hand. Crowley squeezes his fingers but can’t meet his eye. 

Now they know what you want, it breaks their hearts that they can’t give it to you.

@bootlmoth @elleofdragons  @angelic-anarchy27 @yeethaw13 @candlewitch-cryptic @kwyn-q @rat-that-writes @buryustogether @letthenightingalessingagain @ltlthetrifecta @angiestopit @purplefrog1sblog @wereallbrokenangels @angelspathway @clarina04 @belilwen @chaospossum @eightsdoctor @oo-delallymrcrow @silcosmoke @climbingivy97 @live-logs-and-proper @project-sad @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @imagination-phantom @anonymously35 @corgis04 @peytonpenguin37 @catlynharper @unabashedgentlemenpirate @wolfe-houler

@darktealrat @mxxny-lupin @willbedecided @detectiveapparatiagreen @shadowluna25 @kaylinelizabeth4004 @xquinn-bartonx @blue-bell22 @foolishprincipalitee @fandomawesomeness @eweweweewewe @latersgaters-steven @llamaproblem @night-affiliate @randompost18 @hunterispunk @jessica-laufeysdottir @uxcaran @bunnymallowo @jae-michael @jelly-terror @larkiesparkie

[melifluotact]

TEASE

Midday is quiet at home, the sun at its zenith warms our scene despite the recent cold weather. Ludwig lays in his chair, sprawled out comfortably in only his sweat pants, his eyes closed as he listens to his music. Marie has other plans. "you know, for a quote, unquote primal dom, you're really just kinda a dog, like Miss has you in a muzzle half the time and it kinda makes you less threatening." she jests, noting his half chub, she is also barely wearing anything, her legs and feet bare pink cutesy underwear the only thing keeping her lower half from being exposed, and a band T-shirt that is to large for anyone at home. "don't try me, I'll fucking get you." he growls, his eyes half opening looking his partner up and down, she turns and stretches her shirt lifting up enough to expose her ass, shifting her weight making it pop with a soft jiggle. She is goading him, which she is oft to do. rising from his chair she knows the chase is on.

Marie takes off running through the kitchen as Ludwig still rises from his chair her little legs may not be as long but she is agile. Rounding a corner which would normally lead back into the living room she runs into Ludwig's bare chest...she hadn't thought to listen if he was actually chasing her... his hand clenches around her arm holding her close "now, now little mouse... did you think you could just egg me on and not face consequences?" he leans down his mouth curled into a soft, wry smile that feels more like a dog bearing its teeth. "ugh yes, your kinda like too much of a softy to really do anything." looking up at the man towering over her, she knows how capable he is, as well as willing.

sweeping her legs from beneath her, Ludwig lays Marie onto the ground in a quick motion her ass bouncing slightly, and just as quick he has her pinned, both of her arms above her head, his hips settling between her legs, his hand smoothly runs along her soft legs pausing at her hip for a quick squeeze "h-hey no fair..." Marie's mind swirls, his hands are calloused and he has taken the time to learn what makes her pussy ache. His hand moves across her stomach, "fuck I'm going to cum in this." he murmurs his opposite hand firm on her wrists, she squirms "n-no wait it gets a-all sticky and messy after and I don't wanna clean." heat radiating from her crotch, moving his thumb lowers, he feels the beginnings of a wet spot on her panties.

moving her panties to the side he traces the length of her now slick cunt, a moan pulling from deep within her, he slowly pushes a finger in feeling how hot she has grown from being groped. "little mouse your body betrays you, your cunt is so fucking hot for me." curling his middle finger upwards against her spot softly rubbing it. "a-again no f-fair you've got me pinned a-and, and I-" stammering she tries to focus but she knows how badly she wants him to rut into her in his animalistic way.

Pulling his pants and boxers low, exposing his heavy cock, Ludwig rests it on Marie's stomach his tip nearly reaching her belly button, she wiggles in protest "n-no, I know you're just gonna cum inside and I'm gonna leak for f-fucking ever-" trying to rationalize with him after his eyes go dull is a fools errand and more specifically isn't a safe word. Rubbing his hot and engorged tip against her dripping pussy Ludwig pushes inside firmly, his length half burying in the first stroke, Marie clenches around his girth gasping at the suddenness, Ludwig's arm moves from Marie's lower half upwards, pulling her shirt higher and higher exposing her chest, her small breasts exposed he begins to pump into her, her protests drowned in pleasure as she moans.

lowering his torso Ludwig sinks his teeth into any bit of flesh he can fit his maw around, leaving fresh bite marks and hickies over old fading ones, Marie despite her earlier attitude, has her eyes rolled into the back of her head as Ludwig fucks her cunt, his cock is hard and digging deeper inside her, wrapping her legs around his waist she tries to pull him closer, his thrusts growing heavy, slamming her hips into the floor as his saliva strings from his mouth to her neck, grunting like a wild beast he bottoms out, burying his cock to its full length kissing Marie's cervix with his tip. Wincing she doesn't care, his fast rhythm doesn't slow with his depth, his hand firmly wrapped around her wrists move to pin her arms against her chest restricting her movement.

"f-fuck." he groans at Marie's heat, a soft squelch from her pussy is all the motivation he needs to pin her with his full weight against the floor, her moans pulling him into fucking her mor feverishly, "w-ait, w-wait-" she begins to move attempting to slow Ludwig's pace "I-I-I'm gonna..." her eyes shut tight as his hammering rhythm bringing her closer to the edge, a heavy ball of heat and pleasure building in her core "f-fucking beg more." a stern command as Ludwig brings his mouth to her ear, her slick mess begining to soak the floor as she tries to form words "i-its to m-much I'm gonna-" an orgasm rips through her, flexing her core as heat spreads across her then leaks out of her in a soft spray. Ludwig doesn't slow, his brutal thrusts persist despite Marie's overstimulated shaking "hng-hngh-" the only semblance of speech she can form as his rhythm grows irregular, graduating to little ah-ah-ah's as he finally presses firm against her hips, hot liquid filling her insides, soothing the ache in her cervix as they both pant, their bodies begging for air as they kiss, a clash of youngest and teeth. hot cum leaking past Ludwig's cock and down onto the floor.

[snkts]

The first break of morning light spread across their quilt, warming the night chilled room. Victor shifted beneath sheets, furs, and blankets, the familiar weight pressing him into the comfort of their mattress. He purred, nuzzling into Logan’s neck and curling his arm tighter around Logan’s midsection. Logan smelled of sweat and his familiar scent, and the lingering cigar smoke from the light they shared last night out on the porch. He kissed Logan’s cheek and scraped his teeth across his skin. Logan grunted and Victor smiled into his hair, “sleep in a bit, darlin’. I’ll be back.” And acquised to a slow, languid kiss, Logan slipping his tongue past his lips to taste him.

While Logan slept, Victor went downstairs and prepared breakfast: eggs, bacon and sausage, fried tomatoes and onions, and toast lightly buttered, served alongside a bowl of fresh fruit. He brought up on a tray so he and Logan could eat in bed while cuddling, and kissing. Victor told Logan his plan for the day: including a dinner and movie out in the city, in the evening.

Logan nuzzled into Victor’s neck and Victor kissed him softly. Smiling against his lips he murmured: “I love you, Logan. Happy birthday.”

Sleep weighed over him like ten tons of earth. Held down by their blankets, trapped body heat, and the scent of his mate, Logan was as good as paralysed. Nothing existed but this. Just him, Victor, their bed, and the endless void behind his eyelids. Just this. Just them. 

Of course, he can’t sleep forever. Consciousness ebbs in eventually - but Logan is stubborn, and Logan is a fighter, so he fights this, too. He finds the crook of Victor’s neck with his eyes still closed and buries his nose in it. It smells even more like home now. He’s given much the same treatment when he shifts, and Victor’s hot breath warms his skin. Logan sighs and sinks into the touch. The arm holding him close bids him relax, and that, he doesn’t fight. He’s comfortable. He’s safe. And, as Victor is quick to remind him, he’s loved. So, so loved. The scrape of teeth and facial hair earns a muffled grunt, and Logan tucks his arm around Victor’s shoulders. He’s about to muster the willpower to sit up and face the day when Vic tells him to stay down. Well, fine, yank his arm, why don’t you? Logan settles easily, but demands compensation in the form of a kiss. Slow and sweet, and he took a gentle fistfull of Vic’s sleep shirt to hold him close, slipping his tongue past his mate’s lips with a quiet hum. He can taste his mate, salty, sweet, smoky, safe, and might’ve tried for another if he wasn’t gently pushed back down. Okay. Sleep.

Fine. 

He could do that. And he did, slipping into the warm blackness with his arm thrown around Victor’s pillow, keeping his mate’s scent close. 

Eventually, he woke up a second time. He sat up and stretched his arms over his head, grunting as his shoulders cracked, and popping his claws for good measure. It was satisfying. Helped him be a little more awake, too. Logan rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, scratched at his jaw– 

Scented the air. 

Food. Hot, fresh, delicious food, mingling with the equally tantalising smell of the love of his life. Now he’s awake. He’s staring eagerly at the door when Victor returns, tray in hand. Logan tries not to salivate. Victor joins him in bed and Logan manages to ignore the breakfast spread long enough to express his appreciation with a few soft nips to Victor’s pulse-point and a quiet ‘thanks’. One more nuzzle and he turns to the food. As usual with the cooking staff here, the spread is even better than it smells. And it's been a while since they got a moment without the kids, so forgive him if he's affectionate. He rests his head on Victor’s broad shoulder in between bites, nuzzling his cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt. 

“Mh. Love you.” He mumbles as he skewers some tomato slices on one of his claws. He eats while Victor relays the days’ plans to him, and he smiles.

“Sounds perfect.” And it did. Just the two of them, a nice dinner, and a kung fu flick Victor had happened to find at a smaller theatre. Maybe drinks after… What else could he want? Victor gives him everything and more. Victor knows him so damn well. He loves him so fucking much. And he says it, turning his face into the crook of Victor’s neck. 

“Love you, too, Tiger. You’re spoilin’ me.”